For Our Next Song (Glitter Bats, 2, Band 2) - Softcover

James, Jessica

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593817737 ISBN 13: 9780593817735

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

The decade-long friendship between two rock goddesses is thrust into the spotlight after their mutual desire strikes a perfect—and very public—chord.

For Glitter Bats keys player Jane Mercer, writing music helps tune out her self-doubt from a strict upbringing. Composing also distracts from her longtime feelings for her bandmate and best friend, Keeley, who Jane can’t pursue if she wants to keep her bisexuality out of the media. But when an incompetent percussionist quits mid–recording session on one of her major solo projects, there’s only one drummer to call to make the deadline.

Keeley Cunningham is determined to do what’s best for the newly-reunited Glitter Bats—including conceal her incurable attraction to Jane by keeping her distance. Still, when Jane asks for her help in the studio, Keeley drops everything to fill in. They collaborate harmoniously… until their repressed feelings crescendo into a massive argument about the band’s future that leaves them barely speaking.

As music forces Jane and Keeley into increasingly close proximity, the lingering tension finally ignites into the romance they’ve both been craving—and it’s hot, emotional, and fundamentally secret. But after an intimate moment is caught on camera, they’ll have to decide if their duet can survive its debut—both on and off stage.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jessica James is a writer who also loves going to concerts, baking family recipes, and exploring the Pacific Northwest with her spouse and dog. In addition to writing, Jessica has a passion for singing. She’s a mezzo-soprano with a BA in music and a healthy Broadway obsession, but, fortunately, she’s never been a rock star.

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1

Jane



My parents said I'd go to hell for making rock music, but no eternal torment could be worse than today's session.

The thing I love about working in a recording studio is that it can be such a collaborative, transformative experience for all involved, the kind that challenges musicians to dig deep, perform at a higher level, and produce their best work. Watching those breakthroughs is the most rewarding part of my job. But on rare occasions . . . that doesn't happen, and the long hours in the studio are nothing more than pure torture. Unfortunately for my production schedule, Trevor Barnett is worse than fire and brimstone, and I'm not sure what I did to deserve the punishment.

Forget a great take-I'll be lucky to get something usable.

Trevor winks at me through the glass as we start yet again, and I cringe, wishing I wasn't alone with him. I told my sound engineer not to come in today, because we were supposed to be done by now and I thought someone should enjoy their Friday.

For the past three days, I've given Trevor more than a hundred chances to get this right, and it's ninety-nine more than any other producer would offer in this business. I bring an open mind into every session with a new musician, and usually, I'm proud of this approach. When people have issues or blocks, I recognize I don't know what's going on for them personally, so I help them work through whatever it is. The creative process is so easily affected by our complicated lives.

But Trevor has wasted three days I didn't have to spare.

Adjusting my headphones, I sigh, trying to figure out where it all went sideways. Trevor plays the exact opposite of what I asked for on the first verse this time, attempting a poor imitation of Neil Peart on "Tom Sawyer" for some reason I can't even begin to understand. As stoic as I try to be, my knee bounces impatiently under the heavy table holding the board, and all I want to do is scream.

This is ridiculous. I've never worked with Trevor before, but he came recommended by Kyle Harris-who both stars in and produces Into the Dragon Realm, the hit animated television series I compose and produce music for. This simple drum part should have been a breeze. But our doomed collaboration started on Wednesday with Trevor arriving four hours late with zero communication. Then, he forgot his "lucky stick bag" and we had to scrap the day's session entirely, because the wide selection of Vic Firths I'd ordered didn't feel right.

It should have been fine. I'd built extra time into the week on purpose, because I always pad my schedule to prepare for the unexpected. But this is beyond unexpected-it's impossible.

Trevor whoops on his way into the chorus, and I slump in my seat. There's no chance the mics aren't going to pick that up. Fanning myself with a spare piece of music, I try to stay focused despite the warmth of the studio, the wood-paneled walls that look straight out of the seventies now stuffy instead of strangely comforting.

When Trevor was almost on time yesterday, I let myself hope that he'd pull it off. But from the first take, he kept trying to "mix it up," and we didn't get a single clean run-through. We were supposed to start fresh today, again, but we're no closer to making my deadline.

I groan under my breath. It's just one song. It's not supposed to be this hard.

When our director made major cuts to the first episode after test audiences hated a subplot, I knew it would mean working against the clock to write Sir Alec a number to fit his new emotional arc. Usually I write with a small team, so it was intimidating to work all on my own, but I had to do what I could to knock this song out in a few days. I'm proud of what I came up with under that kind of pressure. Now it's up to Trevor to get through this track without screwing it up.

When he spins around on the drum throne in the middle of the second verse like a kid in an office chair, I barely resist the urge to facepalm.

Because even being as generous as possible, I can safely say this whole experience has been a disaster. I've never heard of a drummer who refuses to use a click track in a recording session when asked by their producer. When I told him where to locate the metronome in his monitors, Trevor insisted, Real drummers don't need a machine to tell them how to do their jobs, but . . . it's not looking like he can do the job.

We're running out of time, and I need Trevor to do this. Just once.

So when Trevor loses three measures in the bridge because he's spinning on the stool again, I'm about ready to push him off the drum throne and sit on it myself. I'm no Aaron Sterling, but even I can manage to keep four-on-the-floor.

And again, the song ends. Again, the recording is useless.

"Let's take five," I say with the talkback mic that feeds into the booth, trying to keep my voice a steady dam against the tears that threaten to burst at any moment. We don't have time for a break, but at this point, I don't know what else to do. I grip the table in front of me, desperate to hold myself together, trying not to look at the clock that is getting way too close to lunch.

"I think that was the one!" Trevor says, his voice muffled through the glass. His sweaty, pale skin has put on a sallow tinge. Any last hope I have melts away when he pulls what must be a disgustingly warm PBR out of his backpack. The hiss and click of the can opening makes me want to hurl.

I cross my arms, glaring at Trevor's back from where he lounges in the booth. This was supposed to be a quick week in the studio: lay down one new track, produce it, and be home in time for Friday night dinner. And to think I was actually excited for the eighties-style power ballad I wrote last minute that will now inevitably haunt my dreams for the rest of my life.

Because power ballads need drums, and at this rate, I'll never get them.

Trevor takes a selfie from the booth, the beer sloshing over the rim of the can and onto the studio floor. Perfect.

For the millionth time, I wonder how this is the same guy who recorded "Gotta Give You More" for Hunter O'Brien. Then again, Hunter was super rude to my Glitter Bats bandmate Valerie Quinn the one time we played a festival together, so maybe he just bullied Trevor into being a better musician. I'm certainly not inspiring any greatness from him this week with my kindness approach.

"Sorry I'm late!" I whirl around to see another bandmate-and my best friend-barge into the studio. Riker Maddox, the Glitter Bats rhythm guitarist, is wheezing for air. I've known Riker for more than a decade, since we formed Glitter Bats as teenagers, and his presence instantly calms me.

He's quite a sight today. Face flushed, his brown hair is piled onto his head in a haphazard bun that's falling to one side, but his hulking, Thor-like frame is barely weighed down by the three guitar cases strung over one shoulder.

I blink. "Why are you out of breath?"

"Elevator was too slow. Ran up the stairs." He winces. "Shit, I'm sorry, I know we were supposed to do this an hour ago. There was construction right in front of my exit. Did you get any of my texts?"

Guilt twists my stomach. Riker is doing me a huge favor, squeezing this in on a Friday afternoon, and I haven't even checked my phone. Yesterday, Trevor took up the entire block of studio time I had scheduled for Riker to record the new electric guitar part on this same track. I forgot Riker was coming back in today to finish it out. "We're still behind schedule. You didn't have to rush and . . . I'm so sorry!" The tears I thought I was still carefully holding at bay sting the back of my eyes. Blinking, I swallow them back with a hasty sip from the trendy-but-ridiculously-sized water bottle my sister sent me for my birthday.

Frowning,...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2026
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593817737
• ISBN 13: 9780593817735
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 353
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: preigu GmbH & Co. KG; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; Niedersachsen; 49078; Deutschland