Crocodile Tears_A Boy Meets Girl Story by Daya Daniels

Author:Daya Daniels [Daniels, Daya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sayad Books
Published: 2017-03-29T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

Zane

The last few shows went smoothly but everything seemed like it was a haze for me. Interviews, appearances, parties, performances, writing, recording. Each day went by with lightning speed.

We’d been travelling for the last month—state to state. Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, and Michigan. I sit here in the studio and it takes me a minute to remember what city I’m in. What day is it? What time is it? Fuck.

I’m in the Winterland Recording Studios in Minneapolis, Minnesota. That’s it.

I scrub my face with my hands and place my elbows on the mixing board in front of me. I’m exhausted and my lip is split from the most recent fist fight I had with Cash a few nights before. Hopefully, he can see out of his right eye today. I haven’t seen the fucktard and have no desire to.

Dexter sits in the recording booth, holding an acoustic guitar in his hands. “I think this works, man,” he says strumming the chords. “It sounds crazy good.”

I chuckle.

“Where’s the songs Cash said he was writing?”

I throw my hands up in disinterest.

“He hasn’t written them, has he?” Dexter laughs.

I only shake my head.

A knock to the door brings my attention to the monitors. I groan when I see Barry’s fat face. I hit the intercom. “What do you want?”

Barry looks up into the camera. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“I’m working.”

Barry drops his head. “Zane, I need to discuss a few things with you.”

“I’m working!” I roar.

“Fuck, then. Fine,” Barry says curtly and disappears.

“Greedy, fat fuck,” I mumble underneath my breath, grabbing the Gibson telecaster and heading over to where Dexter sits.

He giggles and runs his hands over his face. “I wish I could help, man, really.”

“You are helping. You’re here.”

“I’m no songwriter. I play bass and a few other instruments but you know I’m no songwriter.”

“It’s cool.”

“We almost have a whole album here.”

“Yeah, I know. The only thing that asshole needs to do now, is come and sing the fucking words. He won’t like the songs. I don’t know for sure yet but I can tell you he won’t like the songs, just to spite me.”

“Fuck him,” Dexter says. “Cash is crazy. What the fuck was that fight about the other night anyways? I was tempted to get in the middle but I know the two of you.”

Cash and I had a long history of not getting along, then getting along and then not getting along again. It wouldn’t have been in Dexter’s best interest to get in the middle because if Cash had hurt him, I couldn’t guarantee there wouldn’t have been a murder committed. This is what we did. We fought and we made up, over and over, but nothing could save Cash from Cash. He was his own worst enemy.

Cash had won the Loudwire Music Award two years in a row for best vocalist of the year. The guy had a gift, from drumming up the crowd to hitting notes that sometimes seemed impossible. He had an exceptional voice.

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