Was changing it before I pushed him away.
I swallow the twinge and focus instead on the haunting progression. The original song was in the key of G, but I raise it to A, feeling stronger in the moment. A sudden lead-line emerges through the simple chord rhythms, and I cement the tentative notes with firmer hits on the keys as I repeat the intro several times. What would an electric guitar sound like playing that riff? I glance over at my electric hanging neglected above its amp. I haven’t touched either in over a year. My pedal board is woefully lacking, but I bet I could run some cool midi-effects in production.
I work for several hours, rewriting lyrics, tweaking melodies and chord progressions until I’m satisfied with the basic structure and ready to start recording. It’s late for most people, but I don’t want to risk losing my momentum. Besides, in the world of music and recording, the night’s just getting started for most of us. I text Joel, my most trusted audio engineer, to see what he’s up to.
Working on a secret project. Could use your help. You in?
Joel writes me back a minute later. Hell yeah. When?
How about now?
“That was hot, Gen,” Joel says, leaning back in his chair at the console after I come out of the iso booth. He studies me for a second, his grin widening. “You know, I’ve been working with you for five years and I’ve never seen you like this after a session.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I get it. He’s right. It was hot. Everything felt good, so real and organic. Joel had to finish another project before coming over, but came as soon as he could. We’ve been working for a while, but the late hour is hardly affecting me. I’m on a high. I feel like I could do this for another twelve hours. I don’t remember ever feeling this way in the studio.
“You’re… I don’t know. Locked in. It’s gonna be hard choosing from all these takes. Usually it’s the opposite with you. No offense.” He laughs, and I shoot him a mock glare. “No, seriously, though. Your voice is just extra on this song. Your tone, dynamic. So much to freaking work with. Why is this top secret again?”
“Um, because it’s different?”
“Hell yeah, it’s different. It’s sick.”
“And gonna get me in trouble if White Flame finds out I’m messing around with a new direction on the side. You can’t tell anyone about this, Joel. Promise me.”
His eyes narrow in an expression strangely reminiscent of a certain hockey player who inspired this experiment. “So what are you planning to do with this then? It’s a shame to let it sit. People need to hear this.”
I shrug, warming at his words. Joel is a well-respected engineer and producer. If he says it’s good, it’s good. “I’m still trying to figure that out. For now, let’s just finish the track and see what we get.”
He still looks skeptical, maybe even annoyed, as he lets out a breath and turns back to the console on the desk. “Fine. But, Gen. This shit is special. I don’t know where you found this inside yourself, but you need to go find more.”
Joel stayed until just after four, with a promise to come back as soon as our schedules would allow. He’s also going to track some drums and bass for me, using what we did as a reference track to start from scratch with a full-band sound. If I like what he does, we’ll re-do the vocals and give me the epic rock-vibe I heard in my head. We agreed that, for now, he’d keep quiet about who’s behind this track. He’ll do as much as he can himself, and tell anyone else he has to bring in that it’s a new artist. My vocal sounds so different there’s little chance someone would tie it to Genevieve Fox without context.
Once the adrenaline wears off, though, I crash hard and don’t wake up until mid-afternoon the following day. Thankfully, it’s a rare off-day, which almost feels painful as I blink awake and realize I would’ve spent it with Oliver if I could. I reach over to check my phone and bolt up in the bed.
Stop stalking me.
My stomach drops at Oliver’s first message, my pulse hammering in a simultaneous rush of pain and relief at hearing from him. It hurts to read his rejection, but at least he’s okay. Then, I see the smiley emoji, and tears spring to my eyes. He’s joking. Oh god. I can barely breathe as I open the chat window to see what else he wrote. Next is an address, followed by:
Come over if you want. I’m here for a while.
He’s there for a while? What does that mean? Panic mounts as I roll out of bed and practically run to the shower. Crap, I didn’t even answer him. I rush back to my bed and swipe my phone off the nightstand.
Late night sorry. Just saw your message. I’ll be over as soon as I can.
The bubbles populate below my message almost immediately, and I smile, hoping he’d been waiting for my message.
Great. Sandy’s family is here, but he’s still on the road. I’ll let them know you’re coming.
I’ve never showered and gotten ready so quickly in my life.
The woman who answers the door wears a loose bun and stiff smile as she ushers me in.
“You must be Genevieve,” she says. “Ollie’s in his room. I’ll show you where it is.”
Ollie? Does everyone call him that? So cute.
“Thank you. Sorry to barge in on you like this.” A tiny human scurries past in an opening up ahead, and I hear distant shouts from another child that probably wasn’t the runner.
“It’s no problem, really. It’ll be good for him to have a visitor. With the team out of
