My hair was sticking up in every different direction, there were three separate coffee stains on my shirt on it's second day of wear, the bags under my eyes were starting to take up prime real estate on my face, and if they got any more noticeable they'd have to start paying rent.

Bree had just been checked into a top tier mental wellness facility (a sensitive way of saying mental hospital) two days ago and after her 72-hour psych hold in the hospital after her attempt, I officially only had two days to write and produce a solid song to present to the fans at my 'intimate concert' as well as the reps that would be in the crowd. 

My agent assured me that Spotlight Records would only be sending a rep for a regular evaluation, but I knew it was something else. 

They were making sure my work was still up to snuff despite what had happened. 

My life was under a fucking microscope, my sister had just tried to off herself after getting the shit beat out of her by her low-life ex-boyfriend, and I was being forced to write new music and get ready for a show that I would rather perform in hell. 

I was contract-bound, though, and since Bree was well and cared for (at least physically, considering her mental state was another matter entirely), I couldn't skip this event. 

This was for the hardcore fans—the worst of the worst (or best, depending on your point of view).  

These were the kinds of fans who stalked my social media accounts religiously, followed me on gossip blogs, followed my footsteps throughout every town I travelled and were lifetime members of my ultimate fan club. 

Needless to say, I didn't want to upset them.  

God only knows what would happen if I didn't show up, or didn't have anything new to show for the record label reps. 

After my newest single sales dipped by a considerable margin, my contract was on a thin line.

My royalties were going to start being re-negotiated if I didn't deliver, and the thought of being paid less in the future for the same exact job just because the quality of my new music wasn't being appreciated in the same way other styles or genres I've tried had been was honestly disgusting.

They all wanted me to be some cookie-cutter copy of the chart toppers all the girls loved to idolize and all the guys loved to hate. 

I was not going to be the next Shawn Mendes or Sebastian Jennings—no matter how well they did on the charts and the amount of profit they brought in on tours. 

Music wasn't supposed to be about the amount of money you could squeeze from the pockets of teenaged girls and their parents.  I used to write to get away from the rest of the world and just get my emotions out on paper, to deal with everything toxic in a healthy way. 

At least, that's what it used to be about. 

Now, it was 'write a song that can be set to a catchy tune that will be stuck in the ear of every person on this continent or you lose your record deal'.  It didn't matter about the praise or the previous album sales; it was a constant dog-eat-dog world and if I didn't start cranking out radio hits, it was going to be game over at Spotlight Records. 

"Kade, you in here?"

"Back here," I called out to Corbin, placing the over-ear headphones atop my head and doing a few vocal warm-ups. 

The studio smelled of the faint chemicals leeching off the foam padding the walls around me to keep the room sound-proof. 

It wasn't like it was some state of the art studio either; quite the opposite, actually.  Old couches lined the walls outside the booth and the only high tech equipment in the room was the mixing console, computers, and mic/headset combination currently in use. 

This was Corbin's home studio, and I practically lived here most days; not to mention the fact it was where I got most of my writing done in the first place. 

"Do you just want to freestyle on this chord progression I made up last night?"

"Sure.  Not like I have any new material anyway."  I tried to keep the bitterness out of my tone, but it wasn't working.  I could never control my temper when it came to my failing to produce new music. 

Light acoustic music drifted through the speakers in my headphones and I settled down onto the stool in the booth and let my brain go purposefully blank—whatever came to mind would most likely be terrible, but at least it could help me get rid of the fog staining up my writing streak I had once been on about three months ago when I'd produced the material for my lead singles and an EP.

"You ready to hop on?"

"Yeah."

I waited.  And waited.

And waited.

"Anything?"

Soft chords strummed in my ears, the thump of a bass drum in the background.  I could tell this was the part where the chorus would begin, but the idea of creating any kind of hook seemed so impossible in that moment that I began to wonder how I'd ever made it this far as a songwriter at all. 

"Dude.  Just sing something.  Anything."

"She—she thought she was still alive, in the after-light, in the...she can't be mine when she's falling for the pain."

"Yes, keep going."

"She can't be mine when she's black and blue, I don't want to see what he'd do to you, I can't help you...fuck.  No, no this is too much right now.  Cut the music."

"Kade, if you just—"

"I said cut the fucking music right now, Corbin."

"Jesus, okay, okay.  There, it's off.  Now will you please tell me what this is about?  You were actually getting somewhere."

"Those lyrics were about my sister.  If I put music out there about her, the media is going to eat it up.  They're going to know exactly who it's about and they're never going to leave me or her alone—her suicide attempt already got leaked.  I can't use any of that.  And I can't write anything else, because that's the only thing on my mind.  I don't know what I'm going to do.  The show is in two days, and there's going to be a rep there."

"Shit."

I was tempted to toss the headphones but I had more respect for Corbin's things than that.  I still couldn't control the temper flaring in my chest at the impossibility of the situation. 

What was I going to do, indeed.

"What about...demos?"

"What demos?"

"The ones we get from CSS every goddamned day.  I swear, my inbox is overflowing.  Ever since you credited me as your new sound engineer and producer, I've never been busier."

"Well...you're welcome?  I didn't think that would be a bad thing."

"No, it's not, I'm just saying, I get a lot of demos in a day.  Why don't you listen to a few and see what you think?  I've got my daughter's piano recital in about thirty minutes so I'm gonna head out but you're welcome to stay here all night, crash in the guest room, crank this out until you figure out what you're gonna do.  I believe it'll all be okay.  Trust me."

"Yeah.  Okay, where are they?"

"There's a pile of flash drives in that black tray by the mixing console.  I've already taken them out of the envelopes they mailed to me.  The ones in the gold tray I've listened to and already vetted, the ones in the black tray I haven't listened to yet but they're all from CSS so you know they're quality stuff, it's just finding which ones match the style you want.  Get with me if you find one you like and I can email the president and see if we can compensate the creator in enough time to get the song approved and then you can perform it hopefully at your super fan concert."

"Jesus.  Why do I even do these things again?"

"Uh, because you love your fans and you're grateful for their support?"

"I am, I do.  I really do appreciate them, but seriously, they don't have to force me to do this after what's going on with my family right now.  I'd rather wait until I'm in a better headspace, but if I can't...I don't know what I'll do if I don't find a good demo.  Okay, go to Lianna's performance.  Tell her Uncle Kade says she'll do amazing."

"I will, bro.  Good luck."

I stared at the trays filled to the brim with flash drives and realized that I was going to need all the help I could get. 

The first demo from the golden tray was slow, depressing, and had lyrics about a dead dog.  While it was good for any other Indie artist, it wasn't really what I was looking for. 

Every song turned out to be just that in the golden tray—seemingly perfect in every way, except for the fact that I didn't connect with them.

The first song from the black tray I had to cover my ears as techno explosion assaulted my eardrums.  Firm no on that one, then.  The song barely had three lyrics throughout the entire thing. 

The rest were much of the same: wrong genre, wrong types of lyrics, just wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong—until...until the pile was empty and there was nothing left to listen to. 

Fuck. 

I scoured the desk for anymore flash-drives, but that was it.  It was over.  I wasn't going to have anything new prepared and my record label was going to eat me alive. 

A glint of metal flashed in my eye as I bent down low underneath Corbin's desk to discover a flashdrive on the ground, hidden and forgotten like Corbin had been sorting them or cleaning up and it was just left there to be lost and neglected forever. 

I had no way of knowing how old it was or who it was from, but my curiosity got the better of me and I reached down to grab it and plug it into the computer.

This inconspicuous flash drive glistened in the low dim lights of the studio, and the moment I pressed 'play', a haunting, ethereal woman's voice floated over a current of disbelief and shock in my mind. 

I'd grown desperate and had spent the majority of the evening listening to songs I would wish to wash out of my brain with soap...until this one. 

It clearly hadn't been mixed properly, considering it was just a demo, but the artist didn't need much help cleaning up the vocals.  The instrumental was clean and simple, a perfect set of building blocks for a new artist to pick out of a pile and deem worthy enough to use in their catalogue. 

I had never been one to use demos.  I used co-writers sometimes, sure, but never outright taking someone's lyrics and melodies as my own. 

Until now.

Until this song drew chills along my arms and sent shudders skittering down my spine. 

She was singing of a time when she was underwater, unalive yet still living somehow, until she met 'him'.  Whoever this person was, he was goddamn lucky for someone this talented to be writing a song for him, to be singing like this for him.  I suddenly found myself wanting to be the source for a song this amazing. 

The sun came out when she saw him for the first time in the song.  She sang of him being the match to her soul, the fanning of the flames in the deepest depths of her. 

My lyrics matched perfectly in sync with the second verse, and I could imagine exactly where I'd put my lyrics into this song.  It could be a duet.  A perfect warring storyline. 

I needed this song.  This was the song.  This was it. 

The only problem was that I couldn't find a single attachment stating who the song belonged to.  There was no writing on the flash drive, no other files pulling up when I plugged it into the computer. 

I had no one to give credit to this hauntingly beautiful song. 

So how was I going to use it for myself?

Ice filled my veins as I realized with the adept certainty that it didn't matter.  I was going to use it regardless, and I could only hope the universe didn't bring the karma back around too harshly onto me when I did.