Worlds Apart

Chapter Nine

“My head is dying.”

The corner of Cash’s mouth twitched, but he managed to eye me with an impressive amount of professional disdain. Maybe he was a psychiatrist in another life. “You’re being over dramatic.”

Pulling a stupid face, I sunk down to the ground with my back against the rare square foot of wall, rubbing my throbbing temples.

It had been eighteen straight hours stuck in the studio with Cash. It was a miracle that my head hadn’t exploded.

There was a reason that even his beloved Theresa refused to work with him, though that was how they met. She once told me he was like a jack russell that bit down on any available surface. And it was true. Cash wasn’t exactly loose with the compliments, but he was very keen to rip apart everything that he didn’t like and those that he did, because he believed he could make them better that way.

Not many could fault him for that state of mind with the work he’d turned out, yet it didn’t make him the easiest producer to work with. I managed to hold my own against him since he’d been so helpful – and not quite as harsh – to me when I’d been younger. Plus I had the peace of mind to know that whatever criticism he was to hand me, I was good and not many things could make me doubt that. It didn’t hurt that once in a while I was thrown a compliment about being a genius, either.

Yet even I was having problems with being in the studio this long with him.

Maybe to illustrate how wearing it was to be in the studio with him or because I was feeling particularly sleep deprived – I really couldn’t be sure – I crawled forwards on my hands and knees until I was stretched face first into the dirty shag carpet. Closing my eyes, the reminder of what had gone on through history on this carpet didn’t bother me.

At least it was brown to hide the decay.

“Okay, now you’re just being ridiculous.”

Not bothering to look up, I spoke with my voice muffled against the carpet, “Dear, you’re just being mean.”

“Did you just call me dear?” he asked incredulously.

Making a face that couldn’t be seen, I replied, “Shut up.”

“And mean?”

I switched it up, and told him, “Screw off, dear.”

That only had him laughing, but it finally convinced me to get up, well, partially. I only managed to prop myself up on my elbows, cupping my chin in my hands as I looked up at him with eyebrows raised.

He was shaking his head ever so slightly as he organized the sheets of papers that we’d been slaving over for days. They were filled with reiterated lyrics and music jotted down neatly so – apparently – other people would be able to understand them, apparently. I’d thought my own rewriting of it was neat enough to suffice.

“You love me because I’m mean to you,” he informed me.

With my nose crinkling in disgust – and not about the carpet – I answered, “Make me sound like a masochist, why don’t you?”

Cash just laughed again, but didn’t reply immediately to me, instead busying himself by placing papers in his bag ever so methodically. I would have called him out on it, but that was something he was quite defensive about.

Having gotten bored watching him already, I rolled onto my back, resting my hands on my stomach as I looked to that yellow stained ceiling. So it meant that I had to tip myself back at quite an alarming degree to peer at him from beneath my eyelashes – my stomach muscles were protesting quite loudly.