Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
* * *
Gray
I loved music. I loved writing scores and crafting songs, but writing throwaway content for box office hits wasn’t creatively satisfying. Writing to order was boring, but I was good at it. If a music producer wanted to hire me to pen a signature song for one of their label’s big stars, I needed minimal information to fulfill my part of the deal. Who was the artist? What was his or her range? What genre, what tempo, and was there a theme?
It was the same for a film. Seb knew he could give me a few key words and let me do my thing. Within a week or two, I could generally deliver what he was looking for and more. But I took my time on this love song because I didn’t want it to end. And in the weeks after our first “research date,” I wondered if the feeling was a metaphor. I didn’t want an end date or a deadline with Justin. I wanted to go on and on.
Justin was my muse. I wrote a string of songs for a popular country singer’s new album and started working on the score for a sci-fi thriller set to be released in eighteen months. But I didn’t touch the love song unless I was with Justin. It was ours, not mine. In a business sense, of course. I was incredibly attracted to him, but I wasn’t delusional. I’d had previous instances of “falling” for a muse for a short time. The singular obsession that led to intense spouts of creativity was a common theme among artists. But this felt different. In an artistic sense, he wasn’t inspiration for a song; he was the silence in between the words. A gorgeous note followed by a poignant pause.
We saw each other a few times a week, depending on his work and practice schedule. I allowed Zero to use my studio to practice, but I made sure to be away while they worked. I didn’t want to interfere with their vision or Charlie’s effort to prove himself. My time with Justin was special, and I didn’t want to share it with anyone.
We were cognizant of separating our “working” time with our personal time too. We wordlessly agreed not to discuss the band or the song or any possible contracts unless we were in the studio or on a “research date.” It was easier than expected to lie with our feet entangled, playing video games in our boxer briefs. Or to go night swimming, or hang out on the roof, counting stars and playing guitar.
It might have been late March, but it felt like summertime in Southern California. Seventy-five-degree days and maybe ten degrees cooler at night. We could comfortably play on the roof, wearing shorts and sweatshirts. It was something I’d done since I was a teenager. But usually alone. Until Justin.
“What is that song?” he asked, resting his forearms on his guitar. He sat cross-legged in front of me the way he always did, with his back to the view, and watched my fingers on the fret.
“ ‘Kumbaya.’ You don’t know it? We used to sing it at church when I was growing up and at campfires.” I sang the lyrics as I strummed along.
“I was kidding. I know it.” He sang the chorus with me and chuckled when I jazzed up the arrangement. “You’re good at that. I bet you were popular at campfire sing-alongs.”
I snickered. “As a matter of fact, I was. We camped a lot by the lake when I was a kid. I have great memories of canoeing, pitching tents, making s’mores…and huge fucking mosquitos. Big as softballs. Seriously. We had to spray that awful toxic-smelling stuff on us to avoid getting bitten. That smell still reminds me of summers at the lake.”
“Even with mosquitos, that sounds kinda nice.”
“It was. Have you ever been camping?” I asked.
“Once with a friend from high school and his family. It wasn’t all that fun. We slept on the ground in a tent with a hole. There were bugs everywhere. And not just mosquitos. They had a cool dog, though. Freddy. I was stoked that he liked me so much. He sat next to me in the van on the way there and back. It was all good until he ate something weird and had a fart attack on the trip home. Four hours in a van with a gassy dog, listening to sports radio ’cause the fucking Dodgers were playing. Why are you laughing? It was hell,” he griped without heat. “I’ve never wanted to go camping again.”
“But you still want a dog.”
“Yeah, but my dog isn’t gonna stink,” he joked.
“How will you take care of a dog if you’re on tour?”
“I’d get a small dog and take him with me.” Justin’s dreamy expression in the moonlight made me smile. “I can’t imagine going on tour. Geez, I can’t even imagine playing outside of LA. Seems too wild to ever be true.”