Page 68 of Charm City Rocks
“Of course I know how to play the guitar,” she says. “I can play anything.”
“Well,” says Billy. “La-dee-dah. Check it out. These feel like power chords to me up front.” He sets his fingers, strums twice, and starts singing Margot’s words.
It’s hard to stay annoyed with someone while they’re singing, particularly if they’re singing badly. He stops after the first verse but keeps strumming.
“It’s dark, right?” he says. “It’s about being lost. Maybe? But maybe it’s about being found. It’s as dark ornotdark as you want it to be. That’s why it’s good.”
She scoffs, because scoffing is easier than allowing herself, if even for just a dumb, fleeting moment, to wonder if he’s right.
“A guitar solo here would be nice,” Billy says. “Some haunting, drawn-out thing before the chorus. You know, played by someone who’s better at it than me. Rock-and-roll bass underneath. Like a G note. Second verse’ll get a little faster, a slow build.” Billy nods to Margot. “Here, go, let ’er rip. Sing it.”
He waits for her to sing, but she doesn’t, and she won’t.
“I can’t hear you,” he whispers. “You’re gonna have to be louder.”
“Stop it.”
“Why?”
She takes his right hand, silencing the Fender. “Billy, we had, what, thirty-five songs on three albums? Twenty of those songs were really good. Ten were great. Nikki wrote all of those but one. And you and I both know ‘Power Pink’ wouldn’t have been great if she hadn’t sung it. Without her, it doesn’t work. I’m nobody.”
He sets his guitar down. “Nikki wasn’t at the Horse You Came In On, was she?” he asks. “And yeah, it wasn’t Madison Square Garden. But it was a room full of people who had an unforgettable night. That wasn’t because of anyone else. It was because ofyou.”
It’s more complicated than that, but, technically, he’s right.
Billy touches her notebook, traces his finger across her words. “These are good songs. That’s all you need. Music isn’t about big, glitzy album releases anymore, Margot. You could record these right now on Caleb’s computer if you wanted to.”
“But then what?” she asks.
“You release them,” he says. “Right? That’s how it works.”
“After the band broke up, every time I left the house—every time I looked at a magazine cover or turned on the radio—I wastold and I was shown how much better Nikki is than me. Hotter. More talented. More bankable. More fuckable. If I put out some lo-fi vanity record by myself, it’s gonna be that all over again. Probably worse. I need you to understand that.”
“No,” he says. “You’re better than her.”
“Billy, shut up.”
“No, I won’t. You are. There, I said it. You’re a better musician than Nikki Kixx. I don’t care what she looks like.”
Outside, a car pulls into the driveway. Its headlights paint a grid of shadows on the walls as they blast through the blinds.
“It’s sweet that you think that,” she tells him. “But you’re an idiot.”
“This is the one thing I’m not an idiot about, Margot. Can’t you trust me on that?”
She touches the top of his head, runs her fingers through his hair, lingering at the thinning parts that he’s sensitive about. “Robyn still has feelings for you, by the way. If you can’t see that, then you reallyarean idiot.”
“What?” says Billy.
“You were each other’s first loves, right?” she says.
“Yeah, but—”
“First loves brand you, Billy. They burn themselves on you forever.” She’s thinking of Lawson, of course, because not a day has gone by since their divorce in which she hasn’t, at least for a moment.
There’s a knock, then Robyn is calling them from behind the door. “Billy?” she says. “Margot? Um, you guys? I think you need to come out here.”
Chapter40
