Sing Your Heart Out

1 Smith Cody looks at me out of the corner of my eye as we drive. He doesn’t say anything, but the weight of his considering gaze makes me jumpy. “What?” I ask, glancing at him. He’s in the driver’s seat, his black t-shirt and black jeans clashing starkly modern against the blue suede interior of the old truck. He shrugs, not looking right at me. “Just wondering if you’re doing the right thing. I mean, taking yourself out of the band is one thing. But moving to Vegas to be in some hippie writing commune?” He snorts. “There have got to be better ways to deal with your writing block.” “Here we go again,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Look, I know what you think, okay? You think that I just need to meet someone and then I’ll magically be able to write songs again. And I’m telling you, man. That won’t fix what’s broken with me.” Cody shifts in his seat, looking out the window at the suburbs of Las Vegas. Everything here is new construction, all blending seamlessly with the desert. Once in a while, I see a bright blue flash of a pool in an open yard. “Alright, man. I’m not trying to hassle you. It’s just… what will the band do without you?” I blow out a breath, rubbing my palms against my jeans. “What good was I doing the band back in LA? What good is a songwriter that doesn’t write songs?” Cody rolls his eyes. “I think you didn’t give yourself enough time. After a break up as dramatic as yours and Alex's, there are bound to be a lot of things that shift around. You just gotta… you know… roll with the punches or whatever for a while.” I look down at my phone. The screen is silently navigating us toward a blue dot. “Take a right up here.” I pull a face. “And just so you know, I did take time. It’s been six weeks since Alex and I broke up. I need to face facts: Alex might have been a toxic person, but hell if her presence didn’t make me a better writer.” He c***s his head to the side. “Half the guys in the band were afraid of her. The other half cheated on you with her. She was a trash person, man.” I let out a sigh. “I know. Take a left up here, Cody.” He does as I ask, but he is clearly not very happy with the situation. “How long are you going to be out here for again?” Reaching into my bag on the back seat, I unfurl the sheets of paper that I received, letting me know that I was chosen. “Mmm… it says here that the program is four weeks long. At the end, the winner of the songwriter’s contest receives a big cash bonus and like a hundred and fifty hours of studio time. Which I plan to spend on the band…” “Dude, that’s like… two albums!” Cody says. “I know. See? I’m not crazy to be doing this. Even if it is way out here in the middle of nowhere.” I look down again. “It’s going to be on the next block, on our right side.” He shifts in his seat again and sighs. “If you’re sure…” Am I sure? Glancing out my window at the large McMansions we pass, I twist the papers in my hands again. What the hell else am I supposed to do? I’m so creatively blocked. I actually found this contest online while I was looking for a songwriter’s retreat… So at least this way, I will have the chance to earn some money and some recording hours, rather than lining someone else’s pocket. I get the chance to win something on my own, maybe prove to myself that I don’t need Alex or anyone else in my corner. And the studio that is putting on the contest just wins the rights to publish any music that comes out of this month in the desert. Fair enough, especially if it works. Something has to change, one way or another, and it has to happen soon. “Hey, I think this is the place,” Cody says with a nod. I look where he’s nodding. A tall McMansion, twice as wide as the others. And draped across the weedy yard is a banner. “WELCOME SING YOUR HEART OUT 2020 CONTESTANTS” it declares. “I’d imagine you are right,” I say. Cody pulls up to the curb, right behind a large black SUV. I look at him, my brows rising. “Thanks for the ride, man.” I offer him a fist, and he taps it with his own fist. “Of course, man. Want help grabbing your luggage?” I shake my head, opening the door. Instantly, heat flares up, invading the cool interior of the truck. “Nah. I’ll call you if I can’t stand it here or something.” He waves his hand at the heat filtering into his truck. “Okay. Sounds good.” I grab my backpack off the back seat, then slide out. After slamming the door, I grab my suitcase and my guitar case from the bed of the truck. With a brief honk, Cody pulls out and heads down the road. I’m left looking at the house. The house is basic beige stucco, the windows pristinely white. It’s two enormous stories and obviously brand spanking new; there are even some pieces of film yet to be removed from the upstairs windows. I try to think of whether I’ve ever lived in any place as new as this house. I don’t think so… As I stand here, the front door opens. A middle aged couple step outside, big grins plastered across their faces. “Hello there!” the woman calls. The man darts out, waving me closer. “Come on inside! No reason to stand out here getting sunstroke. You’re the third one here.” I pull my suitcase along and adjust my grip on my guitar case. “Yeah, thanks.” “I’m Dee,” the woman says. She’s dressed in jeans and a neon pink SING YOUR HEART OUT 2020 contest t-shirt. She points to her counterpart. “This is my brother, Dwayne. We are running this contest for Heartstroke Studios, hoping to find a new crop of songwriters!” “Smith,” I say, shaking her hand. “Sam Smith.” She hustles us inside the house. I pause to look around, finding myself in the coolly marbled entryway. To the left and right, stairs arch gracefully, though where they lead to remains unknown. Straight ahead I can make out a colossal kitchen. “You can leave your bags here for the moment,” Dwayne says. “If you’ll just follow me, I can introduce you to the other arrivals.” After a moment of hesitation, I leave my guitar case and luggage in the foyer. I keep my backpack close though, because it has my notebooks and all of my personal s**t inside. Dee is already heading down the hall, so I nod and follow her, trying not to notice the fact that I’m easily over a foot taller than either her or Dwayne. I’m used to being the biggest guy in the room most places. When I emerge into the huge downstairs room, there’s almost too much to look at. To my right is a state of the art kitchen, shiny and chrome with baby blue accents. A gray-haired woman in her forties sips from a mug as she examines me coolly; she’s dressed like a biker, leather and heavy boots. “This is Mellie,” Dwayne crows. “She’s from New Mexico.” She looks like she’s been baked under the sun for twenty years. I nod my head in greeting and she does the same. To my left, there is an open concept living room with sleek gray couches and matching chairs. There is a studio room at the far end, the red recording light off for now. “Here, come meet Marco,” Dee says, waving me toward the patio at the back. She hurries on and swings open the white French doors ahead of me. Shivering a little as the air conditioning recedes, I shade my gaze against the reflection off the water. Half the backyard is a crystal clear pool, the aqua water and gray cement standing out against the red brick that surrounds the back yard. “Marco!” Dee yells, cupping her hands around her mouth. I notice then that a smooth shape ripples near the deep end. A man surfaces, his skin as brown as a chestnut, his hair and eyes like coal. He’s a small person, probably only just over five foot in total. He grins, his teeth so white they are almost blinding. “You called, Miss Dee?” His voice is too high pitched to be likable; I’ve only heard him say four words and already I want to tell him to stop. He swaggers out of the pool, grabbing a towel. “Marco, this is Sam,” Dee introduces me. “Uh-uh,” I say, shaking my head. “Call me Smith.” I offer him my hand. He looks at it for a long moment, then gives me a measured gaze. He takes my hand for a second, then drops it like it’s a hot potato. “Marco. I am planning on being the winning songwriter, so there is really no need to be friendly.” He speaks with a little bit of a Hispanic accent. My eyebrows rise. I wipe my hand on my pants, narrowing my gaze on Marco. “Is that right?” Marco rubs the towel over his face and rolls his eyes. “That is right. I am not here to make friends. I am here to win. Except for Miss Dee here of course, I definitely want to be her friend.” He wiggles his eyebrows and blows a few kisses her way. Dee turns pink and waves him off. “He’s terrible,” she says. “You can’t listen to a thing he says.” But she obviously likes the attention, because she stays and talks with Marco even when I roll my eyes and start to walk away. “I do not know why you do not just declare the winner of the contest right now,” Marco calls. I pause, looking back to him with an arched brow. He grins. “I have two Latin Grammys. What do you have, eh? Nothing!” He laughs. I’m the lead singer and songwriter of the Keepers. We have two studio albums and we have toured with the Raconteurs and Muse. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it, but I don’t. I can’t. Not when half of my songs began in Alex’s notebook, scraped scraps of poems. My fists tighten. I turn around, eyeing him from the top of his head to his feet on the pavement. “If you are so great, Marco, then why are you here? Hmm? If you are so talented, why doesn’t Dee just take you for what you are?” Marco’s smile disappears. “It is complicated.” “Ah.” I nod sagely. “I understand perfectly. You are all talk, but no actual game.” My lips curve upwards into a smile. “It’ll be a pleasure competing against you, you little— “ He launches himself at me with a roar. I’m more than happy to rough him up a little bit, but I think that I read absolutely no violence in the house rules. Dwayne appears out of nowhere to step between us, his ire up. “Dee! Come here and get your man!” He stops Marco, throwing me a look over his shoulder. “Head inside, please.” I shrug a shoulder and turn, doing as he commands. Dee, Dwayne, and Marco have a whispered conversation that I would like to listen to, but I just keep walking. Mellie hasn’t moved an inch. She still sips from her mug, looking at me as if I’m the problem here. “What?” I ask. “Keep walking, stranger.” She sets down her mug and proceeds to ignore me entirely. I sigh and head back towards where I left my luggage. There are a lot of rooms left to claim and a lot of people yet to arrive.