Chapter 7 David
Chapter Seven
David
So what does an internationally famous DJ do when he decides to run away to a small New Jersey town?
Apparently?
Well, he buys real estate.
Because the nearest hotel looks like it rents rooms by the hour, and while I’ve stayed in worse places in my twenties, I’m not doing that now.
“You sure you want to buy something?” Nate asks, arms crossed, watching me like I just announced I’m opening a goat farm.
“I figure I might be here a couple months,” I shrug. “Might as well be comfortable.”
That’s the surface answer.
The truth?
Money doesn’t mean anything anymore.
Not really.
And comfort, for me, has always meant privacy.
Silence.
Control.
I hired a realtor the day after I got here.
Guy named Steven Brandon.
Crisp polo shirt, too-white smile, the kind of man who says investment opportunity like it’s foreplay.
He found me something on the edge of town.
And by something, I mean a damn estate.
An old colonial monster sitting behind a line of mature trees, six bedrooms, four bathrooms, formal living room, parlor, dining room, three-car garage, indoor spa, outdoor pool, and a second living space off the kitchen big enough to land a helicopter in.
The second I walk through it, I know.
The acoustics in that back room are solid.
High ceilings.
Thick walls.
Perfect for soundproofing.
Perfect for building a home studio.
“What’s wrong with this place?” I ask Steven as we stand in the cavernous foyer.
He blinks. “Excuse me, Mr. Mars?”
“Why isn’t anyone living here?”
It’s too clean. Too perfect. Too available.
“Oh! Well,” he says, adjusting his cuffs, “the couple who just completed the remodel ended up divorcing. Neither wanted to give the house up to the other, so now it’s on the market.”
Ah.
A casualty of love.
Fitting.
I glance around again.
Empty rooms. Sunlight pouring through tall windows. No furniture. No history.
A blank slate.
“Fuck it,” I say. “Put in an offer. Cash.”
Steven’s smile stretches wider.
“I want the house by tomorrow,” I continue. “And I want contractors lined up. I’ll need some remodeling done.”
“Of course, Mr. Mars.”
He practically floats out the door.
Nate just shakes his head.
“You move fast.”
“Always have.”
And maybe that’s the problem.
Two days later, I’m standing in the middle of my new kitchen, listening to the quiet.
No club noise.
No traffic.
No paparazzi shouting my name.
Just birds outside and the hum of the refrigerator.
It should feel peaceful.
It almost does.
Until my phone buzzes.
I glance down.
My producer.
Again.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“What is it?” Nate asks from where he’s leaning against the counter, nursing a beer like he owns the place.
He’s been dropping in on me, and I have to admit, I like hanging out with the bastard.
I swipe to answer.
“Yeah.”
There’s no greeting on the other end. Just urgency.
“David, this is big. Major League Rugby wants you to produce the official theme for this year’s Championship Cup.”
Silence.
Even the quiet in the house feels louder now.
“Send me the details,” I say, already knowing I’m not going to ignore this.
When I hang up, Nate’s staring at me.
“Well?”
“I’ve been offered the opportunity to come up with a theme song for this year’s Major League Rugby Championship Cup.”
Nate straightens.
“Shit. Really?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s fucking cool.”
He’s not wrong.
It is cool.
National stage.
Stadium energy.
Millions watching.
The kind of gig that cements legacy.
The kind of project I live for.
But as the adrenaline hums through me, something else does too.
A flicker of hesitation.
Because accepting that means calls.
Meetings. Travel. Press.
Noise.
It means the vampire, tapping at the window again.
“You gonna do it?” Nate asks.
I stare out the back window toward the tree line.
Toward the town beyond it.
Toward a bookstore with warm lights and wild curls behind the counter.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
That’s new.
I always know.
This is who I am.
What I do.
I build soundtracks for chaos.
But lately?
I’ve been craving quiet.
And I don’t know if I can have both.
My phone buzzes again.
Emails.
Contracts.
Deadlines.
I guess this world I left hasn’t left me.
It’s just sitting there, biding time. Waiting.
And sooner or later?
I’m going to have to decide whether Hammonton is a vacation.
Or a turning point.
Fuck.