“Just call me the car, Mickey,” I say, and then I hang up.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” Jon says as soon as he sees me standing on his doorstep. He’s naked from the waist up, a pair of slim-leg jeans hanging low on his hips. I wonder if I’ve interrupted him with someone.
But then I remember I don’t give a fuck.
“I wasn’t at my apartment,” I say and push past him.
“You never are. God knows why the label even pays for that place for you.”
“Not my problem,” I say. I walk into the kitchen, which has floor-to-ceiling windows along one side, offering multi-million-dollar views of the crashing waves on Malibu Beach just outside. For all the ways Jon moans about this place costing him a fortune, I can almost believe it’s worth it. Standing at the quartz countertops, watching the sea roll in and out, the horizon so far away, you feel like you’re the only person in the world, which is as terrifying as it is calming.
“We need to get some songs written,” I tell him once he’s in the kitchen with me, opening cupboards and busying himself with what I hope is a pot of coffee.
“Well, Jakob is upstairs, with two others, I hasten to add, but don’t ask me their names.” Jon yawns as he does indeed switch the filter pot on. “And I can call Geert. He landed last night, so I guess he’ll be here in … well, a few hours, I guess. If we’re lucky.”
“I don’t need them,” I say, waving my hand around. “We can write the song together.”
He stops moving and levels me with a hopeful look. “You have an idea.”
“Maybe. Just something that’s been going around my head recently.”
“Tell me more.” He resumes coffee duties.
“It’s nothing, but it is … softer. You know that riff you’ve been working on. I think that could work.”
“Are you saying I am right about us needing to go in a new direction?”
“I didn’t say that,” I spit out, coming closer so I can hear him better because the coffee machine is switched on and it’s an unhelpful amount of background noise. “I just think it might work. And yes, maybe you and Martin have a point that the next album needs … a love song.”
“Wow, you’ve changed,” he says, retrieving mugs and placing them down with a loud clatter. “That’ll be two love songs in two weeks. People will start talking.”
“Two love songs?”
“That ballad you did with Cassie Big Boobs.”
“That’s not a love song.”
“No, fine, I guess it isn’t.” Jon yawns again and shoves his hand down his trousers to scratch … somewhere I don’t want to think about. “But it’s a different tempo for you, which is no bad thing.”
“Let me take over making the coffee.” I knock him out of the way, not wanting his hand anywhere near my much-needed caffeine. “Light me a cigarette.”
He obliges and pops it in my mouth while I pour. We then head to the table by the window and fall into silence as we smoke, our mugs of coffee steam and the Pacific Ocean entertains us.
“So, what’s the song?” Jon says eventually.
“It’s … I think…Look, it’s called ‘Trying to Forget You,’” I say, and I’m not surprised when Jon’s eyebrows lift. But I’m relieved when he doesn’t say anything. “Go get your guitar and I’ll sing it for you.”
“Fuck, Pia, that’s good,” Jakob says from the couch. He’s been lying there since he emerged from Jon’s guest room just before sunset. Jon and I had been working on the song for a solid four hours by that point, and we’ve continued to do so long into the night. We tried calling Geert, but not one of us was surprised when we couldn’t reach him at his hotel. “You’re almost making me feel something.”
“That’s just the blow wearing off,” Jon says and passes the joint he’s just lit to Jakob.
“Jag menar det verkligen. Det är riktigt bra,” he compliments me in Swedish.
“Tack, tack.” I nod at Jakob, but then go back to running through the chords one more time, humming the melody Jon and I worked out together.
“Sing it again. I think I’m finally ready to cry my heart out about Ayana,” Jakob says as he exhales a large plume of smoke. The telltale herby scent immediately catches my interest, and Jakob holds out the spliff to me, but I don’t feel the need to join in. I’m too busy with this song.
“Maybe in a minute,” I say. “I want to figure out the bridge again.”
