Night shifts black

“The day you came to breakfast club,” I recall, and he nods.

“Believe me, I was in shock he not only let me in when I showed up, but let me stay the night. It was a short honeymoon, as you saw, but at least we started talking again.” He shrugs. “He invited me to his party, right?”

“He loves you,” I say, squeezing his hand. “He does, he just hates himself too much to let anyone love him back.”

He grunts. “I know. I mean, most of the time I know. It’s hard to believe that sometimes, but I try to keep hoping he’ll let me back in at some point. I don’t know how to help him if he doesn’t.”

Casey’s phone starts buzzing, completely startling us, and he glances at the screen. He curses and gives me an apologetic look.

“I should take this. Sorry, give me a minute?” he asks, and I offer him my most forgiving smile. I have plenty to absorb anyway.

I watch his face as he answers and gets to his feet.

“Yeah. Wait, what? Why would you do that?” Casey cries, clearly exasperated, and rubs his hand over his face. “No, I know. I just…yeah…Yes, I know where he is. I’m with him now. No, it’s not…Because he’s not ready!...I don’t know, I’ll figure something out…Dammit, TJ, I told you I know! I’m working on it! …Ok, yeah…Ok…just don’t…no…I know...ok, just don’t call him again, ok? Call me if you need anything. Me, not him!…ok…yeah, ok. You, too.”

Casey hangs up with a curse and shakes his head. “What an idiot,” he mutters.

He gives me another apologetic look. “Sorry about that.” He takes a deep breath. “You know, sometimes I think I wish my life was more shallow, but then I talk to TJ. He always snaps me out of it.”

“TJ?”

“Our Manager.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…He’s awesome at what he does it’s just unfortunately all he does. He tried to call Luke.”

My eyes widen. “Oh…”

“Yeah.”

He glances toward the hall as if expecting Luke to come marching down in a fury. He sighs.

“We have four months before our next tour and they want at least three new tracks. We should be releasing an entire album and building the tour around that, but they know that’s not going to happen. They’re ok releasing the album next year if we can have some new material now.”

“But without Luke…”

Casey shakes his head. “I don’t know, Callie. I honestly don’t. I mean, I’ve got some ideas, but…”

“Maybe I can help.”

“What?”

I cringe. I don’t even know what I’m saying. It’s that darn instinct again. “I mean, I’ve never written a song before, but I write a ton of poetry. Is it a lot different?”

I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. Especially, after our blow up earlier over their teasing, but his skepticism is all over his face. It hurts, but I can’t really blame him. It would be like a med student offering to do open-heart surgery on the President.

“Well, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, it’s just, I mean, it’s not that easy. There’s a lot of politics to songwriting. The band, the Label, legal stuff…”

“Ok, so we don’t write for Night Shifts Black. We just write to have something to do while we hang out and try to find you some inspiration.”

His face changes. “Really? You’d do that?”

I shrug. “Of course. I mean, it’s not like I do anything else with my writing. No one’s ever even read it.”

He seems shocked by that. “Wait, what? You’ve never shared your stuff?”

I shrug again. “I never really thought about it. I write because it’s part of me, but I could never actually be a real writer.”

“Why?”

His question is almost fu

“Why? I don’t know, because that’s not realistic. You don’t just get to ‘be a writer’ because you like to write.”

I can tell he’s confused, and I’m starting to get irritated. Of course he doesn’t understand. He’s a superstar. He got his dream and lives in a world where he can do whatever he wants because of who he is. That’s not reality for the rest of us.

“Don’t get mad, I’m just not understanding what you’re saying,” he defends, and I hadn’t realized my thoughts were so transparent. “You like to write, so write. Why do you have to put labels and expectations on it?”

I swallow. It’s an excellent point. I’m not sure how to counter it.

“Show me something,” he says, not giving me the chance to continue the debate.

“What?”

“I want to see something you’ve written. I saw you come with a bag yesterday. You have to have something in there.”

“Oh, you know writers so well?”

He laughs. “I am a writer.”

He jumps up and disappears down the hall, returning a few seconds later with his own bag. “I kept my stuff in the office,” he explains. He fishes through the main section and pulls out a notebook. “I do all my serious stuff on the computer, but carry this for any spurts of unexpected inspiration.”

I swallow. I do the same thing.

He hands the book to me, and I accept it with a shocked sense of reverence. Am I really holding a portal into the mind of a world-class musician and celebrity? I can’t believe he’s willing to show me this, and I realize how much he must trust me. I doubt this happens often.

I start paging through the priceless notes, gazing at line after line of words and scribbles. I don’t recognize a lot of them and assume it’s some kind of musical shorthand.

“I know. It’s kind of a mess. I hear the music in my head but it’s hard to get it down exactly right without my guitar or piano, so I just make notes to myself for later.”

“I thought you played drums.”

He laughs. “I do. I also play guitar, keyboard, and violin. Well, with any skill, anyway. I dabble in a bunch of others, but those are my main ones.”

“Then you probably sing, too,” I muse. Actually, he probably rescues puppies and climbs mountains and discovers new atomic elements also, but we can save that for another conversation.

He shrugs. “Yeah, a little. We back Luke up at the live shows.”

“What’s this one?” I ask, turning the page so he can see.

“Oh, that’s actually the rough outline for ‘Fourth Chair.’”

“Wait, I think I know that one! It’s about an orchestra or something.”

He snickers. “It’s about realizing your dreams don’t always match reality and accepting what is. That the world owes you nothing and will kick you in the face if you live like you think it does.”

I nod, impressed, and trace over the sloppy letters, numbers, and drawings on the page.

“You’re nothing but a fourth chair, baby. Forget the lights, your day ain’t coming. Roses are red but they’re not for you, just remember they die for the first chair too.”

I grin, and glance up at him with a new admiration. “I thought Luke was the lyric king.”

He returns it and seems almost shy. “He is. I just happen to have the orchestra background,” he jokes.

“I guess. But apparently, you weren’t very good,” I tease, and he grins.

“At organized accompaniment? No. Not at all. My parents withdrew me from orchestra after a couple years, but I’m pretty sure the conductor didn’t give them a choice. No matter how good you are, you eventually have to fall in line. I guess I just didn’t always agree with the musical decisions of Strauss and Mozart.”

I laugh, totally believing that. “So you switched to drums and became a rocker.”

“Well, it wasn’t that easy of a transition, believe me, but ultimately, yes. My parents were not on board. I can assure you of that. I was kid number seven, so according to the plan I was supposed to be a concert violinist.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really? Then who was supposed to be the drummer in a disgustingly successful rock band?”