Chapter Twelve
Iris
Over the next streak of day, the guys work in the studio, and I catalogue the process of them recreating their sound and recording new demo versions of their tracks.
The hours are long and often fraught. I spend alternate nights with Reid and Max.
Wynter sometimes looks at me with a question burning in his eyes, but he never says anything or makes any sort of move.
There’s no reprising of the kiss he gave me in the studio after the first time I heard them play live.
Nor does he climb into bed with Reid and me again.
I think Reid sleeps with him on the nights he’s not with me.
I continue to avoid thinking too deeply about this arrangement, which is probably a mistake, not to mention foolish, but I’m afraid of what I’ll unearth if I do.
Plus, there’s a deadline on all of this, anyway.
I don’t want to say goodbye, but I know goodbye is coming, and I refuse to be that girl.
The one who expects more than she should of what’s actually there.
I’m a fun distraction, and they’re a fantasy. It’s not real. It’s never going to be more than this. It’s not forever. It doesn’t matter if I wish otherwise.
The fact that their deadline is right around the corner means the tension increases as each day passes. Even Max cracks and throws his drumsticks across the room at one point.
Thursday marks Reid’s turn in the sound booth.
I’m idling on the couch reading while Wynter and Max man the sound deck.
There’s only so much time a girl can spend listening to her favourite band play the same songs, or bits of songs over again.
Only so many photographs of the same thing you can take, too.
I don’t pretend to understand the process, only that whatever they’re doing is only part of it and sound engineers and producers and mastering apparently come before the final version the public get is done.
It’s certainly not as simple as pressing record.
Honestly, I can’t hear the difference between one version and the next most of the time. I think my hearing works differently to theirs.
Besides, this book is durty. I’m bookmarking the best bits to try out while I have two very willing partners. I’ve grown used to them. I don’t want to leave them behind. I don’t want them to leave me behind.
The hours tick by. It’s rained incessantly all day.
I haven’t been outside this room in at least four hours.
I need snacks. Chocolate to take away the bitterness in my brain.
The breakout area needs a vending machine.
I’m going to suggest Reid suggest it to Ric.
I’m not going to presume to do so, but snacks would be nice, given there are no handy shops.
“Max, is there any chocolate?”
“Not in here.”
Wynter signals an okay to Reid through the glass, and he puts aside his guitar and joins us in the sound booth, lifting my feet and putting them on his lap after he flops onto the couch.
He smells musky after hours of playing.
“They better be fucking happy with this, or I’m going to rip someone a new arsehole,” he moans. The callouses on his fingertips weren’t as pronounced before. A rough bit of skin scratches my sole as he massages my feet.
“What if we don’t give them anything?”
All three of us gape at Wynter. Reid grinds his teeth, which is a truly horrible sound. Max sighs and scratches his head.
“Really, you’re doubting it all again?”
“No.” He stands. “Not the work. Not us. I just don’t know that I trust them. They’ve already screwed us once. They’re the ones that brought in—”
“The knob-end,” Reid curses.
“Quite.”
“But if we don’t deliver, that’s it.” I’ve experienced many of Max’s hugs now. I’ve never seen him look quite as much like he needed one. If he was a chibi animal, his ears would be turned down, and his eyes flooded. “Do we really want to be let go? Wynt?”
I pull my feet away from Reid. In his agitation, he’s pressing too hard.
“He’s got a point, man. We fought fucking hard to get to this point. I don’t want to risk it all getting flushed down the pan.”
“What if there’s an alternative?” Wynter draws a card from his pocket. His band mates lean in for a look. It’s a black and white business card, with the word Stormland across it in big bold lettering.
“They’re a fraction of the size of the company we’re with. It’d be taking a backwards step.”
“Or a step towards freedom,” Wynter suggests.
“The pair of you—the three of you—have spent the last week telling me a backwards step is sometimes the right one. I think we should consider this. Really consider this. Yes, Stormland are an indie label, but they specialise in our genre. Our actual genre, not the one our current management keep trying to shoehorn us into. And we’ve met Harry.
We know he’s sound. He won’t bullshit us. ”
“What’s to say he’s even interested?”
“He made us an offer before.”
“Ten months ago,” Reid counters. “I don’t know, man. It’s risky. We’ll need to think about it.”
“Obviously. I’m not suggesting you don’t.”
Me, I wonder how long that card’s been burning a hole in Wynter’s pocket, and I wonder if his band mates realise his decision is already made.
“How long do you have until you have to make a decision?” I ask.
“Tomorrow evening,” Max replies.
Shit! “That soon?” I swallow, as reality pinches at my flesh. When they said through to the end of the week, I’d rationalised that as until Monday morning, not Friday evening. I’ve hardly any time left with them at all.