“Huh. Okay,” Brittney said. “I hear you. You're the first grown-up to actually admit that it feels good.”
Is that all she heard?
“I said it
can
feel good. But I can tell you from experience, it's hard for
anything
to feel good when you're sneaking around behind your parent's back to do it. You're a church kid. You know better. You'll never feel good about doing stuff you know you shouldn't be doing. Other people might, but not
you
.”
Brittney laughed, then shared a story about how she'd once tried to steal a pack of bubble gum from the store but returned it to the cashier in tears. Camille relayed her stolen Slurpee story, and the two laughed again at the ridiculousness of it all.
“I gotta go. My daddy's home,” Brittney whispered.
“Hey, can I talk to him?”
“Um”âshe lowered her voice even moreâ“can you call him on the house phone? I'm not ... um ... really supposed to be on my cell phone ... that much.”
Camille rolled her eyes as though Brittney could see them. “Bye, Brittney. Stop all this sneakin' around, you hear?”
“Yes, ma'am. Bye.”
After a few minutes, Camille decided to try the house line. She picked up her phone again, but Ronald's incoming call beat her to the punch.
Thank goodness!
She didn't want him to think she'd morphed into a stalker.
“Hey, I saw you called. Got your text, too. Sorry I couldn't get back to you right away.”
Her immediate thoughts were to ask him why he hadn't made an effort to at least text a line or two earlier. Again, she reminded herself that she wasn't exactly his woman. He owed her no explanations. She was a friend. A friend who liked his kisses, adored his daughter, needed him to sing a song with her before the sun came up.
She decided on a subtle approach. “How was your day?”
“Busy, that's why I couldn't call. Two funerals, a meeting with the musicians, another meeting with pastor. He saves his most lengthy sermons for meetings.” Ronald snickered.
“I see,” Camille said. “You got a lot on your schedule tomorrow?”
“Um, not too much. What's up?”
Might as well get this over with. “Would you sing with me tomorrow morning?”
“Uhh ... yeah, I guess. Where?”
“At a studio. I'm recording a song for my agent to pass along to a producer.”
“Cool. I didn't know you had an agent.”
“Yes. I'm trying to get back in the saddle. Here's the bad news. We'd need to be there around six.”
“Six
am
?”
“Yes. I can pick you up if you'd like. You're closer to the studio than me.”
Ronald thought out loud, “Brittney needs to be at school by seven thirty ... can't get there before seven ... I could ask my neighbor, Alicia, to take her.”
Who's Alicia?
Down, jealous non-girlfriend.
“Okay,” Camille agreed. “Can I pick you up at five thirty?”
“Hmmm,” he hesitated, “that would leave Brittney home alone for almost an hour and a half.”
“Ronald, you're going to have to give her the opportunity to earn your trust again. Besides, there aren't many teenage boys up at five thirty in the morning. I think she'll be all right.”
He exhaled in surrender. “Okay. See you at five thirty, but you'd better have some kind of latte or tea with you, 'cause that's earlier than a mug!”
“I know, right? But thank you. I really appreciate your willingness.”
“You're welcome. I'm always glad to help you, you know that, right? I was thinking about you today.”
“Pray tell,” she urged.
“Thinking about what a blessing you are to me. And to Brittney.”
“Awww, that's so sweet.”
“It's more than sweet. It's something else. It's what I've missed since Brittney's mom died. Since I stopped thinking about companionship because I really didn't think I was up to it. Camille, I'm glad God brought you into my life, and I hope you're willing to stay in and see what else God has planned for us.”
Wow.
She hadn't been expecting these words from Ronald. She realized now that, deep down, she'd been
hoping
for them, but not anticipating them. It was as though Ronald had turned on a switch inside her. Everything appeared different in light of his revelation. He liked having her in his life. She felt the same. And whatever God had planned for them was perfectly fine with her, too, since most of His stuff seemed to work out pretty good anyway. Pastor Collins had preached on following God's plan just the other week and, in her heart, Camille had whispered a prayer to God that she wanted His plan more than anything else. Now, it seemed, Ronald might be a part of that vision.
“By the way, what are we singing?” Ronald stuck a pin in her bliss bubble.
Camille had already practiced her answer, should this question arise. “It's an original compilation. You haven't heard it before.”
“Did you write it?”
Her lips tightened. “No. Someone else did.”
“Okay, if you wanna be all hush-hush about it.” Yet, he persisted with the guessing game. “Anyone I would know?”
“No.” Camille closed her eyes and blurted out the truth before her common sense overrode her decision to be upfront with Ronald. “It's a secular song. For a movie sound track.” All true.
“Oh.” His voice had fallen an octave. “Well, you know me. You know what I stand for. I trust you wouldn't be asking me to sing the song if it violated who I am. I'll see you in the morning. 'Night, love.”
“'Night.”
He just called me “love.”
CHAPTER 29
C
amille could barely close her eyes without hearing Ronald's words.
I trust you wouldn't be asking me to sing the song if it violated who I am.
More than the whole song issue, the idea that he trusted her, period, haunted Camille so much that she nearly rubbed Cat's fur off. He escaped under the bed to get his own sleep and avoid getting patted to death.
Throughout the night, Camille ran through several scenarios of what might happen tomorrow with Stevie, John David, Ronald, and herself. The best-case scenario would be if Ronald read the lyrics, looked in Camille's eyes, and decided to sing the song anyway because he (according to his own confession) was on the road to loving her. That would be great. Not likely, but great.
Scenario number two, Ronald and Camille would sit down with Stevie and John David and come up with a plan to use Ronald's voice without him actually saying perverse words. Or maybe they could adlib a line about a wedding ring or a veilâsomething symbolizing marriage. Then it would maybe be like Roberta Flack and Peabo Bryson's classic honeymoon song, “Tonight, I Celebrate My Love.” Granted, “On Top of Me” was a bit raunchier. But, hey, some newlyweds are bound to be kinkier than others, Camille could reason. With a little creative compromise, technical genius, and artistic liberty, setup number two could work well for everyone.
Or number three. Next-to-the-worst development. Ronald could take one look at the words and say no. John David would explode, Stevie would shut down the system, Ronald would walk out, and Camille would bust out in tears. She could either chase Ronald out of the studio or get down on her knees and beg John David not to end their contract because, after all, he would have seen with his own eyes that Ronald's refusal to sing was not her fault.
Finally, the most horrible script would be if Ronald walked out and John David told Camille to follow him no matter how much she begged and pleaded. She could hear him already, “I'm tired of dealing with you, Camille. It's over.” In this case, she wasn't sure she'd chase after Ronald. Could she forgive him for nailing the coffin on her dreams?
The very thought that her singing career might come to a complete end tomorrow nearly choked the breath out of Camille. Some people say that before a person dies, her life flashes before her eyes. For Camille, a series of songs rang in her ears. She thought of all the hours she'd spent singing, remembered times she'd actually cried because a note was outside of her natural range. She had to grab every note,
had
to.
She thought of how her legs used to ache from standing next to her mother so long while she played the piano and Camille sang along. She'd used Camille to flesh out the different parts of the song, the harmonies. Now, Camille realized her mother had been preparing her to do and be the professional singer she had been, and hoped to be again.
The last time she was at a make-or-break moment, she'd been able to call Courtney. He always reassured her, told her she was the best in the business. “Camille, your voice is exclusive,” he had said once. “No one else has it except you. No one can even
imitate
you well, so don't worry. If they don't want you, they're deaf.” One thing was for sure, if Courtney had been her agent instead of John David, he'd have been able to work something out with Ignacio and this stupid song.
She had the strange desire to call Courtney and listen to his encouragement again. Fat chance. She didn't even have his number. Bobby Junior had it, of course, but it was far too late to call him. And even if it weren't three twenty-four in the morning, she was triple certain that Courtney wouldn't have any nice words to say.
To get her mind off the studio problem, Camille cranked out another script. What would she say to Courtney if she talked to him? She'd apologize for throwing him out of her career. Her life. He probably wouldn't accept it, though. Camille knew her brother. Courtney was black-and-white. Once he made up his mind about somebody, that was all he wrote.
Maybe she could use Bobby Junior as a go-between. He could set up one of those classic television episodes where both parties come to a meeting on the premise that the other wants to apologize. Then, when they get there, they argue for a minute, then decide to get over themselves. Problem was, in those episodes, the people had fallen victim to some type of misunderstanding. That wasn't the case with her and Courtney. She'd been wrong. Totally wrong. Yet, so much time had passed, it almost seemed futile to even think of apologizing now. Might only add insult to injury. Really, is an apology still valid after so many years? And would he think she was sorry the new manager didn't work out as opposed to being genuinely sorry she'd asked Courtney to leave Sweet Treats? This, of course, made her second-guess herself all the more. Would she be apologizing if she was a multimillion-dollar artist right now?
Maybe. Maybe not. Courtney probably would have sued her by now.
Frustrated with all these scenarios, Camille tried to shut her lids again. If nothing else, she could at least give her eyeballs a rest.
An hour later, her orbits stung from lack of real sleep, but the adrenaline pumping through her veins fueled her through the morning routine despite the darkness outside. Even Cat knew it was too early to get out of bed. He remained in place, looking up at her once as if to ask why she was messing with the natural order of things.
She roused her voice, climbing up and down scales softly so as not to wake her neighbors. No one deserved to be up at this hour. After showering, dressing, and grooming, Camille sent a text to Ronald. He quickly replied, letting her know that he'd be ready by the time she got to his house.
As a peace offering, she made a quick pit stop and picked up a cup of coffee and a bagel for him at the gas station near the entrance to his suburb. None of the really good coffee places had opened yet, so this would have to do.
Inside her stomach, the jitterbugs danced crazily. Not only was she nervous, she was delirious from lack of sleep.
When Ronald hopped into the car, he picked up on her disconcerted aura right away. “You all right, babe?”
Babe? I'm “babe”?
“I'm okay. I bought you some breakfast.”
“Thank you,” he purred, leaning over the console for a smack on the lips.
Okay. We're a couple for real.
She wished she could break up, do the recording, and get back together. Ronald was too good for this. She didn't deserve him.
To make matters worse, a preârush hour side-road accident clogged the major arteries on the way to the studio.
Is everyone and everything against me this morning?
Her nerves frazzled even more, Camille couldn't concentrate on Ronald's small talk.
“I take it you're not a morning person,” he commented after the second time he'd had to jar Camille from her own thoughts.
“No. Not really,” she agreed, thankful that he'd attributed her diminishing attitude to the time of day. She wanted to confess:
I'm not just a no-morning person, I'm a no-good person, too.
At least, then, the sinking feeling would stop. She'd get the chance to take a deep, cleansing breath. Cleansing confession.
Two intersections and ten minutes from the studio, Camille got a text from John David. Where are you?
The crawling pace of traffic allowed time for a reply. Almost there.
“So, tell me about this demo,” Ronald asked.
Camille could have sworn he'd already asked her this question. “It's for a sound track,” she snapped. “But it won't be for anything if this traffic doesn't clear. John David's already texting me.”
“Oh”âRonald perked upâ“I've heard his name tossed around. He's got some big-time connections.”
“Yeah. We're almost there,” she cut him off with her no-nonsense tone.
Without a minute to spare, Camille swerved into the studio parking lot and nabbed the closest parking spot. She put her car in park and grabbed her purse simultaneously, almost leaving Ronald behind in the effort to place her foot inside the building at exactly 5:59
AM
so John David couldn't accuse her of being late. She'd already given him enough reasons to drop her like a clingy girlfriend.
Ronald caught up with her halfway down the studio building's hallway, doing double-time to keep up with Camille's near running. “Where's the fire?” he joked.
“Right here,” she said, pausing momentarily to knock on the door to Stevie's studios.
Almost instantly, John David opened. He looked at his watch, raised an eyebrow at Camille.
Nervously, she chirped, “Six o'clock on the dot.”
“To be on time is to be late,” he scorned. Then, his countenance switched gears as he focused his attention on Camille's guest. “You must be the man with the voice that melts perfectly with Camille's. Ronald?”
“Yes.”
They shook hands.
“I'm John David. Mind if I call you Ronnie?”
“Yes, I do,” Ronald said. “Ronald will suffice.”
John David dipped his forehead in submission. “Ronald it is, then.”
Camille bristled inside. Why wouldn't John David listen to her like he listened to Ronald?
James Brown wasn't ever lyin' when he said this is a man's world, rest his soul, wherever they decided to bury him finally.
John David introduced Ronald to Stevie, and the three men talked like old friends for a second. John David sucked up to Ronald like he owned a straw factory. Camille stood near her ... babe, she guessed ... and nodded as the men talked music mumbo-jumbo. They seemed pleased that Ronald knew much of their jargon.
Stevie remarked to Camille, “
This
Ronald knows what he's talking about.”
His obvious reference to Faison sparked Camille into action. “We'd better get started. I've got to get to work as soon as we're finished.” Assuming she'd still be employed.
“Sure thing,” Stevie said. He sat down, fiddled with the switches, plucked a pair of headphones from a stand, and handed a pair to Ronald.
“I'll let you listen to Camille's track first. Have you read the lyrics?”
“No,” Ronald said as he snapped his headphones in place.
Camille shifted and reshifted her feet.
John David shot a dagger toward Camille. She pursed her lips in an I-didn't-know-what-to-do smirk.
“No problem. I can tell you're a pro,” Stevie praised Ronald. “She's actually done most of the song. I just need you to get in where you fit in, especially on the hook.”
The sinking feeling had descended to her bladder.
Great. Now I have to pee
. Nowhere in any of the screen shots she'd played the night before had it occurred to her that she might actually pee on herself in the middle of all this. But she dared not leave the room at this critical moment. Ronald was about to read the lyrics, hear her singing “On Top of Me” for the first time.
Stevie gave Camille and John David the other two headphones, and they all sat while the opening bars of the song played. Ronald glanced at Camille, smiled. She managed a smile back. His head bobbed to the beat, fingers tapped on his knee.
Stevie and John David joined in the head-bobbing dance, grooving with Ronald. They were all on the same page, the same note.
Camille lowered her eyes and waited for her voice to crank out the first verse.
Baby, I've got the place for you. A place that satisfies.
Ronald's fingers stopped tapping.
I've got the perfect place for you. Right here between these thighs.
He turned his chair slightly. Bumped knees with Camille's.
Slowly, she raised her eyes to his and read the no screaming from those brown irises. Worse was the disappointment tucked in the corners of his mouth. Camille wished she could literally crawl into a hole and die a slow, painful death. Might as well. She could just as well have been singing “Amazing Grace” because this felt like the funeral of her relationship with Ronald. Actually, a funeral would be better than this torment. She couldn't even look at him anymore.
The music continued.
That place, that space, is here on top of me, baby. Take me ecstasy. Oooh, yeah! On top of me, baby.
Stevie yelled over the music, “Ronald, I think this is where I'll have you come in. Second verse.”
Ronald sighed, took his gaze off Camille as they all listened to her croon,
Don't make this a one-night stand, baby. We can meet here and do it 'til these sheets are soaked in love. Get over the past. Get over the future, and get on top of me, baby!
Oblivious to Ronald's disgust, John David and Stevie continued their exaggerated head dips.
“Here's the hook,” John David bellowed.
Ronald lasted until she started with the part about “pumping” before he had to take off his listening equipment. The others followed suit. Stevie turned down the volume, thwarting the sounds coming through their collective headsets.