36 - Fingerprints

Jon’s heel slowly lifted and fell against the bottom rung on the recording booth stool, setting the beat as mindless fingers ran up and down the strings of his Takamine.  The music wasn’t complex.  Just a simple rippling melody that he’d developed to accompany this morning’s new lyrics, and he was quietly checking the fit.

“I gave you my fingerprints.  Left them all over you.  Tangled up in your sheets.  This heartache’s the only proof.  I gave you my fingerprints.  Now just like you, they’re gone.”

“Have you talked to her?” Obie popped into the booth.

The uncannily timed question would have startled Jon if it had come out of the blue, but it was the third time Obie had questioned Cassidy’s whereabouts since the clock hit noon.  That was fifteen minutes ago, and his friend seemed to be getting more agitated as the minutes ticked by.

“No.” 

In no sense of the word had he talked to her, beyond the apologies that were as repetitive as the notes he currently strummed.  They’d worked for a very long time last night but hadn’t talked, and she’d been gone when he returned from the hotel gym.  That’s when he had started thinking nobody but her would ever know she wore his fingerprints, and that he might not be leaving another set.

Because, in that maddeningly unkind way that life had, Jon’s mental release of Richie yesterday hadn’t cleared his fucked up head.  It had only made room for different things to fuck it up.  Namely, Cassidy and the goddamn feelings she’d cajoled into running loose.  The little sons of bitches had been rudely crammed back into their defective vault for the most part.  There was only a slight lingering of melancholy left, but he thought it might be a good idea for him to head back to Jersey for a while and maintain some distance until he was sure he had his head screwed on straight.

There was something that baffled him, though, other than his inclination to cling to a woman he'd known for such a short time.  When his head had been fucked up before, he hadn't been able to compose music.  This time, with Cassidy as the one fucking up his head, he maintained that ability.  Or at least he assumed he did, since this particular piece of music had come to him after she left this morning.

Jon chose to interpret that unmitigated irony as another reason to go home.  If he didn't need her as his muse, he should be able to finish the album in New Jersey while she remained in Tennessee.

You’re running like a pussy, just because she made you feel something. 

His fingers moved more persistently over the guitar strings as the stubborn Italian in him refused to concede that thought.

In a rare moment of awareness in his surroundings, Obie pointed to the guitar and demanded, “What is that?  Something new?”

“Maybe.”

“Good.”  Then he was gone to check the hallway for Cassidy.  Again.  “Ah!  There she is!”

Jon didn’t bother lifting his head from the Takamine, knowing that she would be smiling and radiant, as always.  He knew it as well as he knew how that radiance affected his body after an absence of minutes or hours, so the budding melody held his undivided attention until a voice demanded his attention.  It wasn’t her voice that had him peering through the glass with scrutiny, but another very familiar one that he hadn’t expected to accompany her arrival.

“After you, lovely lady,” David’s brown-nosingly polite voice carried easily through the booth’s open door.  He removed his arm from Cassidy's shoulders to usher her into the outer sanctuary of the studio, but not before Jon noticed how familiarly that arm had been draped.  “Thank you for allowing me to be your escort from the parking lot.”

He then mumbled something that was deadened by the soundproof glass and Jon was prevented from hearing what it was.  Cassidy had no such problem, however, because she was now lifting her face to David’s as if…

Goddammit if David Bryan didn’t bend over and deposit a clinging kiss on her lips. 

“I’m not paying for studio time so you can fuck around, Bryan,” Jon barked loudly.  “She’s late and I’m blaming you.”

“It's not his fault,” Cassidy interjected with a sweet smile as she glided away from David, who inconspicuously threw Jon the finger.  “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, so my ass is draggin'.  If I can just refill my coffee cup, I’ll be ready.”

She’d gotten more than he had, since Jon hadn’t slept at all.  However, considering that coffee was the only reason he was upright and functional, he couldn't very well deny her the same opportunity.

“Don’t take all day.”

Obie's  knitted eyebrows and narrowed eyes clearly enunciated, "What is your problem, asshole?" The roll of Dave's eyes abbreviated that thought to just, "Asshole," but his revived middle finger added an exclamation point.  

In hindsight, a little sleep may have made this day go a lot smoother.

“Take your time, Cassidy,” David contradicted, patting her lightly between the shoulder blades before moving toward the booth.  “I need to talk to Jon before we start.”

When the door closed behind his friend, it effectively created a soundproof seal around them.  Jon's hackles immediately rose at the knowledge that's what Dave wanted.  He knew that no one would know what was being said in the booth without flipping the mic switch or the ability to read lips. That meant Dave didn’t want anyone to know. 

That belief was validated when his keyboardist skirted around the actual keyboard to put his back to the outer studio and say, “You might want to let me know if Obie gets near the mic switch.”

“What do you want?”  Jon wasn't proud of the surly belligerence that came spilling out but it wasn't possible to call it back, so he stuck out his chin with coordinating belligerence.

“Woww...  I would’ve thought you’d be Mary fuckin’ Sunshine, but working through your mental baggage obviously makes you a prick.”

“Obviously.”  Jon’s eyes slid from David as he gave himself permission to finally look at Cassidy while he absently plucked at the guitar.  Fatigue was evident in her features, but she was no less beautiful for it with hair, makeup and smile all in place to detract from the slight lines and puffiness around her eyes.  The red bandana in her hair matched her t-shirt, and he would bet she was wearing the shoes he’d gotten her to round out the color scheme.  He kind of hoped she was.  “Get to the point, Lema.”

“The point is, asshole, that she kissed me because I asked her to help me yank your chain.  Mission fucking accomplished, I’d say.”

I'm about to choke you with that chain.

“Not interested in playing games today, Dave.  I’m here to work.”

Still watching the woman who was now pouring a second cup of coffee, Jon braced himself for the backlash of sarcasm that was undoubtedly ready to be unleashed from David's acerbic tongue.  Or the righteous indignation on behalf of Cassidy, or whatever other verbal retribution was brewing under those Goldilocks curls.  He'd known the man too long and would bet every song royalty he owned that Dave was chomping at the bit to lambast him with some type of scathing commentary.

Yet he didn't.

For whatever reason, be it pity or common sense, his long-time buddy opted to let Jon off the hook and keep the scornful sermon to himself.

“What’s that?” Dave nodded toward the guitar to indicate the “Fingerprints” melody that still flowed from Jon’s guitar strings. 

“New song.”

“Courtesy of the muse?”

“Yeah.”

“Lemme hear it.”

Jon gave up ogling Cassidy and returned his attention to the man inside the sound booth.  The man who, knowing what he did about the woman they referred to as "the muse", would effortlessly read the subtext in these lyrics.

Was Jon ready to put himself out there that way?

That’s what musicians do, dumb fuck.  If it’s going on the album, he’ll hear it eventually.  Now or later, what difference does it make?

“Melody’s brand new.  Lyrics aren’t finished, so it’s rough,” was the only consent he gave before taking up the the hauntingly poignant tune and locating a focal point far away from David’s face.  “I’ll give ya the first verse and the chorus.”

“I gave you my fing-er-prinnts

Left them all oo-ver youu

Tangled up in your sheetss

This heartache's the on-ly prooof

I gave you my fing-er-prinnts

Now, just like you, they're goone

The man in-vis-i-ble

I'll be him from now on

The laast tiime that I saww themm they were runn-ingg throughh your haair

You heldd onne bee-tween your lipss

And brouught aa-no-ther there

The last tiime that I saaw themm I haave-n't seen them sinnce

No matter whoo or what II touch

I leaave no ev-i-dence

I. Gave. You. My finnn-gerrr-printss”

“Well.”  David stood upright, turning to look over his shoulder, and Jon’s gaze followed.  Obie must have hit the mic switch since he and Cassidy both were silently staring into the booth.  “That’s depressing as hell, but I hear there’s a market for that.  Emo is still a thing, right?”

There was no reason to dignify his friend’s psycho brand of satire with an answer, nor was he acknowledging the deep contemplation defining that same friend’s features.  And if he wasn't acknowledging David's contemplative pose, he sure as hell wasn't addressing Obie's.

And Cassidy...

She knew as well as Dave did who the players in those lyrics were and had absorbed a fair dose of Jon's anguish for herself.  Her eyebrows had drawn together in distress, her mouth had pulled into a tight little frown and he didn't even want to speculate on what thoughts might be churning behind those darkly troubled eyes.

They both needed to think about something else - immediately, if not sooner.  If they didn't, this whole scene was about to become embarrassingly maudlin.

“Cassidy,” he summoned, shifting into business-mode.  “You wanna join us in here and get to work?  Time’s a wastin’.  Obie, you’ve seen the song list.  Suggestions on where to start?”

“Uh.”  Obie snapped out of his eerie silence to survey the room as though aliens had just dropped him there, until he came across the informal list that Jon had scribbled out earlier.  His eyes skimmed it up and down before asking, “I see ‘Who Says You Can’t Go Home’, but is there a reason your other actual duet isn’t on here?  ‘Strangers’?”

Jon had thought of it, very briefly.  When he’d run the first verse through his mind and imagined Cassidy singing the second… Nope.  Not today.  If things went well, maybe sometime in the future, but not today.

“My voice is too far out of shape,” was his answer to Obie as Cassidy stepped into the booth with her coffee and began humming.  “That range ain’t gonna happen.”

“Change the key,” was Dave’s suggestion, the evil fucker.

Thank God that Cassidy interrupted her soft “Amazing Grace” warm-up to put an end to the discussion.  “Sorry, but I don’t know that one.” 

Whether she did or she didn’t, Jon didn’t much care.  She’d gotten him out of an awkward spot and he was grateful. 

“What bout ‘What Do You Got?’” Obie prompted.   “There’s another one that could easily be a duet.”

“Yeah, it could.”  Again, not today.  Everybody needs just one someone to tell them the truth?  If you ain’t got someone you’re afraid to lose?  After a full night’s sleep, it was a possibility, but right now he wasn’t mentally capable of pulling that one off either.  “But we didn’t rehearse it.  Cassidy?”

She shook her head in the negative to indicate it wasn't in her repertoire.

“So.”  He nodded toward her as she picked up volume to sing of being lost, then found. “We’ll stay in church.  ‘Lay Your Hands on Me’.  Lema, hit your usual part.  Cassidy’s got Richie’s and I’ll cover the middle.”

David picked up a set of headphones and dropped to the seat behind they keyboard, murmuring, “I don’t know what the hell is going on around here, but if somebody doesn’t fix it, this is going to be a wasted day.”

There was no damn problem.  He was a little tired and a little...  There was no damn problem!

“Obie?  Drum track ready?”  

“Whatthefuckever,” the man behind the keyboard sighed blandly and hit the first of the five prolonged chords that would bring them to the harmonized intro Jon had developed in recent years to save the strain on his voice.

Something’s always strained on you.  Voice, calf, knee.  Mind.  Heart.  One of these days you’re gonna need to roll over and die, old man.

Again, not today.

“One, two, three…”