Diamond in the Dust (Lost Kings MC 18)

Another text comes through with a link to a blog piece.

“What’s wrong?” Rooster asks as he returns by himself.

“Nothing. Trent sent me a link to a review of Bird in a Blizzard.”

His jaw tightens, as if he suspects my cornflakes are about to be pissed on. “What’s it say?”

Shelby Morgan’s newest song Bird in a Blizzard packs an emotional wallop with the words. Too bad all the accolades she’s received lately haven’t helped her learn to play the guitar any better. Not even the influence of ‘basic bro’ pop-country artist Dawson Roads, who recently took Miss Morgan under his wing by signing her to his new label, has had a positive impact on her technical skills.

You’d think that someone who has played as long as she supposedly has would’ve improved by now. But that would be a no, folks. While Bird in a Blizzard features stunningly complex lyrics, unfortunately it utilizes the same rhythm and basic chords she always uses…

“No shit, asshole. I never claimed to be Jimmy fucking Hendricks,” I snarl at the screen. “The focus has always been my lyrics. That’s kinda my thing.” I slam my phone down and seethe. “God, I hate people.”

Rooster picks up my phone and tucks it in his pocket. “That’s enough media for today. Fuck those people.”

My jaw remains set in a firm, stubborn line.

Rooster leans down, peering into my eyes. “Your average listener knows dick about rhythm or “basic” chords. I sure as shit don’t. That’s a musical term. Sounds like a failed musician wrote that bullshit.”

Huh. He might be onto somethin’.

“They’re jealous as fuck,” he continues. “You’re amazing and all they’re doing is sitting home, playing keyboard warrior while tearing talented, successful people down.”

I close my eyes and inhale a long slow breath. “In here I know their opinion doesn’t matter.” I tap the side of my head. “It still hurts in here.” I press my hand to my chest, hating that I’m admitting this out loud, even though Rooster would never judge or mock my feelings.

He gently grips my shoulders, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Is the person who wrote that review someone you would go to for advice about a song?”

“Huh? No.”

“Then don’t take criticism from people you wouldn’t ask for advice,” he says. “As much as everyone seems to be foaming at the mouth to express their opinions these days, the truth is, not everyone’s opinion matters.”

Well, damn if that’s not an eye-opener. “It hurts. I work so hard. I pour my heart and soul into every lyric. And jackasses like that can’t wait to tear it down the second they hear it, even if their criticism doesn’t make any dang sense.”

“They’re insufferable assholes who wish everyone was as unsuccessful and miserable as they are.”

“Thank you.” My voice comes out pitiful. No one else ever listens to me the way Rooster does. Everyone has always told me to “suck it up” or “get a thicker skin” or the worst, “maybe some of the criticism is constructive and you can use it going forward.” As if I give a good God damn what some random loser on the Internet thinks about my music.

Rooster never plays any of that devil’s advocate bullshit. He’s always unapologetically on my side.

I slide my arms around him and squeeze. “Thank you so much.”

His warm, comforting arms embrace me just as tight. “For what?”

“Listening to me whine. And not telling me to suck it up. Or that I should be grateful anyone’s listening to my music at all.”

“Shelby, it’s not whining. I’ve seen how hard you work. I admire how much you struggle to get each word and note right.” He taps my chest. “I feel how much emotion you pour into your songs. You’re sharing pieces of your soul with the world. I can’t imagine how it hurts to have strangers shit all over that.” Against my back, I feel his hands curl into fists. “Trust me, I’d love to track down every single one of those fuckers and beat them bloody. They don’t deserve your brilliance.”

I let out a soft snort and wipe a bit of dampness from under my lashes. “I’ve never said I’m brilliant or that I’m the world’s most gifted musician. But I think what I do, I do well.”

“You do it more than well. What did I tell you when we met? I couldn’t stand country music. It all sounded like twangy noise to me.” He presses his fist against his chest. “But when I listen to you, it stirs something in here. I wouldn’t say that to make you feel better.”

The corners of my mouth quiver. “Yeah, but you’re not objective.”

“Maybe.” He taps his chest again. “Feelings aren’t objective though. Not everyone can draw out emotions the way you can. That’s a gift. I bet it’s not a technical skill you can learn, either. It’s natural talent. That’s why Dawson wanted you to be the first artist he signed. And that’s why you’re gaining more and more fans. They’re drawn to you because they can feel how genuine you are.”