Echoes of the Heart, Casey, L.A. [reader novel .txt] 📗

Keep chasin’, rock star.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

RISK

I hummed to a tune that was stuck in my head and before I forgot it, I rolled up my sleeve, revealing one of my many tattoos. From my inner left forearm down to my wrist, I had blank sheet music paper on my arm. I often thought of music and had to write it down before I forgot it. I had been writing lyrics and music notes on my skin for years, a tattoo of sheet music just made it easier for me to keep track of it until I transferred it to actual paper. I jotted down the music notes on the tattooed staff on my skin, then I scribbled a couple of lyrics in small print on the back of my hand with my fine-tipped, permanent Sharpie.

I knew I could have easily used the notes app on my phone to write the words down, but writing them on my hands and forearms had sort of been a rite of passage. I never wrote full songs on my body, just words here and there, maybe a sentence or two, but every song that I eventually penned had stemmed from a word or phrase I had jotted down onto my skin. I couldn’t break that habit now.

It was sort of like a good luck charm, in its own way.

“Never enough,” May leaned over and read the words I had just written on my hand. “New song?”

I bobbed my head. “Beginning stages, I’m just brainstorming a little.”

May grabbed my arm and turned it slightly so he could see my inner forearm. He squinted his eyes and focused on the notes drawn on my arm. He mumbled the tune under his breath until he had it in his head. I ducked my head when he reached back into the boot and grabbed his guitar case. Hayes gave him a tongue lashing for taking off his seat belt while we were driving but May ignored him.

When he turned forward, he opened his case and removed his Fender Jazzmaster that he brought along with him for the car ride to London. We had an interview at Rock Stop, a huge podcast show that every rock band wanted to be on. We had interviewed with them half a dozen times and each time, good press followed.

Instead of taking the train, we opted to drive. It was less of a hassle because it wasn’t public transport. I was glad we had decided on driving because unprompted writing sessions were what I lived for.

May grabbed a signed pick from his pocket, he kept a dozen on his person at all times. One for playing and spares for any fans we bumped into. He strummed the guitar, adjusted his hold, checked the tuning, then he played the notes I had written. In my head, I liked how they had sounded, but when May played them on the Fender, he brought them to life with a few simple flicks of his wrist. Hayes was driving the car, Angel was in the front seat but as soon as May began to play, he reached back into his bag that was at my feet, and grabbed his favourite pair of drum sticks.

He began doing his own improv based on what May was playing.

“Of course I’d have to be driving. I wanna play, too.”

I snorted at Hayes, but I understood how he felt. I was our lead vocalist and guitarist, May was our rhythmic guitarist, and Hayes was our bass, but May took up most of the slack on certain songs because I spent a shit load of time interacting with the audience and running around like a headless chicken when we performed. The only person who never switched instruments on stage was Angel, he could play guitar well, and was wicked on the keyboard, but drumming was his thing and he stuck to it. I reached into Angel’s bag and pulled out the different kinds of blank sheet music paper he always carried for times like this.

I uncapped my pen and wrote down what May was playing.

He started off with my notes, then improvised his own and one chord in the middle of the small set gave me chills. It changed everything about the set-up. I said nothing, I just let him go as he repeated the same chord layout a few times until he felt like adding something new.

I focused on Angel, switched a blank drum sheet and placed the notes I heard along the staff on the sheet. Because he wasn’t playing on actual drums, I couldn’t hear the music the way he could. I’d know which key he was hitting when he drummed his instrument, but because drumming wasn’t a talent of mine, I strained a little to hear it the way he did.

“Angel,” I said. “Fifth note, floor tom or mid?”

“Neither, high.”

This was exactly what I was talking about, had he been playing on his drums, I’d have heard the difference. Angel turned around in his seat and peered down at the sheet I was writing on and said, “Bro, no. Rest for four beats on the whole, and that,” – he pointed to the tenth note – “is supposed to be a snare, not a hi-hat.”

I scowled down at my sheet. He plucked it from my hand, grabbed his own Sharpie from his bag, turned around in his seat, and fixed the drum key.

“Sorry, man.”

“Don’t be,” Angel said. “You’re much better at hearing the right notes now compared to a few years ago, you use to suck.”

That was a backhanded compliment if I had ever heard one.

I focused back on May, he restarted his piece and I made the additions on to the staff that I missed before. I smiled as I wrote, Hayes got involved and told May which chord to add in and where. I made the additions, then used a separate sheet for the bass that I could hear even though it