Page 179 of Broken Lines

Because these aren’t just my songs anymore. They’reours—hers and mine. And every fucking word is wrapped around the memory of a smile or a kiss. Every chord or melody line is the soundtrack to a heated moment, or a stolen moan.

We wrote the soundtrack tous. I just don’t know what the fuck to do with it, now.

But those nine songs aren’t why I’m here tonight. Instead, in the low, dim light of just a strand of white string lights hung across the far wall of the studio, I reach for a notebook I haven’t managed to bring myself to evenopenin eleven years.

We were in the middle of recording an album when Iggy died. But that one was different. It wasn’t a bunch of songs we’d written months or even years before, and honed to perfection on the road, to live audiences.

For this one, Iggy was halfway through his fourth read-through of David Quantick’s book “Revolution”, about the Beatles and recording The White Album. And being the absolute Beatles nut that he was, Iggy wanted to try something different. No road-tested songs. For this one, the two of us were literally writing theminthe studio and letting them evolve as they were captured on tape.

We got about halfway through before it all went dark.

I still haven’t gotten myself to listen to any of those tracks—either the finished, polished ones that were album-ready, or the rough drafts of just Ig and I bashing out a chorus on a hot mic.

But there’s one song in particular I’ve always known was going to cut deep if I ever even thought of it again. There’s never been enough drugs or booze in the world to numb me enough to deal with that one.

But tonight, clean, sober, and without armor or walls, it’s time.

Tonight, I’m ready to finish Iggy’s last song;Oh Eleanor.

I smile tightly, nodding to no one as I reach for my guitar.

“Alright, you son of a bitch,” I grin. “If you were looking for a chance to haunt me or some shit, now would be a splendid time. Because I could use your help on this.”

I don’t know if Iggy hears me. But I do know that for the first time in longer than I can remember, when the pen touches paper, and when my fingers find metal strings, something justflows.

And it doesn’t stop.

It’s almost dawnby the time I stagger bleary-eyed out of the studio. I inhale the scent of New York, blinking back emotion as I look up at the dim light of morning with a smile on my face.

The song is done.

Thanks, Ig.

I stretch, cracking my neck before I turn to head over to my bike. But suddenly, something blocks my path.

Not something. Someone.

I frown at the girl with the wild red hair and the guitar case slung over her shoulder who plants herself between me and my motorcycle. Her eyes glare up at me defiantly as her lips thin.

I groan. Whatever the fuck this is, I amnotin the mood.

“Move,” I grunt.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting out here for you?”

I blow air through my lips as I bring a hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Look, I’m flattered. But, not interested? Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Wow.”

She shakes her head, her lips curling as she raises a sharp brow.

“Has anyone told you lately to get the fuck over yourself?”

I frown. “Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t waiting out here to because I have any remote interest in screwing a drunken has-been twice my age, thanks.”