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Even if I manage to get a demo to Barry in time—and that’s a major if—it won’t have anything on it as good as what Paisley just came up with.
Your songs just aren’t hit material.
…basic bull crap…
What do you bring to the table?
Justin’s words play on repeat in my mind.
Paisley grabs her guitar by the neck and slides out of the sleigh. I’m more than a few inches taller than her, so she has to tip her chin up to look me in the eye. I stare down at the freckles that dust her nose and lean in. She smells like fresh air and pine sap, with a hint of butterscotch. I inhale and wonder what it might be like to kiss her smooth, pink lips.
“Just so we’re clear,” she says, fixing me with a stony expression. “I have zero interest in helping you write anything. Ever.”
Dust swirls around the loft in Paisley’s wake. I blink and massage my neck, wondering if it’s possible to get whiplash from a conversation.
I don’t know that I’ve ever inspired such hostility from anyone before. She doesn’t even know me. I sure as hell have never been interested in anyone who had that much animosity for me. I may not want to work with her on my demo, but I can think of plenty of other things we could do to get better acquainted.
Keep dreaming, dude.
Forget dreaming. I have to get focused. Problem is, I don’t know how. Back in the old days, I’d start playing a song I was working on and Ryder would grab his drumsticks and come in with a solid beat. Justin and Johnny would grab their guitars and we’d jam. Hearing the other instruments helped me figure it all out. But now it’s just me and my guitar.
There’s an old wooden chair next to a bin of green and red bulb ornaments as big as grapefruit. I use my palm to brush the dust off and then sink down into it. It creaks but holds, and I sit back and stare at the sloped ceiling above me.
Putting together a six-song demo is looking pretty impossible right about now. I don’t have the time or the talent. Unless things change, I’m destined to blow my music career to smithereens in fifty-two days. If I can’t deliver, word will get around and no one else will take a chance on me again. Nashville’s a big city, but it’s not that big.
I wanted to do this solo, but I’ve never felt more alone.
No band.
No muse.
No Paisley.
I take a deep breath, hoping to catch a whiff of pine sap or butterscotch, but there’s no trace of Paisley left in the loft. Still, the way she played my song echoes around the rafters with how it’s seared in my memory, her voice soaring over the melody even as she messed up the lyrics.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out.
Today, 3:14 PM
Barry:
Hey kid, how’s the demo coming?
Perfect timing, Barry.
I run a hand through my hair in frustration and give the ends a little tug. What am I supposed to tell him? I don’t have the guts to admit to Barry that I’m no closer to having a demo now than I was when he sent me up here. It’s not going great, but there’s time to turn this around. I’ve still got fifty-two days.
Today, 3:16 PM
Kash:
Today, 3:16 PM
Barry:
You record anything yet?
A scratch track?
