[Bad As Ever || Book 2]

10°

» "i been workin' this hard..."

[one week later]

Miami, FL;

"Fuck." Bryson groaned in frustration and pulled his headphones off. He had messed up for about the tenth time and could not seem to remember the lyrics for his life.

The producer cut the track and pressed a button, allowing he and Bryson to communicate.

"Bryson, I though we had it that time, what happened man?" He asked hiking his shoulders upward.

"My bad, I just— I can't remember the fuckin' lyrics..." He sighed and placed the headsets on the microphone, wiping his face with his right hand.

"You ain't write 'em down somewhere?"

Bryson tilted his head and gave the producer a stale face with squinted, tired eyes.

"Never mind, forgot about that. Look, go home, try to write down what you remember and see if the rest comes back to you." He suggested, sliding a couple of snobs on the sound board.

He nodded and walked out of the recording booth, mentally drained. Trying to pursue music had never seemed so difficult.

>>>>>

Paris sat on the edge of the bed watching a YouTube tutorial on different ways to braid her hair while trying to mimic the style on her own hair.

Bryson walked in not saying a word, but instead going straight to the desk and looking through the drawers.

"They don't have paper somewhere in here?" He asked, rambling through several of the cabinets.

"Uh, I'm sure if go downstairs to the front de— "

"You right. I'll be back." He shook his finger towards her and jogged back to the door, leaving out.

Confused, Paris tried to focus back on her hair until he came back. When he did, he went straight to the desk and sat down, turning the lap on above it.

"How was the studio?" She asked looking over at him.

"Hush, Paris," he said waving his hand in her direction, "I'm trying to focus."

She about to reply with a slick remark but stopped herself and for off the bed to see what he was doing.

She stood over him and looked at the lyrics he had already written on the paper, them instantly registering with her.

"I remember that song."

Bryson turned and looked at her, "For real? What do you remember?"

"I'm sorry, I was just told to hush, so I'll be over here." She pointed to the bed and began to walk but he pulled her back by the arm.

"Ok, ok, I'm sorry. Seriously, baby. What do you remember?" He asked, now borderline begging.

She sighed and twisted her lips, "I don't know, I just remember that part you sang to me once time. It was like, 'and every since they day you approached me, I been think 'bout you and you only.' Something like that." She said with shrug.

He quickly wrote the line down and chewed the side of his lip, tapping the pencil on the paper.

"And we just like to fuck, that's it nothing else. Fuck fallin' in love, that's for someone else..." He mumbled to himself, nodding his head to the beat in his head.

"That's the rest of it? Why would you sing that to me?" Paris huffed, hers eyes wide.

Bryson chuckled and pulled her to him by her waist, "That's why I didn't sing the whole thing to you, baby."

"Ah, I see." Paris nodded, giving him a nudged.

"Now I wish I had cause I can remember it for shit." Bryson groaned, placing his face dramatically downward on the desk.

"I'll come back to you, Bry." She encouraged, rubbing his back.

"The worst part is, this is not the only song. There's a bunch of them, gone just like that." He sighed deeply, his fingers rubbing against his temples.

Paris frowned, unsure of how to help. She couldn't magically make all the songs Bryson had written reappear and they were not so slowly and surely running out of all their money with Bryson's studio sessions and the Red Cross no longer paying for the hotel room.

She kissed him on the cheek, "It'll be alright. I know it will." She smiled and went back to the bed to continue doing her hair.