Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell
Chapter 16
Viktor Farrow
Three red-eyed guys came in dragging their arses one by one, some still reeking of alcohol. The producer and sound engineer had been waiting, along with me, for the rest of my band to show their faces for the past fifteen minutes.
“Mates, I hope you don’t play as badly as you look.” I leaned back on my stool, remembering the hundreds, maybe thousands, of hangovers I’d had in the past. I certainly don’t miss those days.
A few mumbled apologies and they set to tuning their instruments or reviewing notes.
After we found our rhythm, we practiced and recorded the material I’d pre-selected for the new album. Several songs would be cut, but that always happened.
One late-afternoon break then I returned. Fueled by caffeine and a delectable buffet delivered by local caterers, I took a breath to calm the nervous energy flowing in my veins.
Well, here goes nothing.
“Before you get too settled, I want to test something.” I handed copies of a piece I’d arranged last night when I couldn’t sleep because Angela’s face—delighted at first then pained—haunted my dreams. For three hours, I’d fine-tuned the lyrics and created rudimentary chords. “Think we can give it a go?”
My drummer, Alan, took the paper and frowned. “Viktor, I thought we were going to…” His eyes widened as he scanned the music. “This is really good. A smidge different from your normal style, but it’s deep.”
Turning to the others, I lifted a brow. “Gentlemen, think you can follow, maybe improvise in areas that need tweaking?”
Both nodded, the keyboardist scratching his chin while Justin squinted at the paper as if he were already playing the notes in his head.
“Good.” Retrieving my guitar, I strapped it on and strummed the opening chords, repeating them until they felt natural. I leaned into the microphone and lowered my voice, pouring out my uncertainty, my intrigue, and my heart into Angela’s song.
When we finished, only silence filled the studio. Through the window, the engineers stared, and I wasn’t sure if it was a good stare or a bad stare.
“So, is it horrible?” I chuckled and shifted my feet, the faint flutters of nerves settling in my stomach, expanding into a twisting ball. I never get nervous, so why now?
“God, Viktor,” Alan said. “That was fucking brilliant. Where did you get the idea for the chorus? And the lyrics…” He let out a soft whistle. “Does this have anything to do with the hot little DJ from last night?”
Scowling, I twisted on my stool to view him fully. “How do you fucking know about that?” When Clive and I left, the crowd was still small, so surely word didn’t travel that fast.
“Hello.” He held up his phone and shook it back and forth. “It’s all over the place. You been living under a rock, mate?”
Fucking social media. I rarely checked my newsfeeds since I had a PA and marketing team to keep up with that part of my career. I was always more than happy to let them take the load—I preferred to get my news the old-fashioned way through the telly.
“What does it say?” Did I really want to know, though? “Are they speculating how long I’ve stayed clean this time?” Pointless drivel always abounded when my name came up.
“No. Most people are curious about the DJ. It seems they’re digging up all kinds of dirt on her. Did you know the police were called to her house when she was married and domestic abuse charges were filed, but later dismissed?”
“What?” I snatched the phone from him and scrolled. Dozens of stories, most of them less than flattering, flooded the feed. I could handle gobshite about me because, at the end of the day, all publicity sold records. But my Angel? No, she doesn’t deserve this. Typical of me to worry about myself first, and not even consider what my attention on her might do to her career, her life, and her feelings.
Fear and uncertainty pooled in my veins, driving me to text Andy to get her mobile number. After a couple of minutes, I sent her a message.
Me: Angel, it’s Viktor. I want to apologize for last night. I’m a total shit.
I sat on the stool, hunched over like an old man, my eyes glued to the screen, waiting for those three dots to light up and show me she was responding.
Nothing. But I knew she’d seen my message.
“Hey, we gonna do the next set or what, Viktor?” Alan asked with a flamboyant tap on his cymbals.
“I’m rather busy at the moment.” I didn’t bother looking up, but I imagined them staring at each other in confusion. Fuck ’em. This is more important because there can’t be an Operation Angel Seducer if the angel won’t give me the time of day.
Me: Please. I’m sorry. Sometimes… Okay, most of the time, I’m a dick, I know, but I didn’t mean to put you in the spot you’re in now.
The little dots appeared, and I gripped the mobile tighter, dreading yet anticipating her response. Would she be pissed, pleased, or patronizing?
Angel: For the past six months, I’ve rebuilt myself one day at a time. In one night, Viktor Farrow, the British hurricane, came in and swept everything into the open, and now everyone thinks… Well, it doesn’t matter what they think, I guess.
Me: I swear I’m sorry. I’ll hunt every one of the bastards down and kill them. Just say the word.
Angel: Stay away, Viktor. I can’t take the turmoil, insecurity, and anxiety you bring into my life. I wish you well and hope your comeback is a success. I’m blocking your number after this text. Goodbye.
What in the bloody hell? Surely, she jested about blocking me. I tested the theory. After five messages and no response, agitation twisted in my veins. I’d said I was sorry, what more did she want? Flowers and chocolate? Fuck. I’d never bought a woman gifts before, and I’d never apologized, yet in the span of less than twenty-four hours, I’d groveled twice. What was happening to the God of Rock?
He’s becoming a fucking sap, that’s what’s happening.
I rang Clive. “Bring the car ’round. I need to get to K-ROC.”
“Okay, boss, but it’ll be an hour or so. They’re still detailing the SUV to get the piss smell out.”
I hung up and looked around the room, where everyone milled about, casting surreptitious glances my way. “Alan, give me the keys to your bike.”
“W-what?” He set down a drumstick and shoved his hand to a pocket. “Why?”
“Because I need to be somewhere in a hurry and don’t have time to wait.” I stalked toward him. “Now.”
His fingers pulled out a key fob, and he tossed it to me. “Just be careful with her, okay?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll buy you a new one if I put so much as a scratch on her.”
Face torn between concern and curiosity, he finally nodded.
“Wait.” The sound engineer pushed open the door. “We need to get this stuff hashed out. You’re contracted to—”
“We can work everything out tomorrow. Right now, I’ve got somewhere more important to be.” What was I saying? This album and subsequent tour were the most important thing for my career right now, so why was I jeopardizing this deal? Because I was worried about Angela? I’m losing my goddamn mind.
Ignoring the surly comments and unbelieving stares, I shouldered my way out of the studio and into the oven called Arizona, located the Harley, and revved it up. With a quick snap of the helmet on my head, I tore down the street and onto the lonely highway, angling directly for the shithole station from hell housing such a sweet, intriguing angel.
This is just an infatuation. That’s all. Which made total sense for my plan of seduction to work.
After all, I need to be attracted to make this delicious operation believable, right?