Page 65 of Songbird: Black Kite
I valued his opinion, even if it was blunt as fuck.
“So, I’m thinking about trying something new,” I said, my fingers dropping to the beads on my bracelet as I spoke. “Branch out a bit, you know? The guys and I have been talking, and we’re seriously considering starting our own label. Nothing huge or anything. Not yet, at least. But between the three of us and Mick, we’ve got nearly a hundred years of experience. It may not count for much, but I’d like to try. The guys are pumped. Mick is still negotiating with Jennifer, but I think she’s just holding out for the sake of it at this point.” I blew out a breath, still looking at the table. “I don’t know, man. We’ve just been stuck for a while. Me mostly, I guess. And I talked to Alex and Gavin, and we think we might be in a position to really do some good. Help out some kids who could use an opportunity. Someone to believe in them the way Mick believed in us, I guess.”
I finished in a rush, feeling like a dumbass. Charlie was silent, too silent, actually, and my stomach sank a little as I waited for him to say something. Anything. Tell me I was an idiot, that I was reaching beyond my means and that I should just stay in my lane. What business did I have thinking I could run a record label? I was nothing but a washed-up, has-been party boy with nothing going for me but my past.
I was a loser who was wasting my fuckin’ time.
Steeling myself, I finally raised my head, ready to see pity and disappointment.
Instead, his gaze was on my bracelet, his eyebrows lowered in concentration.
“Charlie?” I asked, and his head slowly rose, his eyes meeting mine. He took a breath and opened his mouth, and I bit the inside of my cheek, wondering why it felt like the next words out of his mouth would be life changing.
“Hawk, about that—”
His words were cut off by the shrill ringing of my phone. There was only one person in my contact list that I had assigned a personalized ring tone to, and the fact that my phone was now shoutingBuckcherrylyrics at me—Hey, you’re a crazy bitch—on repeat at full volume let me know exactly who was calling.
Fucking Victoria.
“You better get that,” Charlie said, a bland smile crossing his features, wiping away the thoughtful look he’d previously been wearing. He stood, heading for the house, and I followed him inside and to the front door. “She’s probably going to harass you about the songs anyway.” I’d bitched to Charlie a couple of times about the situation surrounding our fourth album. “I’ll see you Friday?”
“Yeah,” I said, confused, the phone still screaming in my ear. “Of course.”
“Later, Hawk.”
I said nothing, just watched him walk away, realizing only after he was gone that he never told me what he thought of my idea to start a label.
He had started to say something, though, beforeBuckcherrycut him off.
Whatever it was he’d wanted to say, Victoria’s call had shattered the moment, making her responsible for ruining yet another thing in my life.
Chapter thirty-eight
Hawk
Present
Charliehadbeenright;Tori had called to ream me out about the two songs her father wanted from us.
She’d yammered on about how time was of the essence, which was funny as fuck to me becauseCastor Recordshad been sitting on the first ten songs for over five years, but whatever. Now that I was thinking about branching out on my own, I was finding that Castor and his demon spawn of a daughter weren’t nearly as irritating to me as they had been.
No, now, I just let her talk, her words rolling off my back like a fuckin’ duck. The power she’d once had over me was gone, and I had never been more grateful that Lewis had fucked my wife than I was in that moment.
Sitting downstairs in my home studio, I leaned back on the deep leather couch, taking a long hit of the joint I’d rolled earlier and letting the bitter burn of the smoke steal my focus and drown out all the shit.
The guys would be joining me any minute now; Harry was upstairs, bustling around the kitchen making all kinds of snacks, having never lost her desire to spoil us boys with food. To be honest, it was a wonder any of us could fit into our pants some days.
Thank fuck the skinny jeans craze was behind us.
Blowing out the cloud of smoke, I set the joint back between my lips and pulled my Martin into my lap, the familiar feel of the wood and strings like coming home after a long time away. I had held this guitar in my arms more times than I could count, and every single time I still felt the rush. She made the sweetest sounds when I touched her, each note calling to me like a lover, and I caressed her curves with my fingers for a second before I started playing.
I didn’t have a plan, my fingers simply landing on the strings in the right places, muscle memory and a million identical moments that had come before meaning that I didn’t even have to think. The notes just bloomed under my touch.
Closing my eyes, I tilted my head back against the cushions and let my thoughts drift away, aimless and loose. I played, the notes quiet and soft as I picked out a melody that hovered on the edges of my mind, thin and insubstantial, vanishing like smoke the moment I tried to focus on it.
It had been that way for a while; the melody had been teasing me for years, reminding me of that one night.
Reminding me of my Bird.
