Force of Will (Incendiary Ink #2)

Edge of Seventeen

RAINE

The second set kicks off with their latest single. I open my notebook, jotting down potential harmony points in the chorus – layered thirds in the hook, a descant line that could lift the bridge, subtle doubles to thicken the pre-chorus. The kind of polish that could take it from streaming hit to Grammy contender. Six other projects are due at Blackmore this week, but this one's personal.

My phone buzzes with another text from the showrunner at Netflix – third revision request this week. Apparently, the temp track I sent for their opening credits "lacks emotional resonance." Translation: someone's girlfriend in the production office thinks she's a vocal coach. Fine. I'll redo it tonight, layer in some ethereal clusters, and add that breathy pop texture they're all chasing lately. That, plus the Morrison backing tracks and that Target commercial that needs modulating up a half-step. Being everyone's go-to session vocalist means never having to worry about empty evenings.

"You should delegate more," Maya says, watching me type a quick response. "Isn't that why Blackmore gave you that corner office?"

"Vocal Production Supervisor looks good on paper." I slip the phone away. "But they still want my voice on everything."

Hard to complain. I've built this life carefully – the consistent studio work, the production credits, the reputation for delivering exactly what's needed, when it's needed. Years of saying yes to every session, every request, every chance to prove I could be both reliable and exceptional. Now, I'm the name producers drop when they want to impress new clients. The voice on a dozen diamond records. The final call on vocal arrangements for half the releases coming out of LA.

The irony doesn't escape me – becoming the expert on perfect arrangements while my personal life dissolved into chaos. Twice. First with the demands of Will's touring schedule, then with Eric's total disconnect from my world. At least the studio makes sense. Notes either work together or they don't. Harmonies either lift a song, or they fall flat. No gray areas, no messy emotions, no lawyers dividing up art collections and vacation homes.

My latest divorce barely made the industry gossip channels. Just another brief in the LA Times: "Vocal producer Raine Sheridan splits from entertainment attorney Eric Matthews." Not like when Will and I ended – that was on the front page of Billboard, complete with speculation about Incendiary Ink's future and quotes from "sources close to the band." Amazing how twenty years can change your definition of scandal.

Maya leans against the bar beside me, a frown creasing her brow. "You're still working, though? At your son's show?"

I tuck the notebook away. "Force of habit."

"You know..." She takes a careful sip of her drink. "The wedding planner asked about music. Like, who's handling the reception performance."

Great. Another wedding detail I'm not ready to think about. "Maya, honey?—"

"Relax. I told her we have plenty of time." She checks her phone. "Though speaking of time, how's the studio schedule looking next week? Dad mentioned?—"

"Don't start."

She gives me that look – the same one she used to give the judge when she was interning at the courthouse. Like she's already ten steps ahead in an argument I don't even know we're having.

On stage, Lucas guides the band through a perfect build-up, his long blonde hair flying. He's adjusted his patterns since rehearsal last week when I stopped by with groceries – finally giving the vocalist room to breathe in the bridge. The kind of subtle adjustment that separates session players from stars. Every hit lands with intention, each ghost note purposeful.

"How's the new place?" Maya asks quietly.

"Getting there." Three months since I moved out of Eric's house. The new condo still feels like a hotel, but at least I don't wake up reaching for someone who isn't there anymore. "Lots of space for my home studio setup."

"You're still keeping the Neve console?"

"Your father's wedding gift?" I manage a small smile, though it aches. "Best piece of equipment I own. Set it up yesterday, actually. Between that and the new monitors..."

I let the sentence trail off. Eric never understood why I needed professional-grade equipment at home. Why I'd spend nights tweaking vocal arrangements instead of attending his firm's dinner parties where entertainment lawyers discussed music like it was just another asset to divide. Why music wasn't just a job I could leave at the studio. Maybe that's why it was easier to pack up my gear than my clothes – at least my equipment always made sense.

"I drove by the old house last week," Maya says carefully. "They're repainting."

"Good." I keep my voice neutral. "It needed updating."

"Mom..."

"I'm fine, honey. Really." I squeeze her hand. "The condo's closer to the studio anyway. And your brother's place. Speaking of which..."

"And the Morrison project?"

"Delivered yesterday. They want me back for overdubs next month." I'm good at this part – talking about work. Safer than discussing empty condos or failed marriages or how Will still stands exactly like he did twenty-four years ago, right down to the way he keeps time with his fingers against his leg when he's thinking.

He's by the sound booth now, studying Lucas with that laser focus that used to drive Incendiary Ink's producers crazy. Those piercing dark blue eyes of is narrowed with concentration. Nothing gets past him – not a single flubbed note or rushed fill.

"Room sounds good." His voice is suddenly closer. Right next to me. I surprisingly hadn’t noticed him move towards us. "They've improved the monitors since our day."

Our day. When I sang backup on their first album. When we thought we could balance everything – tours, sessions, midnight recordings, little kids who needed more than musician parents could give.

"They've improved everything since our day." My smile stays professional. Studio polite. It’s hard, but I manage. "But the room still has magic."

Maya's phone buzzes – probably her office. She silences it without looking, watching the space between Will and me like she's calculating distances.

I should check my own messages. Should focus on Lucas. Should think about the Morrison vocals, the backing tracks for that new Netflix show, the commercial jingle due Thursday. Blackmore keeps me busy for a reason – I deliver, I'm reliable, I don't complicate things. I should be doing anything, but thinking about Will standing right next to me now.

How close he is. And how I still don’t hate it.

Lucas guides the band through another new track – one I heard him practicing in their rehearsal space last week. He's completely restructured the groove, opening up space the original drummer never found. The vocalist finally hits that bridge cleanly, probably because he can actually hear himself. Lucas has pulled back the cymbal work, adjusted his dynamics. Musicians twice his age still haven't learned that sometimes the best thing you can do is get out of the way.

He's learned other lessons, too - I notice the quick sip of juice between songs, the practiced check of his monitor. Some rhythms become second nature, whether they're drum patterns or diabetes management. Though, I still catch myself watching, counting the minutes between checks like I did when he was first diagnosed.

The crowd's responding – even the A&R reps have stopped checking their phones. The band's manager is nodding along, probably already mentally revising their touring rates. Lucas has done what every musician dreams of – he's made them forget this is business.

I find myself marking mental notes: where to stack the harmonies, which phrases need doubling, how to lift the chorus without overwhelming the lead vocal. Things I'll need to know when we start tracking next week. The guitarist hits a slightly sharp note in the bridge, and I see Lucas adjust instantly, shifting the dynamics to cover it. That's all Will – that instinct for musical problem-solving mid-performance. Though the way he handles it, keeping everyone's confidence intact - that's a different kind of inheritance.

It's a long way from the teenager who used to sneak into my home studio, playing along to session tracks with headphones on, thinking I couldn't hear him through the walls. Who absorbed everything – Will's technical precision, my ear for arrangement, even Eric's business sense. Who called me in tears after his first failed audition, then spent six months woodshedding before trying again.

The other session players see it, too. That perfect blend of rock star energy and session player reliability. The same combination that kept me employed when my marriages fell apart, that built my reputation gig by gig, note by note. Lucas watched me rebuild myself twice through music.

The band launches into their closer. Lucas drives them home with a confidence that makes my chest tight. My baby boy, owning that stage like he was born to it.

I have three more sessions tomorrow. A call about Maya's wedding. A stack of contracts to review.

But right now, in this moment, I just listen to my son play.

The band hits their final chorus. Maya's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. Will's back by the sound board, but I feel his presence like a bassline – steady, constant, despite everything. Or, maybe because of everything.

Tomorrow, I'll be back in my office, juggling projects and deadlines. I'll review Maya's wedding arrangements, try to ignore the empty condo waiting at night, probably field another dozen requests for vocal arrangements that needed to be done yesterday.

But right now, watching Lucas own that stage, I remember why music grabbed me in the first place. Why I kept singing in clubs even while pregnant with Maya. Why I agreed to do backing vocals for an up-and-coming band called Incendiary Ink, even though I'd sworn off dating musicians. Why I built a career that let me stay in this world, even when it cost me everything else.