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“Yes, it’s serious.”
He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Finn, I went through the database in the recording room in your basement. You have, like, a hundred songs in there.”
“Sixty-seven,” I corrected him.
“Okay, fine. Do you know how many songs I’ve written in the past year?” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “None, and half the songs Seven Dog Down played were by hired writers. You’ve written sixty-seven songs, a lot of them are really fucking good, and you refuse to consider recording and releasing them. Do you not like money? Because I like money.”
“I like money,” I protested. I realized that I was rubbing the back of my head, and I dropped my hand. “I just don’t think it’s the center of everything. And I don’t assume that anyone would care if I released music. Also, you may have noticed that the music business is trash.”
“Oh, I know it’s trash.” Travis leaned over and picked up something I couldn’t see out of the frame. “I have the lawyer bills to prove it. The music business is a blank, amoral void that sucks your soul dry and leaves you a husk, helpless and thirsty for something you’ll never have.”
Travis had a way with words. It was dramatic, it was entertaining, and it was one of the many reasons I still liked him. “Believe me, I know,” I said.
Travis popped the top of the can he was holding—root beer. “You know and I know, brother. You barely got out with your life. I’ve been left for dead, which I probably deserve.” He took a swig. “I am paying for my sins, no doubt. But you don’t have to sell your soul to release music. Not anymore.”
“I’m not doing that shit again,” I said. “The nonstop touring, the grind, the shitty contracts, the publicity. I did my time. Not for any money. Never again.”
“And yet you’re calling me right now,” Travis said. “Why is that?”
“Because someone pointed out that I’m not doing much with my life these days.”
“Yeah?” Travis tilted his head. “I wonder what that feels like.”
We shared a knowing look. “It’s someone I respect. Someone whose opinion matters.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “Got it. Is she hot?”
Damn him. “No comment.”
“She’s that hot, huh? Who is she?”
I shrugged. “A musician. No one you know.”
“She a singer?”
“Sometimes. Her main gig is bass.”
Travis whistled. He took another sip of root beer. “Yeah, you’re done for. Chicks who play bass are hot as hell. They don’t even have to try. Okay, here’s my advice. Go through those sixty-seven songs and pick the best ones, then release an album. Do it while getting fucked over by as few people as possible.”
“Travis,” I said.
He held up a finger. “But first—and most important—hook up with your bass girl. Do it proper, because her standards are probably high. Musician chicks have seen every trick in the book, and they are not impressed. You need to get laid more than anyone I’ve ever met. Put your back into it, man. Do it right.”
I sighed. “Okay, well, this advice was underwhelming.”
Travis put down his drink. “I always aim to disappoint. It’s the one thing I’m good at.”
We talked a while longer, about music, about everything. I suggested, as I always did, that he see a therapist and take better care of himself. Travis was talented, and he had a distinctive singing voice, smoky and seductive. His voice had never been right for pop music, and he had been wasted in Seven Dog Down. Travis didn’t agree to get help—he never did—but I felt, this time, that he was listening a little. He was thirty-two. I had a feeling he’d come back from near-death in ways no one would suspect.
And suddenly I wanted to do that, too.
Juliet knocked on my door at seven thirty. She looked frazzled. She threw down her purse and kicked off her boots, barely looking around my lavish room. “Don’t get any ideas, Finn,” she said. “This doesn’t mean you’re getting laid.”
I watched her with a grin. Travis was right. Women who played bass were hot.
“Is that for me?” Juliet asked, pointing at the bottle of wine I’d had delivered by room service, which was now sitting in a bucket of ice. “Because after the day I’ve had, I need it.”
“Help yourself,” I told her. “Pour me one, too.”
