Chapter Two
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My stomach is in knots after reading the reviews on our latest album. It’s almost two in the morning, and none of us can sleep. Things are not going well, and the pouring rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows doesn’t help my crappy mood.
“What’s up with this weather?” I grumble. “It’s been raining for three days straight.”
Theo looks up at me from where he’s sprawled on the sofa. “That’s global warming for you. Our planet is our most precious resource, and we’re slowly destroying it.”
“Fuck, that’s deep!” Noah snorts.
Theo never takes anything seriously, which makes his words all the more surprising. He and Noah could be brothers, with their rich skin tone and dark eyes and hair, although Theo wears his long and messy whereas Noah’s is short and neatly styled.
We’re all around 6’3, but I’m the odd one out with my blond hair and blue eyes, inherited from an absent mother. I have no idea if I resemble my father.
“Think I’m gonna become a missionary once our journey on the fame train is over,” Theo says thoughtfully.
Noah bursts out laughing. “Theo Jameson? A missionary? Give me a fucking break!”
“Judging by these reviews,” I shake my phone at them, “our journey could be over sooner than we planned.”
Noah’s smile drops away. “No te preocupes,” he says, reverting to his native tongue. “Todo estará bien.”
“I am worried. And how do you know everything’s gonna be okay? We need to take this seriously, or we won’t be able to pay for this place,” I say, spreading my arms wide to indicate the luxurious split-level condo overlooking the Hudson River.
“Maybe we should downsize,” Theo suggests. “I mean, do we really need six bedrooms, eight bathrooms, an indoor pool, and a Jacuzzi?”
“Fuck, yeah! I love the Jacuzzi,” Noah pipes up.
I sure as hell don’t need all the trappings. Like Theo and Noah, I grew up dirt poor in a group foster home with a social worker who should never have been allowed anywhere near kids. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven when we hit the big time, and the money started rolling in, but all the luxuries in the world can’t fill the void of loneliness inside me. Sure, I have Theo and Noah, who are like my brothers, but it still feels like something is missing. Like someone is missing.
“How are you getting along with the new music?” I ask Noah.
He grimaces. “I’m working on it.”
“What’s the hold-up?”
“It’s just not flowing,” he replies with a shrug.
Theo holds up his phone. “One of the newspapers is saying we’re washed up.”
Fucking great!
“Welcome to the music industry, where you’re only as good as your last hit,” Noah says with uncharacteristic cynicism.
“We need a new lyricist,” I announce.
“We can’t fire our lyricist again. He’s the third one in three years,” Theo points out.
“Exactly!” I state. “Which means they don’t get us, don’t get our sound or what we’re about. The only one who did is the person who wrote ‘Better Than Me.’”
“Won us a Grammy, and we have no fucking idea who it is,” Theo says with a grimace. “No one ever came forward to claim royalties.”
“We need to put out a call to action, see if we can find out who it is. Maybe call our first publicist, see if she can track them down,” Noah suggests.
“Do you know how many wack jobs that would bring out of the woodwork?” I scoff.
“What have we got to lose?’ Noah asks. ‘We might just find a new lyricist who understands what we want, someone who’ll get our creative juices flowing again.”