Each footstep between her room and the studio seems to get me nowhere, until it takes an entire year to walk that single hallway between the messy quarters of the house and the fancy part.
I belong in the messy part.
Instead of stopping in Ryder’s office, he opens the door to the sound room.
He has a small setup, which he’d need being a one-man producer and sound engineer. But if listening to Cash’s new song showed me anything, it’s that Ryder doesn’t need anyone else in here with him.
“Have you ever been in a studio before?”
“Only the ones on campus at Montebello. That’s where all my current demos are from. But a professional one? Once. When I was, like, ten. My dad bought me and my siblings an hour so we could lay down a track together and be like him.”
“Oh, your dad’s an artist?” Ryder asks.
I avert my gaze and stare into the intimidating studio. “Was. And not a very good one. He didn’t get far even though he tried. He desperately tried.”
“What does he do now?”
I frown. “He, uh, died. On tour. He was playing guitar for some B-list band. He might not have made it huge, but he lived like he had. Mom begged him to give up that lifestyle, but it killed him before he did.”
This used to hurt to talk about but not anymore. I carry a lot of reservations around because of it, but I’m no longer angry.
“It’s a more common thing than people make it out to be in this industry,” Ryder says. “It’s why when Eleven was together, we had people whose job it was to make sure we didn’t do that shit. Liver failure or overdose?”
“Heart attack, actually. From all the coke. I always remembered him being cool as fuck because he was a rock star. Never mind that we had no money and were living off food stamps. We still saw him as a role model. Someone who worked hard because he was always gone. I wanted to be exactly like him growing up, and then after getting accepted into Montebello and having my heart set on there, Mom sat me down and told me the truth. About everything. How he struggled with drugs and depression. How the industry chewed him up and spat him back out. How each time he came home a different person with a different image until she didn’t know who she was married to anymore.”
“The rock star life definitely isn’t family-friendly.”
“Anyway, she doesn’t want me to end up just like him. It’s why I want to be careful going into this. It’s why I rarely drink and don’t party. I just want to make music and try not to lose myself along the way.”
Ryder nods slowly. “Is that also the reason why you refuse to conform to what labels want?”
May as well lay it all out there now. “My dad was told so many times that he’d get a record deal if he changed his image, his sound, his everything, and he was so desperate to hit it big that he did it. And then he still couldn’t get signed. He ended up playing for a lot of biggish names, but always in the background as a backup singer or guitarist.”
“I know the empty promises well. And everything makes a whole lot more sense to me now.”
I crack a smile. “You thought I was pigheaded and stubborn because I’m super pretentious, am I right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Can’t blame you. I am those things, but only because I have reason to be. I love music, but I also resent it. I’m a complicated guy.”
Ryder takes a seat in his producer chair and pulls up a second chair for me. “Then let’s try to work through those complications. Before we record anything, I want to get a feel for what your sound is seeing as you’re picky about it.”
“I’m not picky. I’m …”
“Particular? Fussy? A pain in every label’s ass?”
I’m about to get angry when his pouty lips thin out as a smile spreads across his gorgeous face.
“I’m joking. Sort of. The labels will see you like that, but I admire your determination to stick to your principles. We used to complain about our lack of creative freedom a lot but sucked it up in the end and did what the label wanted us to. We figured if we didn’t, our songs wouldn’t be released and we’d never be famous.”
“I want fame, but not like that.”
Ryder leans back in his seat. “I’m only going to say this once, and you’re not going to like it, but I’m telling you now that while your heart is in the right place, you have to be okay with possibly never getting the recognition you crave. Because if you’re not getting heard at all …”
“If a tree falls in the woods but no one’s there to hear it, did it really happen? You’re going with that bullshit?”
He laughs. “I guess I am.”
“I think I can be marketable and there’re people out there who’ll want to listen to what I have to say, but at the same time, if I never make it as myself, I’ll be fine to accept that. Like I said—”
“You want fame as yourself or not at all. Thought you’d say that, but I wanted to be sure.” Ryder takes a pen and paper out of a drawer and puts it on his lap. “So what is your sound?”
My mouth feels dry all of a sudden. “Umm …”
“If you can’t even tell me what your sound is, we have bigger problems.”
“No, I can. It’s kinda eclectic.”
“Who are your influences?”
I’ve got nothing. Like, my mind is blank.
“You said you sang Imagine Dragons for your audition, right?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“So them. Who else?”
“Sound Garden. Audioslave. Uh, Three Days Grace.” I rattle off some more names, and with each one, Ryder’s frown grows deeper.
“Any recent influences?”
“Are you calling me old?”
“No, but I’m wondering why all the bands you want to be like are older than you. There’s a reason the alternative rock scene isn’t big lately.”
“You’re doing the judgy thing again and sounding a hell of a lot like a label exec.”
“Sorry.” He does not sound sorry.
“If you want me to name popular shit, I guess I could live with bands like the Lumineers. Sheppard. Mumford and Sons.”
“That helps. What about Hozier? I bet you could bring the house down with ‘Take Me to Church.’”
“Too mainstream.”
“Too mainstream,” Ryder murmurs. “Do you mean that because it lived in the top forty for what felt like forever? Because given the content, it’s surprising it did so well for so long. It basically crucifies religion.”
“Yeah, but it’s so … I don’t know. Obvious? Cliché?”
“You really need to relearn the definition of cliché. Truly listen.” Ryder starts singing, and I’m taken aback.
Like, seriously, he says he’s jealous of my talent?
Who knew that when he’s not being drowned out by four other voices, Ryder can actually sing? Logically, I should have known, but it’s easy to assume all the wrong things when he’s famous for nothing else other than being in Eleven.
I’m mesmerized as he sings the song effortlessly.
I never connected with the sexual undertones of this song before. The whole song is about sexuality and religion, but the full-on vision of Ryder on his knees begging to see God through sex is, umm, inspiring.