Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
“No, because we weren’t being paid to pretend to be a couple back then,” I snipe back.
Again, Savage shoots Kendrick that same pointed smile from earlier. Only this time, the gesture makes my stomach tighten. Did Kendrick tell Savage what’s going on between us, despite our agreement to keep mum about the situation?
“So, should we start the writing session now?” I ask with a clap of my palms. It’s a good idea for us to get going, regardless. The damned song’s not going to write itself. But I’m also feeling a strong urge to change the subject.
Everyone agrees we should get started, and Kai instructs everyone who’s got notes of any kind, whether on their phones or in a journal, to share with the group. It’s our usual process, taught to us by Kai himself years ago, back when he was the older, wiser music student, and the rest of us were excited little sponges.
“I’ve got an idea for a riff that might lead to something cool,” Titus offers. He grabs his guitar that’s leaning against the end of the couch and plays it, and everyone agrees it’s got potential. But since Titus never supplies lyrics or melodies, that’s all that happens for now. Unfortunately, though, only a long, awkward silence ensues after Titus’s guitar goes silent.
“Or maybe not,” Titus jokes.
“Sorry, man,” Savage says with a yawn. “It was cool. I think my brain is depleted right now.”
“No worries, we’ve got you,” Titus says. He looks at Kai. “Do you have anything for us?”
Kai shrugs. “Not really. I wrote a few things in my journal during the tour, but nothing all that great. Sorry, guys. Since we got back, my brain’s been pretty dead. Mostly, I’ve just been sleeping and smoking bowls.”
Our writing sessions don’t normally feel like pulling teeth. Normally, somebody has something exciting to contribute out of the gate. But then again, it’s not typical for us to come together this soon after a tour—and it’s certainly not normal for us to try to write a song we’re going to be performing, live, for the first time, in front of millions of people on TV.
“We can’t overthink it, guys,” I say, my heart rate increasing. “If we focus on the massiveness of the opportunity, we’ll never be able to write anything. Treat this like any other writing session. Throw in whatever ideas you’ve got, even embarrassing ones, because they might lead to something epic.” I glance at Kendrick, letting him know I’m hoping he might relent and throw “Spank” into the mix, despite his embarrassment about it. But when he shakes his head, confirming that’s not happening, I return to the group with an exhale. “Whoever’s got something to share, come on, let’s hear it.”
With another yawn, Savage pulls out his phone and starts scrolling—presumably to find something in whatever voice memos he might have recorded to himself—while Kai and I throw our physical notebooks into the pot and then start scrolling on our phones, too.
“Where’s your journal, KC?” Kai asks his brother.
“I didn’t write anything in it this time,” Kendrick murmurs. And nobody presses him on it, because, like Titus, it’s more typical for Kendrick to contribute musical ideas, or to add to something someone else has offered.
We spend the next hour or so brainstorming, sharing tepid ideas, riffs, and melodies. But nothing hits any of us like a ton of bricks, which is what we need for an opportunity this big.
When Kai expresses frustration, Titus says, “We could always do what Reed keeps begging us for.” There’s no need to explain; we all know Reed wants a sequel to “Hate Sex High.”
“A brazen money grab like that,” Kai says, “premiered to an audience this big, would probably go straight to number one.”
I take a bite from the charcuterie board. “But what would a sequel to ‘Hate Sex High’ even be about? Erotic asphyxiation?”
We all crack up.
“We could write a song called ‘Spank,’” Savage offers, looking straight at Kendrick. “That title would grab people’s attention, don’t you think, KC?”
As Kai expresses interest, I launch out of my seat, shouting, “Kendrick Cook! You swore you didn’t show those lyrics to anybody!”
“I didn’t,” Kendrick insists, shooting a death glare at Savage.
“Oh. Yeah. No, he didn’t,” Savage stammers. “I haven’t read any of it. I just saw the title when I glanced over his shoulder once, but he slammed his notebook shut before I could read anything else.”
“Same here!” I bellow, as Kai asks what the hell we’re talking about. “I only got to read the title and the first line before he snatched his precious journal away from me.”
“Guys, answer me,” Kai insists. “You’re saying Kendrick wrote a song called ‘Spank?’”
“Lyrics, yeah,” Savage confirms. “But he won’t let us see them.” He grins at Kendrick, who’s still shooting him daggers. “All we know is whatever he wrote is hot as fuck. Filthy, to the extreme. The filthiest thing you could ever possibly imagine. And Kendrick wrote the entire thing in one sitting.”