Chocolate Read online

  Chocolate

  Inspired by the Music of Snow Patrol & Tired Pony

  Copyright © 2016 by Maggie Mares

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written consent, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Author’s Note

  Snow Patrol and Tired Pony are two of my favorite bands. Each chapter in this book was inspired by a different one of their songs. I hope that listening to these songs before you read each chapter will enhance your experience. Their music is available on both Amazon and Spotify.

  Chocolate[1]

  The Beginning Of The End[2]

  Blood[3]

  Disaster Button[4]

  Dark Roman Wine[5]

  Punishment[6]

  Crack The Shutters[7]

  Set Down Your Glass[8]

  It’s Beginning To Get To Me[9]

  How To Be Dead[10]

  Make This Go On Forever[11]

  You Could Be Happy[12]

  If There’s A Rocket Tie Me To It[13]

  Wreckage And Bone[14]

  Signal Fire[15]

  Hands Open[16]

  Please Just Take These Photos From My Hands[17]

  New York[18]

  Get On The Road[19]

  You’re All I Have[20]

  The Beginning Of The End

  Shit, I’m kind of nervous, I thought as I jostled and bumped my way through the throngs of people on the crowded Chicago sidewalk. I didn’t know why I felt uneasy, since I was just on my way to do a totally routine part of my job. I normally didn’t think twice about these types of interactions, but today felt…I didn’t know, it felt different somehow.

  Maybe it was that I hadn’t slept very well last night. Or maybe it was that I’d tried to make up for not sleeping well by drinking entirely too much coffee this morning. Or maybe it was the weather. It was an unseasonably cold and cloudy afternoon, even for late November. There was a biting wind off of Lake Michigan that was doing a number on my straightened hair and carefully applied makeup, and I was honestly pretty pissed about it. When I actually took the time to get ready, I liked the effect to last longer than like five seconds after I stepped outside. But such were the perils of living in the Midwest. Luckily my destination was only a few blocks ahead of me.

  It was a building just like any of the other hundreds of buildings that made up the concrete jungle of Chicago’s Loop. This particular one housed the corporate offices of a large indie record label. The largest one in the city, in fact. I’d been there more than a few times for work over the years, so I was no stranger to its hallowed halls. I had a pretty good idea of what to expect once I was inside.

  I pushed through the heavy revolving glass door and stepped into the lobby. I tried to ignore the slight shiver that raced down my spine. Even though warm air was blasting down on me from the vent above my head, something about being nervous always made me feel cold. It was like Pavlovian or something.

  My heels clicked against the marble floor as I traversed the spacious entryway. When I approached the front desk, a security guard with an amount of girth that I could only assume was required for men in his line of work looked up from his newspaper. “Hi, I’m Lyssa Lyons with Chicago Music Magazine,” I said. “I’m here to interview an artist.”

  “I.D.?” he grunted. Clearly I had interrupted an interesting article.

  I dug around in my bag for my press pass. Why is it that the one thing I’m looking for is always the last thing I can find in here? For about the thousandth time, I promised myself that I would clean out my bag later, even though I knew it was a lie. I had receipts from things that I’d bought over a year ago floating around in this thing. Like, I was pretty sure the ship had sailed on returning the ill-advised shade of nail polish that I got at Walgreens last April. Finally, I located my wallet and handed the guard the thin piece of plastic that he’d requested. After what seemed like an excessive amount of clicking and printing, he gave me my pass back along with an I.D. badge for the building. “You’re in Conference Room B,” he said flatly. “Take the elevators to the sixth floor and the receptionist will show you where to go.” Then he picked up his newspaper again without another glance. Okay, you have a nice day now sir.

  Moments later, I was six stories up and being led down a long hallway by a perky receptionist with bright pink hair. Black and white stills of the various artists signed to the label lined the walls. The live action nature of the prints gave them a very artsy feel. About halfway down the left-hand side of the corridor emerged a large, glass-enclosed conference room with a glossy table in the center. From out here, I could see two men seated inside with their backs to me.

  “Here we are,” chirped my magenta-haired escort. I didn’t have the confidence to pull off such a bold look, but I definitely admired people who did. Should I get some purple highlights? Or maybe red? Alright focus, Lyss, it’s time to go to work.

  I turned my attention back to the task at hand. Taking a deep breath, I made sure that my normal-colored hair was tucked behind my ears and that my light gray pencil skirt was on straight. It had a tendency to twist around while I walked and I didn’t think that it would be very professional to conduct an interview looking like Kris Kross. Then I opened the door and stepped into the room.

  Immediately, I was greeted by an attractive middle-aged man in an impeccably tailored suit. “Hi, I’m Max Appelbaum,” he said, rising from his chair and trapping my hand in a vice-like handshake.

  “Lyssa Lyons,” I replied.

  “Thanks for coming by,” he said. “We’re very excited about the publicity.”

  “Of course,” I said. “We’re always happy to write about such talented artists.” I repeated the practiced line that I used at every single interview I conducted. It gave managers a chance to talk up their clients and a seasoned pro like Max didn’t hesitate to take the bait.

  “Talented is right,” he said smoothly. “Just wait until you hear what we’ve got in the works. This next album is going to blow the music industry away.”

  “That’s great,” I smiled, hoping that I sounded sincere. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Max, it was just that I tended to hear that phrase a lot and, at least to my knowledge, the music industry was still rooted firmly in place. But a little hyperbole never hurt anyone and I certainly wasn’t going to fault a manager for being enthusiastic about his client.

  “Alright, well without further ado,” Max segued, “Lyssa Lyons, this brilliant singer-songwriter seated to my right is the one and only Luke Davies.” He gestured to the other person in the room.

  The one and only Luke Davies was sitting at the far end of the table. Despite Max’s glowing introduction, he didn’t bother to look up from his phone, so Max and I just stood there, staring at the top of Luke’s head...Nice to meet you too.

  “Right,” Max said, apparently unfazed by Luke’s lack of response. “I have a meeting with the label execs upstairs, so I’ll leave you to it. Nice to meet you,” he nodded at me and swept out of the room, leaving behind a cloud of cologne in his wake.

  Silence descended as I approached the table and took a seat across from Luke, who still hadn’t looked up from his phone. No really Mr. Davies, we should stop this small talk and get down to business. Oh please, you’re such a witty conversationalist, I mused while I dug out my notebook and voice recorder. At least his disinterest gave me a chance to study him for a bit. Before now, I’d only seen him in the handful of his performance videos that I’d watched in preparation for this interview. He was definitely not the level of famous that lands a person on the cover of magazines. Not that that was a bad thing. Very few of the artists I interviewed were. That was why I got to interview them.

  Luke was dressed s
imply in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt, with sleeves of tattoos running the length of both arms. The sides of his medium brown hair were cut much shorter than the top, which he wore pushed over to one side. His eyebrows were thick, his nose was long, and his jawline was square, with at least a day or two’s worth of beard growth on it. He might not have had a face that would launch a thousand ships, but all in all, I’d call him handsome in a very masculine way. Not a hint of pretty boy about him.

  Just then he looked up from his phone. It was hard to miss the annoyed expression in his deep blue eyes as they met mine.

  “Are we going to start this interview or what?” his baritone voice demanded.

  I couldn’t stop my lips from pursing in irritation at his hostility. What a charmer. I was used to people being less than thrilled about sitting down with a reporter, but this guy took it to a whole new level. Still, I’d been around long enough to know that civility and tolerance went a long way in getting people to open up – thank you Dale Carnegie – so instead of snapping back at him, I paused for a second and then I replied politely, “Of course, as soon as you finish whatever it is you’re doing on your phone.”

  He locked the screen and tossed the phone down on the table. Then he leaned back in his chair in a pose that practically shouted “get on with it.”

  I took a steadying breath, summoning all the patience I could muster. It’s fine. You’ll get through this, I told myself. “Okay,” I began. “So first, thanks for taking the time to sit down and talk with me today.”

  Silence. Oy vey, this really was going to be rough.

  “Umm, yeah,” I filled in the quiet. “So, in anticipation of your second studio album being released early next year, we wanted to do a story about the creative process of recording something like that, especially following the commercial success of your last album.”

  If I’d been hoping that he would jump in at this point, I was sorely disappointed. He just continued to stare at me like I was an ant ruining his picnic. It was starting to make me feel really self-conscious. Is my voice irritating? Do I have something on my face? Am I blinking too much?

  “Okay,” I soldiered on. “Let’s start with the inspiration. I wondered if you could talk about where the ideas for the individual songs come from? And especially how you go about writing the poignant lyrics that so many critics and fans have praised you for.” I waited a beat before I smiled and said, “By the way, this is the part of the conversation where your participation would be appreciated.” I was trying to lighten the mood, but it had the opposite effect.

  “The inspiration comes from my life,” he replied shortly.

  I raised my eyebrows, waiting for more, but nothing came. “Care to elaborate?” I asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Okay, well maybe we’ll come back to that one later,” I said. “How about the tone of the album? I mean, every album is going to have its faster songs and slower songs, but how do you decide if the record is going to be overall light and upbeat like your first album or, you know, maybe have a more somber, morose sound?”

  “It depends on my mood when I’m writing.”

  I nodded, pretending that the answer he’d given contained even a modicum of interesting information that I could use when I wrote up the piece later. If his current mood was any indication of how he was feeling when he composed his new album, then I could only imagine what it was going to sound like. Luke Davies’ sophomore album will apparently feature eight tracks of complete silence broken up by a handful of angst-fueled ballads. Truly a treat for the ears. Be sure to pre-order your copy on iTunes today.

  “Alright,” I said, trying not to let my frustration at his virtually monosyllabic responses show. “Maybe it would be better to speak in more concrete terms about the album you’re about to release. You’ve waited a long time to put out a second album. Over four years. And –”

  “So? What are you getting at?” he cut me off. I was startled not only by his aggressive tone, but also by his ability to string that many words together at one time.

  “Well,” I tried to tread lightly. I was no expert on human emotions, but his little outburst made it clear that this was a sensitive subject for him. “I was referring to the rumors that were circulating around about two years ago that said that you were working on your sophomore album. Yet, you’re just releasing it now. So, um, I guess the question is, uh, what took so long?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew that it was a poor choice of phrasing.

  “What took –?” he stammered. Yep, definitely a poor choice of phrasing. I could literally see his nostrils flare in anger. “Who even are you anyway?”

  My eyes darted down to the I.D. badge on my chest. Yeah, it was still there. “I…I told you, I’m Lyssa Lyons. I’m with Chicago Music Mag –”

  “I’ve never even heard of you before.”

  Ouch. “Well, I’ve been with the magazine for over four years,” I said defensively. In other words, the amount of time in which you’ve released exactly zero albums.

  “This is bullshit. I should be in the studio, not answering questions from some no-name reporter for a magazine that isn’t even national. This is such a waste of my time.”

  My eyes went wide and my jaw tensed as he concluded his little rant. That’s it. I’m done here. This guy’s an asshole. “You know what? Fuck it. I’m ending this right now. I don’t know who you think you are, but let me just tell you that you are not even close to famous enough to act like this much of a dick. This isn’t a deposition and I don’t have subpoena power. If you’re here against your will, it’s your record label’s fault, not mine. So you can go ahead and explain to the people who sign your paychecks how you fucked up the publicity they arranged for you.”

  He actually smiled for a second during my tirade, which enraged me even more. “Is this funny to you?” I demanded. Then I thought better of it. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. I don’t care.” I shoved my notebook and recorder into my bag and stormed away from the table. Just as I reached the conference room door, I heard a voice behind me say, “Lyssa, wait.”

  I turned around and fixed Luke with an icy glare. “That’s Ms. Lyons to you,” I said. Because sometimes when you’re being disrespected for no good reason, you’ve got to channel your inner Virgil Tibbs.

  I threw open the door with so much force that it slammed into the wall behind me. Then I stomped down the hallway and jammed my finger into the elevator call button. Thankfully, the receptionist wasn’t around to watch me tap my foot impatiently on the worn down carpeting and mutter swear words under my breath until it arrived. As soon as I began my descent, though, the full weight of what I’d just done swiftly settled over me.

  Shit. That was bad. That was really bad. I shouldn’t have done that. I’ve never cut an interview short before. What am I going to tell my editor? He’s not going to care that Luke was being an asshole. He’s going to care that I made the magazine look bad to the record label. What if he benches me for the winter music festivals? Shit. Shiiiit. All of this was racing through my mind as the doors dinged open and I started to book it across the lobby. I just wanted to get the hell out of here.

  I shot a glance at the rotund security guard still seated behind his desk, daring him to try to stop me to ask for my I.D. badge back. Something about my crazy eyes must have told him that I was not to be messed with right now, and he let me keep walking. Almost there, I told myself when the glass doors were just a few feet away.

  It was then that I heard footsteps jogging up behind me. “Lyssa!” called the last voice in the universe I wanted to hear at that moment. I kept walking. “Lyssa!” he said again. “Oh, right, I mean Ms. Lyons.”

  Ugh, fine. “What?” I turned around to find myself nose to nose with Luke Davies. Or more like nose to chest. He was tall. I’d say at least six-one or two. And his shoulders were broader than I’d realized when he’d been sitting down. Compared to my slender-framed five-two, he was practically a giant. It ma
de it difficult to maintain an air of righteous indignation with him towering over me, so I arched an eyebrow and folded my arms across my chest in a move that I hoped said, “I’m waiting.”

  He let out a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You were right, I was being a dick. I didn’t mean it. I’m honestly not this guy who’s too good to talk to people. I swear. And I didn’t think it was funny when you got mad at me. I’d just never heard someone use the word ‘subpoena’ so angrily before.”

  Even though I didn’t want to, I couldn’t help but smile a little bit at that. Luke went on. “It’s just this place,” he gestured around him. “The building, the conference room. You’ve got to understand that usually when I’m here, I’m getting talked at by a bunch of guys in suits who are telling me how my music should sound or how what I’ve written isn’t what they were looking for. It makes me anxious and pissed off and I took it out on you and I’m sorry. You were just trying to do your job. You didn’t deserve that.”

  Now it was my turn to sigh. “It’s alright,” I said grudgingly. I was angry, but his apology sounded sincere and it wasn’t exactly like I’d been a paragon of professionalism up there either. I think I’d said “fuck” like more than once.

  “Let’s start over,” Luke continued. “How about we meet tonight for a drink instead? The Tonic Room in Lincoln Park around nine. Bring your notebook and your recorder and we’ll talk about anything you want to talk about, I promise.” He dipped down so that he was looking up at me and smiled. “Sound good?” he asked charmingly. The content as well as the tone of the offer surprised me. Who’d have thought that this guy was hiding underneath the asshole exterior that I’d had to endure for the last half an hour?