Page 50 of Striking a Chord at Randy's

And I put a fair chunk of my savings into the session at the studio.

That would be tomorrow.

Shit. I was supposed to be having a chill day before the recording tomorrow.

It was a “me” problem and for the sake of the band, I’d keep being fired a secret until we leave the studio.

I took a deep breath, straightened my t-shirt and ran a hand through my hair. Omelet at Randy’s—here I come.

I left the diner with a box of glazed donuts and a banana smoothie as my lunch and dinner for later.

Trixie was relaxing at her girlfriend’s, so I had the house to myself. I dragged my precious Strat with me to the couch and tuned it.

As I lazily plucked the strings, the image of Trent listening to me play floated in my brain. If he was here, he’d flash a dimpled smile at me, crunch on a lollipop and pull me into a crushing hug that always felt like it could fix all of my problems.

I stroked a random chord, then another, my fingers moving into familiar positions, my mind on my amazing Cupcake.

“On our crumpled bed sheets

We’re still there,”

I hummed quietly, then changed the chord.

“Eating strawberry lollipops

Better than cigarettes

Sweet like you.

I keep my rose-colored glasses on

Around you

But they’re not on my nose

It’s my world that’s happy

Because you are in it.”

Needs work, but it came so easily, I could do something with it. The chorus was obvious:

“Sweeter than strawberry lollipops

I can lick all day.

All day

All day ay ay ay”

I grabbed the notebook I kept on a shelf by the guitar and scribbled down the lyrics. It was a song about sex and the freedom to experiment with all genders.

Fuck being sad.

I had music to write today.

And an album to record tomorrow.

Chapter Eighteen