heart-blocked from that sort of music. He felt truly heart-blocked in general. That style of music felt like a sellout, a moral corruption of his soul. His music—it was all he had when he got right down to it. It was the only thing in his life he could depend on, the only thing he could completely trust. Without it . . . was this all there was?
His mother reached for his hand and covered it with hers. “I know you’ll figure it out, honey. But maybe you need some help.”
She didn’t understand the stakes for him. Brennan needed help, all right. But it wasn’t the help of a doctor and antidepressants. It was more spiritual than that. He needed help finding his path. He pulled his hand free of hers and turned away. “I’m good, Mom. I’m just asking you—nicely, now—to postpone the renovations a couple of months,” he said tightly. “I don’t need people in my space right now.”
He could see the tension in his mother’s jaw as she poured a healthy serving of white wine. She was biting her tongue. “Sure, honey. If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
She shrugged and drank from the glass. “Okay then. No renovations inside the house for a couple of months.”
“Thank you.” Brennan moved to the fridge and withdrew three beers. He grabbed a bag of chips from the counter and walked out. He ignored the muttering he heard under his mother’s breath, and made his way upstairs to his room.
Maybe he needed to get out of here, go someplace overseas, away from his mother and the tabloids. That wasn’t a bad idea, he thought as he took the stairs two at a time. Someplace remote where he could molt in peace. A tropical place, maybe. With a girl. Any girl. He could use some good, wall-banging sex about now.
Brennan walked into his slightly reeking wreck of a room and paused, looking around.
He had taken the second master suite with a stunning view of the back lawn and Lake Haven on one end, and the front drive on the other. Too bad the walls were painted lime green and the bath was done in pink tile. He threw the bag of chips on a bed that had gone unmade for two weeks now, put down his beers next to an army of empty bottles on the dresser and the nearby windowsill. He walked past his guitar and paused, looking down at it.
His mother was right. He couldn’t remember when he’d last picked up an instrument of any kind. Madison Square Garden?
Brennan picked up his guitar now and took a seat on the edge of the bed, balanced it on his thigh, and struck a minor chord.
Since a time he could no longer recall, he’d had the ability to hear a chord and instantly hear a melody in his head. He could easily imagine the bare bones of a song, the chorus, the bridge. But in the last two months, he’d imagined . . . nothing.
Everett Alden, the lead singer of Tuesday’s End, heard nothing.
Brennan put his guitar aside and fell onto the bed beside the bag of chips. He closed his eyes, saw himself on stage, heard the melody of one of their greatest hits, “Dream Maker,” as an acoustic number in his head. He’d written every bit of that song—the melody, the lyrics. Chance had tweaked the rhythm of it, but mostly, it was Brennan’s creation. It had stayed at the top of the charts for more than a year. He was the architect of that massive hit, and now, he couldn’t even dredge up a few chords.
Yeah, he was going to get the fuck out of here.
He was going to find his laptop in this mess and Google the Canary Islands. He turned his head on the pillow and looked across the room. He didn’t know where the laptop was, actually.
He’d do it tomorrow.
Brennan sat up and looked down at his disgusting bed. It just seemed like everything required so much effort . He drank more beer, brooded more. He wrote a few things in a notebook, tried to read.
He didn’t know when sleep drifted over him, but it was the sound of a buzz saw that startled him awake. He sat up with a jolt; weak sunlight was
His mother reached for his hand and covered it with hers. “I know you’ll figure it out, honey. But maybe you need some help.”
She didn’t understand the stakes for him. Brennan needed help, all right. But it wasn’t the help of a doctor and antidepressants. It was more spiritual than that. He needed help finding his path. He pulled his hand free of hers and turned away. “I’m good, Mom. I’m just asking you—nicely, now—to postpone the renovations a couple of months,” he said tightly. “I don’t need people in my space right now.”
He could see the tension in his mother’s jaw as she poured a healthy serving of white wine. She was biting her tongue. “Sure, honey. If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
She shrugged and drank from the glass. “Okay then. No renovations inside the house for a couple of months.”
“Thank you.” Brennan moved to the fridge and withdrew three beers. He grabbed a bag of chips from the counter and walked out. He ignored the muttering he heard under his mother’s breath, and made his way upstairs to his room.
Maybe he needed to get out of here, go someplace overseas, away from his mother and the tabloids. That wasn’t a bad idea, he thought as he took the stairs two at a time. Someplace remote where he could molt in peace. A tropical place, maybe. With a girl. Any girl. He could use some good, wall-banging sex about now.
Brennan walked into his slightly reeking wreck of a room and paused, looking around.
He had taken the second master suite with a stunning view of the back lawn and Lake Haven on one end, and the front drive on the other. Too bad the walls were painted lime green and the bath was done in pink tile. He threw the bag of chips on a bed that had gone unmade for two weeks now, put down his beers next to an army of empty bottles on the dresser and the nearby windowsill. He walked past his guitar and paused, looking down at it.
His mother was right. He couldn’t remember when he’d last picked up an instrument of any kind. Madison Square Garden?
Brennan picked up his guitar now and took a seat on the edge of the bed, balanced it on his thigh, and struck a minor chord.
Since a time he could no longer recall, he’d had the ability to hear a chord and instantly hear a melody in his head. He could easily imagine the bare bones of a song, the chorus, the bridge. But in the last two months, he’d imagined . . . nothing.
Everett Alden, the lead singer of Tuesday’s End, heard nothing.
Brennan put his guitar aside and fell onto the bed beside the bag of chips. He closed his eyes, saw himself on stage, heard the melody of one of their greatest hits, “Dream Maker,” as an acoustic number in his head. He’d written every bit of that song—the melody, the lyrics. Chance had tweaked the rhythm of it, but mostly, it was Brennan’s creation. It had stayed at the top of the charts for more than a year. He was the architect of that massive hit, and now, he couldn’t even dredge up a few chords.
Yeah, he was going to get the fuck out of here.
He was going to find his laptop in this mess and Google the Canary Islands. He turned his head on the pillow and looked across the room. He didn’t know where the laptop was, actually.
He’d do it tomorrow.
Brennan sat up and looked down at his disgusting bed. It just seemed like everything required so much effort . He drank more beer, brooded more. He wrote a few things in a notebook, tried to read.
He didn’t know when sleep drifted over him, but it was the sound of a buzz saw that startled him awake. He sat up with a jolt; weak sunlight was
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