Page 62 of Tainted Tempos

I shudder as the latch catches.

Why the hell does it bang shut with a finality? Why does it echo in my eardrums for the rest of my night, taunting me with everything I’ve lost?

SEVENTEEN

MAVERICK

I don’t sleepwhen I make it home. Instead, I write.

Isn’t that messed up?

After months of trying, and failing, to produce song lyrics, I now can’t move my hand fast enough to write the words that filter through my mind.

Line by line. Page after page.

I fill an entire notebook with my thoughts. With the way Mckenna looked at me in the hospital.

Horrified. Traumatized. Betrayed.

I let her down and broke her fucking heart. Just like Big Jim said I would.

God, the apple doesn’t fall far from the fucking tree.

My fingers begin to cramp, and I shake out my wrist when my brother appears outside the studio door at the brownstone.

He looks relieved to see me.

“What is it? What are you doing here?” I stand from the chair I’ve spent hours in and my body protests as I unfold it. “Is it Mckenna?”

He shakes his head immediately. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

“Oh.” I’ve ignored every call and message that appeared on my phone’s screen, only checking to make sure it wasn’t Mckenna.

“I got worried about you.”

“I’m not suicidal,” I blurt out.

“Jesus, Maverick.” My brother pinches the bridge of his nose. “You think I’d only show up, worry about you, fucking care, if I thought you were going to kill yourself? Can’t I just check in on you? I know this shit with Mckenna is big. I know this isn’t like you going on a bender or fucking off the grid for a few weeks. I got scared.”

I sigh and hang my head. “I’m sorry.”

“You need to fucking sleep, man.”

“I can’t.” I lift my head and point to my notebook. “I’m working.”

Jameson tosses his head back and groans. “Now? Now you’re writing?”

“Can’t know when the muse will strike, brother.”

He shakes his head. “The muse is Kenny.”

I close my eyes as a horrible thought flickers through my mind. What if I can only write when my world is falling apart? When terrible things are happening to the woman I love? When I’m a real-life tragedy in the making?

My brows furrow as I turn this over.

What if I can’t be prolific, or successful, unless chaos and heartache reign?

What if?—

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