“Just messing around with a solo version of one of the old hits. Trying to figure out how to make it new again.”
He nods. “I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. It must be satisfying.”
“I enjoy it. You want breakfast or something? I can order up.”
Spencer quickly shakes his head. “We really should get the day started. I’m eager to figure things out with our teams.”
“Sure,” I say, forcing a smile, although the truth is I’m disappointed.
I never share a morning with another person. It’s kind of nice.
We sit in silence for a while, sipping our coffee and both facing the windows. I wonder what he’s thinking. He’s probably wrestling through all kinds of emotions. Probably none of them have a thing to do with me, actually, just about sex and fame and romance.
I look out over the city and rebuild the walls around my heart. I’m feeling warm toward Spencer this morning, but I’m not about to give into bad habits that I shut down years ago. I’m not going to let myself fall for someone new, and I’m definitely not about to nurture another heartbreak. That is not going to be the story of my solo album.
Right when I’m about to break the silence, Spencer turns to me. “Play it for me?” he asks.
I blink. “The song?”
“Before I go, if you don’t mind.” He gives me an apologetic smile. “I don’t know. I’m curious.”
I chuckle. “No point in sleeping with a rock star if you can’t get a serenade out of it,” I joke. I walk over to retrieve my guitar and unplug the headphones. “Tell me what you think.”
I sit on the edge of the couch and drag my fingers across the strings, summoning the familiar chords. It’s the song I wrote after Aurora left me, disappearing in the middle of the night. Hooked Hearts had produced a major hit with our only album, fueled by the angry songs I composed after Amos’s betrayal. Once I got my new band, Lost Storm, together, I was convinced my life was back on track. Right in the middle of composing the first album, though, my girlfriend of three years vanished, leaving me with no explanation.
Eyes set to the distance, I strum the opening notes and let my voice carry the song, fiercer and stronger with each verse.
Stars collapse, the earth opens wide
Hell breaks loose, but there’s nothing inside
Motorcycle crash, invisible ghost
I’m the only man from coast to coast
This world is full of monsters
And all the nightmares are empty
Can’t you hear the angels moan?
Can’t you hear the devil plead?
I’m the last man alive
I’m the last man alive
You’re the demon slayer, baby,
but I’m the last man alive.
Normally, the song builds into anger, hitting a crescendo with a drum solo and an apocalyptic guitar riff. In live shows, I fall to my knees, blistering through the final notes while I scream the repeated lyrics. Here in the hotel, though, all by myself, my voice wrenches, and I let the final guitar solo stand in its own glory.
When I lower the guitar and glance up, Spencer’s face is twisted. His lips are parted, and he looks like he’s about to cry.
“Ah, fuck,” I say.
He rubs his hand over his face. “Shit. That’s your song? It almost sounds familiar, but…” He trails off. “It’s beautiful.”
