Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
I’d probably leave the lyric there, as a nod to this moment of anticipation of the sunrise and fresh starts after going through hell. AMM would want me to add to it, probably something like Rise, motherfuckers, rise, with the choreographed movement of me lifting my hands in the air like some preacher at a pulpit, explaining to me that it’ll get the crowd hyped before the beat drops and they begin moshing. Like I don’t understand my own music or Midnight Destruction’s crowd better than anyone.
I’m not averse to input on my songs, but it has to come from someone who takes the time to understand what the song is about, not a puppet master whose only motivation is marketability and sales figures. That person used to be Sean, whom I’d trust implicitly with our music, but he’s been on AMM’s side more often than not these days. Traitorous fucker that he is.
“This is the best spot,” Marcus informs us, breaking me from my dark thoughts as he speaks for the first time since telling us to remain seated while the boat’s in motion. “Sun’ll come up right there”—he points at the horizon before looking at his watch—“in about thirty minutes.”
Now that we’re stopped, softly swaying in the water, he pours three paper cups of coffee from a big thermos, handing one to Hope and one to me, keeping the third. I return the favor, offering doughnuts, which Hope and Marcus accept gratefully.
We munch our sugary breakfast and silently peer across the water. There are a few remaining stars fighting to be seen as the sky begins to turn purple, and Hope is focused on the spot Marcus indicated, waiting in eager anticipation.
Praying she doesn’t think this is too cheesy, I grab my guitar from under the seat. “Mind a sunrise serenade?”
I don’t play in front of people often. At least, not as myself. Fucking around with my guitar is one thing, but actually playing and singing—as Benjamin Taylor—is an entirely different thing, so doing this for Hope is a big fucking deal to me.
Hope breaks her concentration to smile at me. “Can you play? Like, for real?” I can’t hold back the bark of laughter that escapes, and she desperately rushes to backpedal. “I mean, I heard you, but you kept doing the same part over and over again, so I wasn’t sure if you were still learning or could actually play.”
This girl has no idea.
Yeah, I can play. That song she heard me messing around with? I was writing it, that’s why I kept doing the same part on repeat. It’s part of the songwriting process, hammering at chords until they’re perfect. But that’s a song for my onstage alter ego. Here, offstage, I’m just me, a guy who wants to help her through a dark moment.
So to answer her question, I pluck out a few chords and then play the opening bars to a classic Beatles tune. “This is one of the first songs I learned on my first guitar when I was thirteen,” I share before easily launching into an ode to the dawning sun. I keep it soft and mellow, the gentle acoustic partnering with the rasp of my rough voice, and watch my hands pluck the strings so I don’t have to see Hope’s reaction. Playing like this still makes me nervous—which is ridiculous, considering I’ve played huge multilevel clubs and dozens of small arenas. But this is vulnerability on a level so deep that I never risk venturing here.
When I finish, both Hope and Marcus clap. “Well done, man,” Marcus offers with a nod of approval.
“That was awesome,” Hope praises me, still sounding a bit surprised. She runs her hands up and down her arms, and I can see goose bumps.
Quickly, I set my guitar down in its case and bundle the blanket tighter around her, stroking my warm hands up and down her arms for her to create warmth. “Cold?”
She shakes her head. “No, the song. Your voice is like . . .”
I wait for the usual comparisons: silk, gravel, velvet, gritty. I’ve heard them all before. I still appreciate the compliments, considering that once upon a time, I wouldn’t even sing the scale in front of my music teacher.
“Tweed,” Hope finishes, and my brows jump up. That’s a new one. “It’s rough and layered, but all woven together into something beautiful and tasteful that rolls over your skin and into your soul on a cellular level. You have a real gift, Ben. You should do something with it.”
I have never been stunned into silence the way I am now. Hope’s assessment is as thoughtful as she is, and I will never forget a word of what she just said. In fact, I’ll probably replay it in my mind every time I have to go onstage. It can be my new mantra, replacing It’s fine, everything’s fine while it all burns to ashes.