Page 38 of Finding Grey
The song had been written after I bolted from his flat in the early hours of Thursday morning, the words scrawled across the paper in a fit of frustration and hurt feelings. After finishing, I’d fallen back onto the bed and given in to the urges pounding through my veins. My hand wrapped tight around my cock. Sean’s name a moan upon my lips. Within seconds, my orgasm ripped through me. But as I lay there, shuddering through my release, I knew… Sean didn’t want me the way I wanted him. He was in love with someone else.
Still, even if nothing could come of our time together, I wanted him to understand what meeting him meant to me. And, as the simple guitar track I’d laid earlier in the day began to play through the headphones, I told him everything the only way I knew how—through song.
I didn’t think about where I took the melody this time. There was no planning or intended manipulation behind the tones I chose. Instead, I let my heart lead my voice, from the depths of my lower register up into the threadier sound of the upper register and back again. I sank into a gritty sound at the end of the second chorus, before pulling back for the bridge to something pure and laced with sadness.
The lyrics were harsh in their own way, with a core of underlying bitterness Sean didn’t deserve. But music wasn’t about being fair, it wasn’t about seeing heartache from both sides. It was raw feeling, stripped of reason and diplomacy. It was my reaction to the way I’d exposed my true self to this man, who’d responded by pushing me away.
As the final note faded, I opened my eyes. Exhaustion washed over me and, when I ran my hands over my face, they shook faintly. I peered through the glass to see Sean’s reaction, but he wasn’t there. My body sagged, and a sigh of regret erupted from my chest. Perhaps I should have kept my feelings to myself.
“Dante, can you come out here for a minute?” Phil’s voice sounded through the headphones.
I joined him in the control room, perching on a stool in front of the mixing console.
“I want you to listen to this.” Phil handed me another set of headphones and I slipped them on. “This is the recording we made before lunch,” he told me, right before the song began. I listened to my own voice play back to me. It had good pitch and sounded clear. I’d skipped my morning latte for that purity, knowing the milk would have left a mucousy thickness in my throat. The song finished, and I nodded at Phil. “I’m happy with the sound, although the bridge could do with some tightening.” I held the headphones out, but he didn’t take them back.
“We’re not done,” he said, shaking his head. “Now, I want you to listen to the track you sang just now.”
What was he getting at? Did it suck that badly? I’d paid less attention to my technique, having become lost in trying to convey my feelings to Sean. Apparently, I’d sucked at that too, considering he walked out on me before I finished.
I put the headphones back on and listened. By the end of the first verse, I could no longer meet Phil’s gaze. The chorus had me turning away in my chair. By the time I’d made my way back to the final lines, my sight had blurred and despair clawed at my chest. Yanking the headphones off, I dumped them on a nearby table before raking my fingers through my hair.
“The first track is good,” Phil said, after a long silence. “It’s like every other song you’ve ever recorded. Pitch perfect, emotive, surprising in all the right moments. It’s technically perfect, a classic rock sound.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “But the second track… that’s new. I’ve never heard you sound like that before. That shit gave me goose bumps.”
Unsure what to say, I elected to stay silent.
“I don’t know what happened in the past hour,” Phil continued. “Maybe it was the song itself. Maybe it’s something else.” His tone implied he knew what the something else was… or rather who it was. “That sound, wherever it came from, is worth chasing. Because that right there, is what your soul sounds like.”
I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. “I think I’ve had enough for today.” My voice was little more than a rasp now, as I struggled with the emotions the song had stirred within me. I couldn’t sing again today, my control was shot. “Let’s pick it up again on Thursday. I should have more to work on by then.”
“Sure,” he said with a nod. “I’m going to hang around a bit longer, work on what we got today.”
I went back into the booth to collect my notebooks and water bottles before heading for the door. On my way out, I looked back at Phil. “Do you think Sean liked the song?” I couldn’t believe I was asking this question. Why would Dante Sinclair care what the hired help thought of his music? I might as well have writtenI want to fuck your sonon my forehead. “He left before I finished. I think maybe he didn’t like it.”
“Are you kidding?” Phil snorted, but didn’t turn to face me. “He couldn’t get out of here fast enough. Like had nothing to do with it, Dante. That song destroyed him. But then, perhaps that was your intention.”
Perhaps. I left without responding.