Crash
As we all walk downstairs I'm still arguing with Eric about the timing of the song because he doesn't understand what I plan to do with it and I don't want to tell him. That's for Kelly.
I had almost forgotten about the shitstorm brewing until I see Amber.
She's got her shoes off, the top three buttons of her blouse undone, and she's sprawled on the couch—the only seat outside the studio itself. There are just a few feet between it and the soundboard where Conrad, the producer, hunches over all the knobs and sliders.
Behind the glass of the recording booth, Tommy's sitting at the drums, shirt off, hair in a bun on top of his head, headphones over one ear, tapping and twirling his sticks while he waits.
