Buckingham Nicks-Part II of Fritz Series

The Mirror Cracked

***A/N This is a direct sequel to my story Fritz which can be found in its entirety on my page. It will help immensely for you to have read that beforehand, or you may be lost. Story is written entirely from Lindsey's POV unless otherwise indicated also blanket disclaimer I own nothing but the story idea no infringement is intended nor am I earning a penny for this***

February 1970

"No, that's wrong all wrong, I said high then low. High then fucking low! Jesus Christ! Why do I bother to work you idiots?"

"Will you back off!? You've been on my God damn case all day! What's with you anyway?!" pausing I take a swill of my beer setting the bottle down on my mixing board "You don't get paid to ask questions, just play the fucking part like I told you and mind your own business!" a set of drum sticks hits the floor as my ninth session drummer storms out of the studio "Man no wonder you can't keep musicians your like a freaking Nazi!".

Why the hell did Bob have to break his arm? Follow up question, why is Wonsley such a dick about me playing drums on our albums? I know what I'm fucking doing, and at least if the sound is off I only have myself to blame. The producer, who is not me by the way, puts his head in his hands "Buck, why don't you take a break call Stephanie and relax." I step back from the board "Don't tell me what to do asshole" of course I do exactly what he suggests and take a break. I'll have to wait till later to talk with Stevie though.

She's at her check up with the OBGYN and I want to be with her, not sweating in a room full of pot smoke and stale beer smells with a bunch of middle aged men critiquing my sound. Ever since Buckingham Nicks went Gold we've been inundated with offers to produce and arrange our next album. I've turned them all down, going through producer's and arrangers at least once a week since I was forced to comply with Wonsley's request. He gently, but with finality, told me that Warner wanted our album to be worked on by a team, and I am not a team even though I essentially put our first album together with no help. Well, Stevie helped. But no one other than her.

I have elven months to fulfill our contract I can stall and fuck around as long as it takes for them to just let me do things my way. And for a song like Sara, I want it to be perfect. Stevie finally let me work on it outside of our home studio, giving me her blessing to put it on our next album. I want it to be just right, and the only person I trust with that job is me. I pull a joint out of my pocket and light up, I don't remember smoking this much before, but at this point it's the only thing that calms my nerves and prevents me from throwing massive fits.

I'm not trying to be childish, I mean I'm about to be a father. But when people don't do things my way and yet insist that they know better even when their finished product sounds like garbage, I can't not say anything. Wonsley says I'm getting a reputation for being difficult. I don't really know what that means, but I told him I didn't care. Bob and Brian haven't complained and they're my regular session musicians. But right now Bob's in a cast...so I'm stuck auditioning replacements for the next three months. Wonsley suggests Don Henley and I turn him down flat. He's Robin's boyfriend I already tolerate him as often as she visits me and Stevie. I will NOT deal with him at work if I can avoid it.

"Say Linds, Adam wants to know if you're ready to hear the next one?" no I'm ready to go home and leave this shit to someone else, but I can't. I say goodbye to my joint and count to ten, hearing Stevie's voice tell me to calm down. It helps a little and I walk back in the studio glimpsing myself in the glass door I cringe, I look like an actor in a dirty movie. But all the major artists are going with this look, beards are a dying trend. The same stupid reason they've got Stevie wearing tighter fitting clothes, she doesn't like it, and I sure as hell don't either. Her baby bump is showing, and she doesn't want people to write cruel things about her weight. If they do I'm afraid I might hit someone.