Force of Will (Incendiary Ink #2)

Ghost of Days Gone By

WILL

"One more pass on the bridge." Raphael's voice crackles through my headphones. "Little rushed on the turnaround."

Twenty-five years we've been working together, and he still catches every microsecond of imperfection. That's why he's got a million Grammys on his shelf and a waiting list two years long. Though these days, most of his clients are pop stars looking for credibility, not aging rockers staging a comeback.

I adjust my throne, eyeing the constellation of microphones surrounding my kit. Joe's been tweaking their placement for three hours, chasing that elusive perfect drum sound. Some things never change – even with pro plugins and digital processing, getting the right mix of room sound and close mics is still an art form. Especially in Studio A, where the acoustics have captured everything from our first album to last year’s Rock Hall tracks with Indigo King and Murderous Crows.

"Need anything shifted?" Joe ducks in, brandishing another drum mic. "That low tom's fighting me."

"Lower angle might help." I tap the rim. "It always did in the old days."

Joe grins. "Back when we had to get it right in one take?"

"Kids today don't know how good they have it." I return his smile. "Though some of us still prefer doing it right the first time."

"You good?" Chase catches my eye through the control room window. Translation: are you distracted because she'll be here next week?

I tap my snare twice. Good to go. Through the glass, I notice Mark staring at his guitar, fingers hovering over the strings without playing. He's been quiet all morning – more than usual, even for him. But before I can think too much about it, the click track counts in.

I sink into the groove. The bridge passage is tricky – lots of subtle dynamic shifts, ghost notes that need to float just behind the beat. Added complexity isn't usually my style, but Lucas's performance at the Whiskey last week got me thinking. Sometimes the best way to support a song is to get out of its way.

"That's the one." Raphael's approval fills my headphones. "Come listen."

Mark's already setting his guitar down when I enter the control room, his blue mohawk slightly wilted after six hours of tracking. His hands have a slight tremor I've never noticed before – probably from the marathon session.

"Killing it, old man," he manages, but the usual energy behind his teasing is flat. "Almost makes up for that disaster at rehearsal."

"Disaster?" I grab a bottle of water. "You mean when your amp caught fire?"

"Technical difficulties." He waves a hand, but doesn't meet my eyes. "Besides, Eliza got us all new gear after that."

Something's off in his tone. Mark's never cared about gear or label politics. Before I can probe deeper, Chase jumps in from the couch.

"Speaking of killing it, heard your kid murdered it at the Whiskey."

"Word travels fast." I try to keep my tone light, watching Mark drift toward the door.

"Everything travels fast when you're marrying the label president." Chase's grin widens. "Though I hear you weren't the only proud parent in attendance."

"Can we focus on the drums?" I gesture to the console where Joe and Raphael are making minute adjustments to EQ levels. The same console where we recorded our first album. Where Raine used to perch during playback, making notes about harmony placement while Maya slept in her carrier.

Mark's hand slips on his guitar case – another uncharacteristic fumble. Chase notices too, his expression shifting from teasing to concerned.

"Just saying." Chase holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes follow Mark. "Some of us finally figured out what we wanted."

Right. Because Chase Avery, who spent twenty years pretending his relationship with Eliza Kerr was just casual fun, is now the expert on matters of the heart. Though watching him with Eliza's son lately, playing instant stepdad like he was born for it... maybe he's earned some wisdom.

"Complicated's different than confused." I keep my voice low, though Mark's already heading for the door, guitar forgotten. "And we're not having this conversation."

"Fine." Chase stretches, joints popping, but his eyes are on Mark's retreating back. "But you might want to figure it out before she gets here next week. Studio's smaller than the Whiskey."

The playback starts before I can respond. My drums fill the room, each hit precisely placed, every ghost note exactly where it should be. Different from our early records – more nuanced, more controlled. Back then, it was all power and flash, trying to prove something. Now, it's about serving the song. Growth, Raphael would call it. Or maybe just age.

"Nice work with the dynamics," Joe says, tweaking a fader. "The way you're leaving space in the verses – really opens up room for?—"

"The vocals," I finish. "Yeah."

Chase snorts softly behind me. So many years of friendship means he knows exactly where my mind went. To outro harmonies on our first album, to late-night recording sessions when Maya was still small enough to sleep between takes, to the way Raine used to watch me from the control room with that look that made me play better, made me want to be better.

"One more for the verses?" Raphael asks, professional as ever. He's watched enough band drama unfold in these rooms to write a book. Hell, he was here for our first album, watched Raine and me fall in love between takes. Watched us fall apart during the third album's sessions. "Then we can break for lunch."

Through the window, I catch Mark in the parking lot, just sitting in his car, head in his hands. Chase follows my gaze.

"Let's nail it." He picks up his bass to accompany me, covering Mark's missing guitar parts. "I've got a gear fitting at three. Apparently, being Rock and Roll Hall of Famers means we can't look like we buy our own equipment anymore."

"You mean your fiancée can't handle another amp explosion?" But the usual banter feels hollow with Mark's empty spot in the mix.

Back behind my kit, I try to focus on the click track, on the way the overhead mics catch my cymbal work, on anything except the fact that in five days Raine will be standing in that iso booth, laying down the kind of harmony parts that turned our first album gold. Or the way Mark's hands shook on his strings, the silence where his riffs should be.

The verses flow easy – straight ahead groove, nothing fancy. Twenty-five years of muscle memory. My mind drifts to Lucas's showcase, to the way she marked notes in her book even while watching him play. Always working, always perfecting. Some things never change.

But some things do.

"Perfect," Raphael's voice breaks through my thoughts. "That's lunch. Back at two to tackle the outros?"

I start going over my kit, cataloging what needs adjusting for the afternoon session. Easier than thinking about next week, about small studios and scratch vocals and the way some harmonies never quite leave your head. Easier than wondering why our guitarist is sitting alone in his car instead of rehearsing.

"You know," Chase leans in the doorway, "some of us wasted a lot of years pretending we were fine with complicated."

"This is different." I focus on adjusting my kick pedal tension. "You and Eliza weren't married. Didn't have kids. Didn't get divorced and marry other people."

"No," he agrees. "We just spent twenty years scared of ruining what we had by admitting what we wanted. Real smart." He glances at his phone – probably another text from Eliza about wedding details or her son's band showcase. "Now I'm pushing fifty and learning how to be somebody's stepdad. Makes you think about what really matters."

His eyes drift to the parking lot, where Mark's car still sits.

"Chase."

"I'm just saying." He shrugs. "Life's short. And none of us are getting any better at hiding what we need."

I think about Maya's knowing looks at the Whiskey. About Lucas watching us both like he's solving a puzzle. About Mark's trembling hands on familiar strings. About the way my own hands still remember every rhythm of me and Raine.

"Let's just get the drums done," I say finally. "One track at a time."

Chase nods, knowing when to back off. "Whatever you say, drummer boy." He pauses at the door. "But you might want to work on your poker face before next week. It still fucking sucks. And we all know this studio has history."

And memories, I think, but don't say. Every booth, every corner haunted by late-night sessions and perfect takes, and the way her voice made everything soar. By all the things we try to hide until we can't anymore.

Joe pokes his head in. "Need help repositioning anything before we break?"

"Nah." I stand, stretching. "But maybe we should track the outros in Studio B next week. Better sound for vocals."

He gives me a look that says he's not buying it. "Studio B's booked. Some Netflix show needs their temp tracks redone."

Of course it is. Because that's exactly how this is going to play out.