Page 10 of Perfect Composition

“That was Kristoffer Wilde,” Mick hissed.

“I guess so.”

“You guess?” Carly unfroze finally to screech.

My head swiveled back and forth as we rushed away from the amphitheater. “Keep it down, Smash.”

Mick hooked an arm around his wife’s neck. “Yeah, baby, we do not need word of this to get out. Let’s just go play and pray to every god we can think of.”

Back then I didn’t say what I was thinking—that I’d been forsaken by so many of them that I held out no hope of Kristoffer Wilde coming to listen to the three of us play.

Years later, long after Kristoffer Wilde signed me to Wildcard Records, our friendship survived through the traditional rock-and-roll excess and absurdity playing out in the media. Stories of alcohol and drugs, cheating spouses, and more groupies than any of the three of us could handle with any sense of morality.

Carly is huffing and puffing on the treadmill but still manages to get out, “It’s not funny anymore, Becks.”

I laugh before retorting, “The press is always funny, Carly.”

“It really isn’t,” Mick agrees with his wife of close to twenty years. “You’ve taken the brunt of the gossip for so long. You’ve asked over and over if we wanted to become a group instead of just your studio musicians, but you never pushed, letting Carly and me fade away so we could raise our family in peace. Never doubt we appreciate it.”

“But it’s wrong,” she interjects.

“It’s fine.” I wave off their concern. There are few people I’m comfortable with to call friends, and these two are part of that select group.

“Freaking social media is toxic,” Carly grumbles.

“And here she goes,” Mick sighs.

I grin even as Carly points a finger in her husband’s direction. I’m just grateful she’s not throwing things. She has wicked aim with those muscular arms of hers. “Our kids are starting to believe the crap about Becks in the media.”

“They’re young and impressionable,” I try to soothe her.

“That’s just it, Becks. They are that,” Mick says.

I feel a twisted feeling in my stomach. “What are you trying to say, Mick?”

Carly and Mick exchange a complicated look. “Have you given more thought to that offer from Evangeline Brogan?” Carly asks as she slows down to a walk.

“About doing a musical based on my life? Like I said to Simon, it’s been done so many times.” I wave my hand in the air.

“But what they haven’t done is figure out a way to tell the story of Beckett Miller,” Mick counters my argument again. “You aren’t a drama queen; you didn’t grow up in a crazy period of music history. You could do this without laying your tracks on top of someone else’s story. You were a lost boy, Beckett. How many people would relate to that?”

Mick’s words cause my creative juices to flow, even as they strike fear inside my soul. “Too many,” I acknowledge.

“For you, it’s about the music and what inspired it. That’s what would be your challenge.”

I feel the trickle of sweat run down my back. “You both think I should do it?”

They nod. “We do. We could help when it comes to the composing. Besides, while I don’t mind these one-off gigs, I don’t want to traipse around the world with you. I mean, let’s be real. You’re a pain in the ass on tour. And the kids are getting old enough they need to understand our lives aren’t constantly some crazed media frenzy,” Carly states firmly.

“It will force you to stretch, to grow. And you need that piece to keep going, don’t you, Becks? What are you so afraid of?”

Sitting down and composing the score to a musical about how fucked-up my life was before I broke my own heart to escape it? Realizing I can’t find the words to convey how sorry I am for the mistakes I made? Questioning if I took the right path after all? “Nothing. Can’t wait,” I lie convincingly. “I’ll slot it in after the last set of shows.”

Carly squeals in excitement, which I’m shocked she has the breath for after running as hard as she did.

It’s the water spilling over my hand from crushing the bottle beneath my fist that jolts me out of my head. Cursing, I reach for a towel and use my sneakered foot to mop up the mess. “Listen, I’m going to go grab a protein shake. Do either of you want anything?” When they both indicate they’re fine, I turn and head down the hall to the small kitchenette to make myself a drink filled with nutrients that I hopefully won’t throw up.

I need something in my stomach before I call Carys to start making arrangements about drafting a contract to damn myself to the past. At least for a little while.