“I love that song,” the girl next to him said. She had black hair, black nail polish, and wore a black sweater over knee-length black nylon capris.
“Yeah, I do too.” Gavin shifted the screen of his phone so the girl could watch too.
“I especially love what that group did with it,” she said when the video was finished. “Very cool sound.”
Gavin was tempted to identify himself, but he thought it was sweeter to keep the secret. When he got back to his apartment, though, he insisted on playing all four videos for his roommates, along with a running commentary about the rehearsals and the performance.
“You’re a star, Gavin,” Larry said, leaning back against a kitchen chair. “What else can we say?”
“Congratulations,” Manny said. “So what do you do next?”
“I go back to Java Joe’s,” Gavin said. “Miles is going to release an MP3 of our version of ‘I’m Yours,’ and then we’ll see what happens. But this whole concert thing was really just a one-shot deal, for my grandmother’s sake more than mine,” Gavin said, though he knew in his heart that he’d been the one pushing it forward. “Erica’s in grad school now, and Archie’s back at work. We couldn’t do anything else even if we wanted to.”
That night in bed, though, Gavin wondered if there might be other opportunities. Maybe at Christmas, when Erica and Archie would both have vacation? They could fly down to Miami, and maybe the three of them could get a gig or two. He’d have to ask Miles.
Tuesday morning Gavin was back at work at Java Joe’s, returning the coffeemaker Careful had lent him. On his break, he checked his iPhone and saw that the YouTube views of all four videos kept climbing. He checked his Twitter feed and saw that the hash tag #singingsweethearts was gaining traction. He added a tweet of his own.
He was just about to go back to work when his phone buzzed with a text from Miles.
Miss u. Call me when u can.
He stepped out into the back garden, quiet while the bar was closed, and called Miles. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Just left Nashville. I’m going to drive straight through to Miami. There’s a lot percolating, and I need to be back in the studio.”
“I hope you’re hurrying because you miss me too,” Gavin said.
Was it his imagination, or did Miles take an extra couple of seconds to answer? “Of course,” he said.
Gavin saw Careful peering through the back window. “I’ve got to get back to work. Drive safe.”
“See you soon, mi amor,” Miles said.
Gavin felt a tingling all the way to his toes hearing those words in Miles’s throaty Spanish. “You too,” he said and then ended the call.
He worked out at the gym after his shift, and one of the big-screen TVs was playing the YouTube video for “Milking the Cows.” One of the guys was making lewd gestures to accompany the song, and people were laughing. He slunk off to the side, hoping no one would recognize him.
Miles called him that night. “There was an accident on I-475 outside Valdosta, so I’m running late,” he said as soon as Gavin answered. “Do me a favor and go to iTunes. My guy says that he uploaded all four songs.”
It took a minute for everything to load.
“Have you got it yet?” Miles demanded.
“Keep your shorts on. It’s working.”
“I’ll wait to take them off until I see you. Is it there yet?”
“You must have been a real pain as a kid,” Gavin grumbled. “Hold on. My laptop has to load iTunes first.”
He had never felt his Internet connection be so slow before. Finally the iTunes app opened and began to connect to the store. “Here it comes. Holy shit, we’re in New Music!”
He was astonished to see a photo of all of them, taken at the dress rehearsal, as the thumbnail for each of the songs. “This is awesome!”
“How are we doing?”
“Almost all the little bars are filled in for ‘I’m Yours.’ The other songs are maybe like half that.”
“Shit!”
“What’s the matter?” Gavin asked anxiously. “Isn’t that good enough?”
“Not the music. I just swerved on the highway.”
“Well, focus on driving. You can’t produce a whole album for us if you’re in the hospital or dead. How soon will you be home?”
“I’m on the turnpike just south of Orlando. A couple of hours. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
Gavin hung up and realized what he’d said. A whole album? How could they do that, with all of them spread around, with Erica in school, Archie working, and the grannies in failing health?
Climbing the Charts
Wednesday morning at work, Gavin kept pulling his phone out whenever he had a moment, watching the rankings as “I’m Yours” climbed the charts, with the other three songs trailing behind it.
“You’re going to be famous now,” Careful said, looking over Gavin’s shoulder. “I hear that song everywhere.”
“I can’t believe it,” Gavin said. He was desperate to talk to Miles but figured that he had been working late in the studio, and he knew that Miles was going to need caffeine sooner or later.
It was still hard to fight back the urge to panic or to chase after him, and he marveled at how much his attitude had changed since meeting Miles. By the time his shift ended, Miles hadn’t come into Java Joe’s or called.
Gavin stood on Lincoln Road in the shade of one of the café umbrellas, debating whether he should go over to Miles’s studio. He didn’t want to go to the gym, in case people were still watching “Milking the Cows” and laughing. And he knew if he went home, he’d just sit there and brood.
Where was Miles? Why hadn’t he called as soon as he’d gotten to town? That’s what a boyfriend would do, right? And after all the time they’d spent together and all the sex they’d shared, shouldn’t Miles be considering Gavin his boyfriend? Hadn’t they both said they loved each other?
What if Miles had changed his mind on the long trip south, though? He’d made it clear from the start that he wanted to produce an album for the Singing Sweethearts, that he had seen it as the ticket to his own business success. Suppose he’d reverted to his original thinking, that a producer and an artist couldn’t be together?
Gavin was getting himself worked up into what his mother called “a state” when he spotted Miles coming down Lincoln Road toward him, his Bluetooth in his ear, talking rapidly to someone.
He was determined to play it cool, but as soon as Miles arrived, ended his call, and kissed Gavin on the lips, he fell apart. “Have you talked to my father? Have you heard what’s going on?”
“Give me a minute, Gavin,” Miles said. “I need some caffeine. I’ve been so busy I barely slept last night.”
Gavin was so full of questions he was ready to explode, but he said, “Fine. Sit down and I’ll make one for you.”
He rushed into the café and slipped behind the bar.
“You’re off, Gavin,” Careful said.
“I just need to make two drinks. I’ll pay for them later.”
He scooted around the other baristas and made two Jumbo Joes—one for himself, and one for Miles—and then carried them to Miles, who was sitting at a table by the window, talking on the phone again.
Miles spoke first. “The numbers for your videos are awesome.”
Gavin’s head was spinning. “What does that mean?”
“It means you and your cousins are recording artists,” Miles said. “Alan was pretty pissed that you guys sang ‘I’m Yours’ without permission and then that I posted the videos under the name Singing Sweethearts, but that’s all water under the bridge.”
“But we’re cousins, not sweethearts,” Gavin said.
“And your grandmother and your aunts? Were they some kind of lesbian trio? No. They were America’s Sweethearts. And now you, Archie, and Erica are following in their footsteps.”
“How come you didn’t think to ask us before you put up those videos? We could have come up with our own name.”
“This is business, Gavin. The Sweethearts already have an identity. And this way, we can put out the collaborative songs between generations under the same name.”
This was what Gavin hated about modeling. At least there, he understood why he was treated so casually. The client didn’t care about his opinion on the clothes or the pose. But shouldn’t it be different now that he was a performer?
“We’ve got another conference call scheduled for this afternoon,” Miles said. “Your father, Alan, and I need to get a clear idea of who the Singing Sweethearts are now, what market they’re aiming for, and so on.”
Gavin could see he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Miles. Miles had already commoditized him and his cousins, and his eyes were full of dollar signs. “I should let you get back to work,” Gavin said. He stood up.
“I’ll be in touch,” Miles said as he picked up his cell phone.
You’ll be in touch all right, Gavin thought as he walked out to Lincoln Road and turned toward his apartment.
It’ll be a cold day in hell before you touch me again.
As he walked, he called his father at work. Kaz Cars had new hold music, he discovered; instead of the usual Muzak, he had to listen to “Milking the Cows.”
“What’s up, Gavin?” his father asked. “We’re launching the new Avalon, and I’m busier than a one-armed paperhanger.”
“Not too busy to make deals for the Singing Sweethearts,” Gavin said. “Or just too busy to ask me what I think?”
“You’ve never taken an interest in business before. Why start now?”
“Because I’m not a little kid you can move around to suit you.” Gavin mimicked his father’s voice. “Gavin, you have to play Little League because I sponsor the team. Dress up like an elf at Christmas, Gavin, and stand by the front door of the showroom handing out flyers and candy canes. Go volunteer at the hospital, Gavin, because once those people get well, they’ll want to buy cars from us.”
“I know, you had a terrible childhood,” his father said. “Like something out of Dickens.”
“I never said my childhood was terrible. But you treated me and Gretchen like employees. And it’s clear neither of us are following the paths you set out for us, Dad. Or should I start calling you Grandpa?”
“Cut to the chase, Gavin. What do you want?”
“I want a say in my future. For starters, I want to be on your conference call this afternoon. As you always told me, you can’t win if you don’t play. I want to play.”
“Fine. I’ll conference you in at four o’clock. And now, if you don’t mind, I have cars to sell.”
“Knock ’em dead, Dad,” Gavin said and then hung up.
Business Deals
At his father’s urging, Gavin had taken a couple of business courses at FU. He hadn’t hated them, but he hadn’t exactly loved them, either. When he got back to his apartment, he pulled out his marketing textbook and flipped through it, reminding himself of some key terms. Online he found bloggers who discussed the pros and cons of new bands signing immediately with labels.
He wished he could talk all this over with Miles before the call, but it was clear that Miles wasn’t interested in his input, and Gavin knew it was time he stood up for himself instead of always looking for someone to give him direction. Stand there, turn this way, smile, frown, lean forward.
He read a bunch of case studies of artist development. Some groups, like the boy bands and girl groups of the 1990s, had been assembled by a music producer, who had provided them with their identity, their music, and their marketing. Other acts had begun in someone’s garage, singing covers at dances and small clubs, building their identity from the inside out.
The typical pattern was that after gaining the attention of a major label, the band would be fronted with cash to produce an album. The label would arrange promotion, touring, and radio play in exchange for a big share of the group’s earnings.
With the rise of the Internet, more and more artists had made their own way. Justin Bieber had launched his career with a series of YouTube videos, just as the Sweethearts were doing.
Gavin sat back in his chair. He had never considered the cost of producing music; it was just something that appeared on the radio or online. But he learned that it was expensive to pay for songwriters and engineers and cover design, for promotional materials and public relations help.
Miles owned his own equipment, and all he’d put in so far was his time and his skill. But why? Because he saw a financial windfall. Gavin hunted through his e-mails, trying to find the agreement Miles had signed with his father, and realized he’d never been sent a copy. He doubted that Erica and Archie had, either. They’d just signed those contracts at Starlit Lake without question.
So Miles had been using him all along. The sex was probably just to keep him quiet. And Gavin had been the one to say “I love you” first—all Miles had done was parrot it back to him, and in Spanish, then translate it, as if Gavin was too stupid to know what it meant.
How could the guy be such a slimeball? Gavin felt like he needed a shower just thinking about the way Miles had touched him.
Promptly at four, he dialed the number his father had texted him and then put in his code. “
At the sound of the tone, please say your name, then press the pound key
,” a robotic female voice said. “
You will be the fourth participant
.”
As soon as he was connected, he heard someone say, “Hello, Gavin. I’m Alan Questron. I’ve been handling the business deals for the Singing Sweethearts for a few years now, and I’m excited to see things heating up.”
“And you already know Miles,” his father said. “Now, let’s get started.”
Gavin followed the basic outline of the conversation, and he kept his mouth shut, waiting for the time when he felt he had to speak up. That came when Alan and Miles began debating the group’s image and how to appeal to the largest market share.
“Excuse me,” Gavin said, breaking in. “But shouldn’t Archie, Erica, and I have a say in what kind of group we want to be and what kind of music we want to sing?”
“Let the people who know the business talk, Gavin,” his father said.
“Happy to, Dad. Once I get a chance to say my piece. I may not know the music business from the inside, but I know what it’s like to be in the audience. My friends and I won’t listen to crap that sounds manufactured. There’s a reason why they call musicians artists, because there needs to be something creative, something artistic, behind the music. That’s what people respond to, and that’s what makes them buy music and share it with their friends and join communities.”