Chapter 7 Jane #2
She lets out a long breath. “I wouldn’t dream of slowing you down, but I need you to tell me when it’s too much. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say, and I hope it’s not a lie.
“Before I go, I wanted to let you know I’m in touch with Ortega about that cease and desist. I know I don’t technically manage you for Glitter Bats stuff, but I’m in your corner. We’re prepared to combine resources on this.”
“Thank you,” I say, my shoulders tensing as I think about all the trouble Label Records has put us through already. We can use all the help we can get.
“Sure thing. Let me know when you have an update on the video game track.”
“Will do.”
And then Lacey hangs up.
There’s nothing to do now but the work. Sighing, I pour myself a second cup of coffee and start listening to the opening themes of other farming sims: Stardew Valley, Ranch of Secrets, even the old Harvest Moon games.
These games definitely have a sound, but I don’t know which direction I want to take yet.
Suddenly, Keeley bursts into the apartment, practically slamming the door in her pursuit of the refrigerator, dressed in lime-green running tights and a black sports bra.
She tugs open the door, cracks open a Gatorade, and takes a long swig.
It’s hard not to notice the sweat trailing down the taut skin of her throat…
I take a sip of my coffee just to do something with my hands.
“Hi, sorry for being scarce when you woke up,” Keeley says, a little breathless, leaning in my direction from the other side of the counter. “Usually I get out earlier, even this late in the year. It can feel really fucking hot out there.” She runs a hand through her damp hair.
“I bet.” I try not to notice the flex of her forearm, but my cheeks heat anyway. “Um, you didn’t have to delay your run just to get me all this.” I gesture at the coffee setup that I haven’t cleaned up yet.
She sets down the Gatorade bottle and puts her hands on her hips, panting. “Was it the right stuff?”
My cheeks heat. “Yes, thank you.”
“Then it was worth it.” She pulls the bottle to her mouth and takes another long sip, then licks her lips.
“I can make another batch of coffee if you want that too.” I gesture as if to stand, but she waves me off.
“Nah, I’m good,” she says. “Thanks, though. What are you working on?”
I wave my phone. “Listening to some inspiration for Half Moon Ranch 2. They want me to audition with an opening theme.”
I brace myself for her reaction, still nervous about our new tentative peace, but Keeley doesn’t criticize. “Of course they do, if they know what’s best for them.” She clears her throat. “I’m going to go shower, but let me know if you need anything.”
“I’m good,” I say. “I might go use your keyboard?”
“Yeah, go for it. You know you can make yourself at home,” she says, her voice softening.
My neck warms at her tone, but she disappears before I can think too hard about it. Instead, I grab my laptop, head into her spare room, and try to get to work.
She’s converted the third bedroom into a music room, and it’s the most personalized spot in the house.
One of her drum kits is set up in a corner, surrounded by foam soundproofing on the ceiling and walls.
The rest of the walls are dotted with images of famous drummers: John Bonham, Meg White, Carter Beauford, Sheila E.
, and so many others I don’t recognize on sight.
In another corner, there’s that keyboard I spotted.
Not as nice as my Korg, but it has a MIDI feature to plug into a laptop for writing music.
I go to sit down on the padded bench, flip the on switch, and start noodling.
My songwriting process is a lot of trial and error.
I play through chords until I find a progression I like, then I toy with a melody until I hit the mood I’m looking for.
I wonder if I can take a different approach than other games in the genre.
My first thought when it comes to farm is country, and I head down that path for what feels like an hour.
None of it sounds right. Even on piano, I feel like I’m writing Nashville’s next flop.
“Ugh!” Defeated, I rest my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. I know there are huge fans of these games, and I don’t want them to be turned off by the music. Maybe I don’t have any business auditioning for this.
“You okay in here?” Keeley drawls. I glance over, and she’s leaning casually against the doorframe of the music room, grinning at me.
“No. How am I supposed to write for a farming sim? I know nothing about farms!”
She laughs, stepping over to the keyboard. “You’ve never been to space either, but you absolutely rocked Shooting Stars. This self-doubt isn’t like you.”
I sigh, glancing up at her. “Normally I have ideas, but it’s like I’ve completely forgotten how to write. Everything sounds like garbage.”
Even I cringe at how petulant I sound. Keeley gestures at the bench, and I take the cue to scoot over, making as much room as I can.
There’s not quite enough room for two people on it, and the heat of her freshly showered body radiates in waves.
Our thighs just barely touch, and I try to ignore the way the warmth of her seeps into my skin.
“Doubt is a natural part of the writing process. Play what you have for me,” she says.
“I don’t want to! It’s awful,” I say.
She nudges me gently with her shoulder. “I’m sure it’s not awful, Mercer. Just play.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes and play the chorus of the world’s worst country song, my neck heating with embarrassment more and more with each line.
When I finish, Keeley laughs.
“See! It’s bad!” I say.
“It’s not that bad,” she says, eyes dancing. She nods at the keys. “Here, can I try something?”
“By all means,” I say.
Keeley’s brow furrows, and she starts to play the simple melody that I wrote, but at about half the tempo and in a lower key.
On its own, I can hear that it’s not all that bad.
It’s lilting and lyrical, and with each time the melody restarts, she layers some inversions of chords under the line, and the result is much more pastoral than the honkey-tonk I came up with.
Her arm brushes mine as she plays the last bit, and instead of leaning away, I welcome her invasion into my space, too mesmerized by her to do much of anything.
“Oh my gosh, that’s so much better,” I say.
She grins. “The pieces were all there. You just had to adjust the vibes.”
I hurry to transcribe what she just did into my laptop. “Gosh, I don’t think I would have gotten here on my own.”
She bites her lip, the almost-shy expression surprising me. “Sure you would have. I just helped you along.”
“No, I’m giving you cowriter credit.”
Keeley crosses her arms. “Don’t you dare. I did practically nothing.”
“You saved me. I can actually work with this. Seriously, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” she says, rising from the piano bench. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
And then she leaves without another word. Shaking my head, I try to ignore her absence as I move to the next part of the song.
But the room feels colder without her.