Page 72 of Hard Rock Muse

21

Julian and I hadn’t spoken since he’d run out. We hadn’t even exchanged texts. I had been hoping if I gave him some time and some space he would come to me on his own. I should have known it wouldn’t work like that with Julian.

I didn’t want to push him but I also wasn’t going to let him wallow in angst like I knew he was probably doing.

Normally, when Julian and I used to have trouble between us, I would go to Abby, he would go to Seth, and they would both set our heads straight.

But Julian was upset with Seth because of me, so he didn’t have anyone to turn to. Instead of having someone talk him down, he would just stew in his own misery and anger. I didn’t want to let that go on for too long.

I hadn’t intended on ambushing him at work, but Cerise had asked if we could talk about some ideas she had for the new album. She wanted to bounce things off someone who wasn’t so close to the project, to get a more objective eye.

I was overjoyed at the request. It meant Cerise held me in high enough regard to want my opinion. Maybe I did have a real future in the music industry once this songwriting gig was over.

Instead of meeting up at the Cherry Lips studio, Cerise gave me instructions to a location in the industrial part of town. I followed them and ended up pulling into a large warehouse that looked like it had been converted into a sort of artist’s commune.

Cerise met me at the doors, her dark cherry red hair falling over her shoulders in waves and her lips painted red. She looked every bit the rock goddess as she waved for me to come in. It made a small pang of sadness ring my chest. I remembered being that bad ass rock goddess. As much as I was trying to reinvent myself, I couldn’t lie and say I didn’t miss it.

“Thanks for making the trip,” Cerise said.

“No problem.”

I swung my head back and forth as she lead me through the warehouse. The inside had multiple rooms partitioned off, and as I peeked through their glass doors I saw what looked like a pottery studio, a small room with a printing press and a tiny art gallery.

Cerise opened the door to a room with multiple instruments set up, including guitars, a drum set, a keyboard and a full-sized piano. There was comfy looking furniture strewn about, armchairs and sofas and coffee tables, along with a mini fridge. It was like a living room had been taken over by a rock band.

“Let me guess,” I said. “This is where you guys jammed before hitting it big?”

“You got it.” She trailed a hand over one of the guitars with a fond smile. “We still pay the rent on the place, out of nostalgia more than anything, really. But when we’re stuck we sometimes like to come back to our roots.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “I suppose the corporate atmosphere at your label might not always make for the best creative mindset.”

“It’s not all bad,” she said. “We get top-notch instruments and equipment.”

“No more second and third-hand pawn shop stuff, huh?”

We shared a grin, knowing that each of us was familiar with being scrappy little indie musicians trying to make a go of it with whatever we could.

For Cerise, it had all paid off.

For me, well…

“So what did you want to talk to me about?” I asked.

“Two things actually.” Her expression turned serious as she pulled out a USB key from her bag. “I want you to hear something. I’ve been fighting with the execs over the sound of the song we want to use as our single. The guys think I’m being stubborn, but—”

I held up a hand to stop her. “If anyone knows anything about being stubborn, it’s me.”

“I’ve heard.” She gave me a crooked smile, then checked her phone as it pinged. She nodded to herself, as if satisfied with something. “That’s the second reason we’re here.”

“What do you mean?”

The doorknob to the music room turned and door swung inward.

Julian stood in the entrance.

It was just like that first time I’d seen him, during my interview with Cerise, him striding in, all dressed in black, dark hair falling over his cheeks, face impassive.

But I knew him better now. He couldn’t fool me with that blank stare. The slight widening of his eyes told me he was startled. The press of his lips told me he wasn’t pleased. The way he darted his gaze from side to side told me he was feeling trapped.