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Enough time to shower, shave, and possibly wank Max out of my system.
I wasn’t letting him get to me. I didn’t care how much this longing weighed on me. I could push it away; I had more important things to focus on. Work, family, anything but him.
I needed to stop this.
He looked at me like we were just having fun when I threatened him. He had no idea what I was capable of.
He hadn’t seen the things I had to witness from victims and clients. He lived in the plush world of rock stars with too much money and fame. It was what corrupted Mum when she was at the height of her career.
I might work for one of the most exclusive law firms in London, but I specifically requested pro bono cases so I could help those in real need.
You had to have balls to look into an abuser’s face, or a serial killer’s eyes. Even worse was having to tell victims’ families you couldn’t legally do anything to help them, and then watch them crumple as their hope for justice failed. Those were the cases that made me wish revenge was part of the law. An eye for an eye, and all that.
Christian, a co-worker and friend, dealt primarily with one of the largest crime organisations in London. He’d tell us stories over lunch of the things these guys got away with. I’d watch them walk into his office when I was on Dom’s floor: all hard-muscled tattooed men, with the natural arrogance of born killers. Some days, the bad days, I had to hold myself back from asking them how much it would cost me to take out an abuser or a murderer or anyone else who didn’t deserve the air they breathed.
Max didn’t know how far I’d go to remove a problem. And that pounding in my heart, that need for his skin to blend with mine, the desperate ache for him devouring my days and nights? That was a problem.
Max
Istrummed the last chord, releasing a breath of nerves. It had been so long since I’d written anything. My tight chest and trembling fingers didn’t stop me from pouring myself into the words.
Part of me didn’t want to share the song. It was for Cat and me alone. But they were my bandmates. They understood what it meant to make music from the heart.
We were in our private recording studio, the four of us spread out around the room. There was enough space for twenty people to fill the room with instruments and mics. The simple padded floor and walls had become a home for us since they first gave us the studio eight years ago when we became a good enough investment for them. They printed our band logo on the wall behind me, and blown-up snippets of our most famous lyrics ran across the walls.
I’d called the guys this morning and asked them to meet, told them I had something to show them. Now it was time for the verdict.
“You wrote that?” Steve asked with a full mouth.
He was chomping away on a burger, the smell of the cheap meat filling the room. He lounged on the couch pressed against the back wall, his drumsticks by his side. He’d respectfully stopped eating to listen to the song. Steve had been a heavyweight since we were teens, and he said diets were for masochists. He usually just wore whatever T-shirts and jeans his wife picked out for him.
“What do you guys think?” I asked as I looked up to Bevel, who sat back in the chair next to the keyboard while Luc, our lead guitarist, leant against the shelf that ran under the large window on the opposite side of the room.
Luc had his arms folded, watching in the silent way he did. Bevel always preferred leathers, a throwback to his biker days, while Luc was more conservative, generally going for button-down shirts and loose jeans.
“I’ve been tweaking the lyrics and adding a few riffs, but it feels good?”
I was looking for some decent feedback. Considering we were recording a new album with a bunch of dud songs about our ‘sweethearts’ and soft, cuddly emotions, this felt like perfect timing. This was like our old stuff: gritty, with meaning.
“Yeah, fuck, no, I mean, you want drums and stuff?”
Steve’s mind had been working away while I was playing. He already knew what to do.
I scowled at him. “That’s why you’re here, you idiot.”
“This is just one song.” Luc frowned, making his point.
His opinion mattered the most. Steve and Bevel were happy to go along with whatever we wrote. They just wanted to play music. Luc had a poet’s soul. We were the original founders of the band, writing lyrics together in high school before Goss and Steve jumped on board. Luc was also going through a dry spell, and we were both frustrated by the ghost-written music.
“Okay, but do you think it will work?” I asked, wanting him to acknowledge how good it was.
“Yes,” He gave a curt nod. “But we need more.” Luc had never been one for long sentences.
He had an air of mystery around him that drove the fans crazy. That, and his six-foot-five chiselled Swedish physique. Some magazine or another voted him the sexiest man alive every year since we started making waves. It used to drive me nuts. I had to accept Luc would always be the pretty one of the group.
“Yeah, there’ll be more. It’s coming. I just need time.”
I needed to see Cat again. I’d tried writing more songs in the days after seeing her, but it wasn’t the same. It needed to be fresh. The best songs had come straight from riding off the experience of being with her. I wanted that spark to be lit by her fury.
