The bad stuff in life, other people’s oh shits—they’re our bread and butter.
I’m not saying that we hurt less, or that we don’t wake up wanting to castrate Noah Maxwell, but the smart ones among us take all that hurt and anger and bitterness and do something with it.
The more intense the emotion¸ the easier and better the songwriting.
Let’s just say the morning after my bedroom incident with Noah, I do some of my best work.
Most of the time when I’m working on a song, I’m not thinking about anything other than the way the notes fit together, or the way the last chorus changes keys, or how much rhyming is too much rhyming.
I don’t think about how the song’s going to be received, or which one is going to be the lead single.
I just focus on the music itself. The rest is my label’s problem.
But every now and then I know a hit song when it pops into my head.
And this one—this one fueled by last night’s anger—is going to be a chart-topper.
Why? Well the melody’s catchy as heck, upbeat and a little edgy at the same time. But the theme’s also universal.
Mark my words, “Predator” is going to be right up there with Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” and SHeDaisy’s “Earl Had to Die” on the karaoke favorites list of scorned women everywhere.
My working title was “Bastard,” and while it certainly applies, no way that’s making it on the radio.
But the title “Predator” is a whole other level of perfect for Noah Maxwell. I’ve never met someone quite so skilled at subtly stalking a weaker creature and watching for flaws, just waiting to exploit them.
And this is not a hunter who seeks a quick, clean kill. Oh no. This is a man who takes sick pleasure in letting his prey bleed out.
Only he made a misstep with me.
He left me wounded, but far from dead.
And now that I’ve got that song out of my system, I have revenge plans. Big plans.
I stay locked in my room all morning working on the song, so I don’t see him until nearly three. He’s in the kitchen installing a garbage disposal in the sink he put in yesterday when I go in there to get my car keys and a quick snack for the road.
Noah freezes when he sees me, and for a second I think maybe he wants to say something. Like, oh, I don’t know, sorry.
He doesn’t.
He continues fiddling with the sink as I pull half of yesterday’s turkey sandwich out of the fridge and take a bite.
I don’t look at him, but I know he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye.
Like I said. Predator.
I slowly eat my sandwich, followed by a handful of chips and then a handful of baby carrots to cancel out the chips, and then a glass of water to wash it down, all the while pretending I’m alone.
It’s not that I’m giving him the silent treatment so much as I’m afraid that if I look at him he’ll sense my devious plan, and the surprise factor is key if I’m going to make this work.
After I’ve eaten, I grab the keys for my rental car and leave without a backward glance.
I’m gone for a few hours. I hit up the grocery store and then Target to get a new pair of flip-flops to replace the ones Ranger destroyed, as well as a couple of the plain journals I prefer for brainstorming lyrics.
Confession: in both stores, I couldn’t resist a quick peek at the tabloid sections when I was checking out, my eyes instinctively scanning for my name or face.
I’m delighted to inform you that I’m no longer the cover story. There was only one mention of me, a tiny right-hand mention on a lesser-known magazine with the headline “Good Girl Turned Seductress Still MIA.”
My plan is working.