Page 91 of The Drummer

Luke and I continue to discuss production ideas as a weak translation of the real work of art being formed in our hearts. Somewhere along the line, our cover becomes real. The song we’re pretend writing takes a turn into viable ideas I’m itching to explore.

“How easy do you think it would be to get into Jackson Street tomorrow?” I blurt out. “I know we haven’t used them in a while, but Julian’s a pro.”

Luke’s expression doesn’t change. “I don’t know. TJ might be able to get you in. You want to lay some of this down?”

I try to read him. Could I dare to hope he’s feeling any of theexcitement that comes with new ideas as well? We used to get high off that rush.

“Thinking about it,” I say. “I mean, why not? It’s out there now. Might as well see what it sounds like. Wish we were home and could just use our own stuff, but Jackson Street is cool. Julian has gear we can use, right?”

Luke still isn’t giving me any clue about where his head is. “Probably. He’s got his studio guys, too, if you want to mess around. You might need to give him a heads up though so he can get them in. Send TJ a work tape. He’ll lose his mind.”

Another question is pounding at my skull. A week ago I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking. I’m still terrified, but I will never forgive myself if there was a chance to bring him all the way back and I didn’t take it.

His eyes broadcast the rejection before I can even ask, and my heart drains into my stomach.

His apologetic look stings more than the resentful ones I’ve grown accustomed to, because this look tells me how much it’s hurting him to hurt me. How much he wants to give this to me but can’t.

He tears his gaze away. “I can’t, man. You know that. I just… You’ve got my support on this.”

A consolation prize that does the opposite.

“Yeah, no, of course,” I grit out. “It would have been…”

Impossible. Fucking impossible.

“No, yeah,” I say through a harsh laugh, mostly at myself for the absurd hope.

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.

“Good luck, though. I think you have something,” Luke says in another unintentional dagger through the heart. He’s trying to soften the blow, and when he rests his hand on my shoulder as he passes, it feels like a third-degree burn.

I want to reassure him, but I can’t. My heart is too broken. My hope too shattered to pretend otherwise.

Once he’s gone, I have this overwhelming need to disappear as well.

“I should go call TJ and see if he can set something up,” I mutter.

I can’t look at Callie. She’ll make me stay and drag the poison out, but I’m not ready to hand it over. I need it to hurt. I need it to sink in and make its mark.

“Casey…”

I get up from the table. “It’s fine. Not a big deal. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Pulling out my phone, I head toward the office to make the call.

It’s only when I lock myself inside with the chair that I realize what I’ve done.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Am I surprised we can’t get into the studio until Friday? No. That’s just the way things are going to roll for this it seems. I’m sure if it was Luke Craven asking, they would’ve found a way to make it work, despite the history there.

I’m also not surprised Callie gets tired of dealing with my transformation into a moody artist. Even the most compassionate, patient woman on the planet has limits, so it’s not exactly breaking news when she decides she needs to go back to her place to catch up on “stuff.”

I agree some space might be good for all of us, until she’s gone and I feel like a massive dick.

A bored, lonely one.

It’s not a great combination, and after working off some frustration in the gym, then the pool, I’m feeling less like a brooding artist and more like a repentant boyfriend.

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