Read Online The Devil of Echo Lake by Douglas Wynne - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Wynne
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That’s you. Lyrics and melody. You can’t copyright a drum part, a chord progression or a guitar sound. So when you write a hit song that could do well enough to buy a nice house, why should you have to give a quarter of a million dollars to some bass player who happened to be in the room when inspiration struck? It’s your melody someone hums when it’s stuck in their head, your words they remember. Perhaps even your pain that gave it life.” There was something harrowing in the way Rail pronounced the word pain , some resonant overtone that vibrated in the air between them like a rope snapping taut. Billy felt a hollowness in his stomach, a tightness in his throat.
“I haven’t written any hit songs.”
“Sure you have.”
Rail turned to the mini-bar, took out a bottle of Bacardi and poured two shots. He pressed a switch with his right forefinger. The nail was long for a man's, but immaculately manicured. The little window behind him slid down and he told the driver to take them back to Manhattan. The way he said the word made it sound like an enchanted island kingdom. Then he raised his glass to “catastrophic success.”
Billy didn’t know what to say, so he drank.
He wondered if Rail was for real, or if he was some kind of moneyed pervert, willing to drop some cash on whatever props would help him to seduce young men he’d taken notice of. With a little homework, a smooth talker could play on your hopes and dreams long enough to get you off your guard. And the guy sure could talk. He talked about who he knew at each of the majors and how much money Billy could expect in a bidding war.
He went on about the psychology of A&R men and how they were like hot women who expected the talent to grovel at their feet because they held the keys to the kingdom, but in reality, behind that power dynamic, they really only ever wanted someone if they thought they couldn’t have him.
Ever in fear of losing their jobs, they made most of their decisions by looking at what the competition seemed interested in. He knew who had engineered all of Billy’s favorite records and what those guys were working on now, and who was in rehab, and which Rolling Stone writer would favor you if you let him blow you. The guy was for real.
Billy hadn’t eaten anything in about six hours, and the Bacardi went straight to his head. By the time the limo passed through Hartford, he was sold. His ship had come in. By almost diverting his destiny, had he somehow forced God’s hand? His ego bloomed, watered by alcohol and ambition. He couldn’t wait to tell Kate.
At the thought of her, he sobered a little. “Wait, why are we going to New York?”
Rail laughed. “To pluck you out of the brackish backwaters of the industry, for starters.”
“But nobody knows where I am. When I don’t show up at two in the morning with the other guys, my girlfriend will be worried.”
Rail's mouth twisted, trembled on the verge of laughter. Billy asked him what was so funny.
Shaking his head, Rail poured more rum. The grin melted back into his handsome face as he handed Billy the glass. Billy took it, but didn’t drink, just stared at Rail, waiting for him to answer the question until, unable to hold the man’s unblinking gaze any longer, he had to look away at the first thing his eyes could focus on—the bat logo on the bottle. The silence spun out. When Billy glanced up again, Rail was still staring at him like a dog establishing dominance, the red lava undulating in his black pupils.
Trevor Rail spoke softly. Billy had to lean in to make out the words over the hum of the engine. “Don’t kid yourself, Billy. You weren’t concerned about Kate an hour ago, when I found you on the bridge. That’s when I knew you were ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To leave them all in your wake. Everyone who’s been holding you back.”
“Kate’s not holding me back. Wait, how do you know her name?”
Rail’s mouth twitched, a flicker of that
“I haven’t written any hit songs.”
“Sure you have.”
Rail turned to the mini-bar, took out a bottle of Bacardi and poured two shots. He pressed a switch with his right forefinger. The nail was long for a man's, but immaculately manicured. The little window behind him slid down and he told the driver to take them back to Manhattan. The way he said the word made it sound like an enchanted island kingdom. Then he raised his glass to “catastrophic success.”
Billy didn’t know what to say, so he drank.
He wondered if Rail was for real, or if he was some kind of moneyed pervert, willing to drop some cash on whatever props would help him to seduce young men he’d taken notice of. With a little homework, a smooth talker could play on your hopes and dreams long enough to get you off your guard. And the guy sure could talk. He talked about who he knew at each of the majors and how much money Billy could expect in a bidding war.
He went on about the psychology of A&R men and how they were like hot women who expected the talent to grovel at their feet because they held the keys to the kingdom, but in reality, behind that power dynamic, they really only ever wanted someone if they thought they couldn’t have him.
Ever in fear of losing their jobs, they made most of their decisions by looking at what the competition seemed interested in. He knew who had engineered all of Billy’s favorite records and what those guys were working on now, and who was in rehab, and which Rolling Stone writer would favor you if you let him blow you. The guy was for real.
Billy hadn’t eaten anything in about six hours, and the Bacardi went straight to his head. By the time the limo passed through Hartford, he was sold. His ship had come in. By almost diverting his destiny, had he somehow forced God’s hand? His ego bloomed, watered by alcohol and ambition. He couldn’t wait to tell Kate.
At the thought of her, he sobered a little. “Wait, why are we going to New York?”
Rail laughed. “To pluck you out of the brackish backwaters of the industry, for starters.”
“But nobody knows where I am. When I don’t show up at two in the morning with the other guys, my girlfriend will be worried.”
Rail's mouth twisted, trembled on the verge of laughter. Billy asked him what was so funny.
Shaking his head, Rail poured more rum. The grin melted back into his handsome face as he handed Billy the glass. Billy took it, but didn’t drink, just stared at Rail, waiting for him to answer the question until, unable to hold the man’s unblinking gaze any longer, he had to look away at the first thing his eyes could focus on—the bat logo on the bottle. The silence spun out. When Billy glanced up again, Rail was still staring at him like a dog establishing dominance, the red lava undulating in his black pupils.
Trevor Rail spoke softly. Billy had to lean in to make out the words over the hum of the engine. “Don’t kid yourself, Billy. You weren’t concerned about Kate an hour ago, when I found you on the bridge. That’s when I knew you were ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To leave them all in your wake. Everyone who’s been holding you back.”
“Kate’s not holding me back. Wait, how do you know her name?”
Rail’s mouth twitched, a flicker of that
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