More Than Anything (29 page)

“It’s not negotiable. How much do you think it would cost for, say, two weeks?”

She looks flabbergasted. “Not negotiable? When did I say we were in a negotiation? It’s not just the rehearsal time. I need you here to do interviews, photo shoots, approve cover art, and on and on and on.” Her voice quiets to a whisper. “Negotiable? I think you better explain to me what the hell’s going on, because you’re being handed a dream on a platter, and you’re acting like we want you to kill a puppy.”

I look around, searching my brain for a way out.

“How about one week?”

“Sage. Talk. Why do you have to be in New York?”

I take a deep breath and look her directly in the eyes. “Remember the guy I started in the show with? Derek?”

Five minutes later I’m done. She’s looking at me like I’m insane.

“So this is all about you getting your rocks off?” She shakes her head. “Tell me there’s a hidden camera around here, that this is all a joke or something.”

That wasn’t the supportive response I was hoping for.

“Look, doll. I’ll say this once. Nothing is more important than the first six months of this launch. Nothing. Hundreds of people are working their asses off to make you a star. Saul’s people, his publicists and ad buyers, my staff, Sebastian’s people, the booking agent, the talent coordinator, directors, photographers, merchandisers, endorsement people. You’re not Sage, the seventeen-year-old who has boyfriend blues, you’re Sage the business. The industry. So get your head screwed on straight. If Saul heard this, he’d pull the plug on you so fast it would make your head spin.”

I start blubbering. I can’t help it. She’s being so mean. Although I know in my heart she isn’t – she’s explaining how the world I now inhabit works. Big money is riding on me not flaking, and all she’s hearing from me is a girl whose eye is anywhere but on the ball.

She fishes a tissue out of her purse and hands it to me with a sigh, and when she speaks again, her voice is soft.

“Let’s say I can get you five or six days. Figure four plane tickets, so maybe a grand apiece. Two hotel rooms someplace decent, couple hundred a night each. Call it three grand. You’re already up to seven thousand dollars, and you haven’t paid the band yet or fed them. Call that another three. Do you have ten grand to throw away so you can go play Romeo and Juliet in New York?”

I shake my head. Of course not. Even with the couple of appearances, I only have around five grand after paying for flights to San Francisco, rental cars, Jeremy’s apartment, my aborted flight to New York, phones, and all the other crap that’s eating me alive. The show’s paying me fifty grand a year, but after taxes it’s not a fortune by any stretch.

“Look. Why don’t you have him fly out here? He can spend a week relaxing on the beach while you do your thing. Isn’t that more practical than you moving heaven and earth to get to New York?”

“I…he’s got the same pressure I do. A record releasing, putting a band together…”

“Wait. So he can’t come out for a week, but you can? Who won the contest, you or him? Who got the big label deal, you or him?” She’s getting angrier. “Look, Sage, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe you can get away for three or four days. Then maybe he can. But that’s as good as it’s going to get. There’s way too much riding on this to screw around, am I clear? Am I getting through to you?”

I bristle. “You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a child.”

She gets deadly quiet, and her voice drops to a whisper. “Sage, I like you. I think you’ve got what it takes to go the distance. But so help me God, you keep this up, and I’ll drop you like a freaking rock, you understand? Because I’m not going to explain to Saul why Little Miss Hot Pants blew everything because she didn’t take this seriously.” She pulls her cell phone out of her pocket. “You want me to call him right now and tell him about this? Want to see how fast this can all evaporate? Try me. Just try me. You want to be talked to like an adult? Fine.” She slams the phone down on the arm of the sofa. “Start acting like one.”

I stand and begin pacing. I want to run away. I want to hop on the first plane to New York and see Derek. I’m tired of people controlling my time, my life, telling me what time to be where, how long to stay, what I have to do next.

Of course I realize I can’t. But it’s what I want.

Which is exactly what she’s complaining about. I’m not thinking. I need to be more like Melody and calculate how to get what I want, not complain because I’m not getting it.

I stop pacing and fix Terry with a calm stare.

“I’ll see when Derek can get away. But I want four days. Five, counting the flying days. There’s got to be a sliver of time in there somewhere when I can be gone. I’ll work longer hours, I’ll rehearse all day, I’ll do whatever it takes. But I’m not going to lose the one person in the world I care about for anything. Does that sound adult enough for you?”

She studies me, her face unreadable, and then nods.

“Honey, I hope he’s worth it. That’s all I can say.” She sighs loudly and scoops up her phone and bag, and stands. “I’ll figure it out and let you know when you can go. Talk to him and see what his schedule’s like.” She shakes her head and stares at the red light over the control room door. “You’re lucky I’m such a softie.”

Melody arrives like a visiting ambassador, filling the studio with her over-the-top presence, and I’m in no mood. I tell Sebastian I’m through for the day, and without waiting for his reaction, I call a taxi to take me home. He doesn’t push it; his mind is probably on other things, for which I’m grateful.

I spend my evening watching reruns of
That Seventies Show
, laughing and munching on three-day-old Chinese food. It’s almost midnight when Melody shows up, and she’s amped to the max, bouncing off the walls with excitement.

“I gather it went well,” I say by way of greeting, and remind myself not to take my aggression out on her. I talked to Derek earlier and explained the situation. He took it surprisingly well, and agreed to look at his schedule and see about planning another trip. But I’m still angry at the world, and even that slim reed of hope doesn’t put me in a better mood.

“You can say that again.” She sits next to me on the couch.

“You didn’t…”

She laughs. “No. But wow, do I want to. He’s amazing. Did you know he kite surfs? Goes to Mexico once a year for a week to do it?”

“It never came up.”

“And that he turned down a scholarship to Dartmouth? A sports scholarship?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He wanted to produce records. So he said no thanks. Tell me who’s got the balls to do that?”

“Apparently Sebastian does.” I regard her curiously. “Wait a minute. What’s going on? This isn’t like you. You’re all about closing the deal, right? Not mooning over how neat the dude is.”

She stands and moves to the refrigerator and returns with two diet sodas and puts them on the table. “You got any more chocolate?”

I nod. “Emergency stash. Top cabinet over the microwave. Hershey’s kisses. In case of zombie apocalypse, open bag.”

She retrieves the sack and tears the top open like a frenzied honey badger, and unwraps one in record time before popping it into her mouth. She closes her eyes and savors the sweet taste and then nods and looks at me.

“I…this is going to sound so dumb.”

“Then I better have one,” I say and retrieve three kisses.

“I think…I don’t know how to explain it. I really like him. And I think he likes me.”

“Wait. Melody, the calculating heartbreaker, is falling for my producer?” I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”

“I know. Don’t let it get out. My reputation would be in shambles.” She shakes her head. “It’s…it’s like I spend time with him, and we talk, and he totally gets me. He’s interesting and funny and smart, and he digs me even though I’m not any of those things.”

I unwrap the first chocolate and pop it in my mouth. “Not true. You’re all that and more.”

Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes. “Sage, don’t even try. I’m a high school student who barely gets by. Smart isn’t on the table.”

“You bore easily. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

“Can we get back to why Sebastian is so frigging awesome?”

“Melody, you’ve got a crush on him. He drives a Porsche. He’s a celebrity. You’re starstruck, that’s all.”

“You forgot that he’s amazing-looking.”

“Oh. That.” I wave my good hand.

“It’s just that I’ve never felt this way before. It’s more than…what it usually is, you know?”

My eyes narrow. “Did you kiss him?”

She looks away. “Duh.”

“But you didn’t…?”

“I told you no.”

“Did you…do anything…more…progressive than just kiss?”

“No. That’s my whole point. Normally I’d have had his pants off within minutes, but…I don’t know. I want this to be different.”

I study her. “Why, Melody. Don’t tell me you’re developing morals.”

She laughs. “Hardly. It’s just that I want to take this slower. Get to know him more. It feels…it feels like it could be more than a fun night or two in L.A., is what I’m saying.”

“I don’t believe it. What happened to nude oil dancing?”

“That’s my backup.”

We sit munching in silence as I consider this unexpected wrinkle. Melody, the stud slayer, laid low by Sebastian, reduced to talking about how great he is instead of recounting her conquest. Every day brings a new surprise. I would have lost money on a bet about tonight – when it got close to midnight, I was sure they were shacked up in some motel.

“So what are you going to do? You fly out Monday morning. That leaves tomorrow, and we’re going to the beach.”

“Oh, right. I forgot to tell you. He’s going to take us.”

“What?”
Sebastian is not only taking a day off, but he’s going to drive us around?
This is serious. Then my mind flits to my pale body – Sebastian is going to see me in a bikini. I want to vomit. “I don’t want to go.”

“Why not? You promised.”

“I don’t want to lie on the beach watching you and Sebastian make eyes at each other.”

She gets serious. “I’m not letting you weasel out, Sage. You’re going.”

“Nope.” I pop the last kiss in my mouth with a determined flick of the wrist.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are.”

“Am not.”

Sebastian picks us up in the Cadillac at 10:40 and we cruise to Malibu, over the hill and through the canyon, cups of Starbucks already downed, wind in our hair. Melody looks like something out of a music video and insists on holding both hands over her head on the freeway and doing her best woohooing. I reluctantly join in after she elbows me hard enough to loosen a filling, and have to admit it’s fun.

Melody’s wearing a pair of cut-off shorts and a lime green tube top that would be at home in a
Dukes of Hazzard
movie. Sebastian bestows admiring glances at her flawless caramel skin, and I feel even more inadequate than usual, white as a fish belly next to her in my oversized shorts and baggy long-sleeve Slayer T-shirt that says to everyone that I was at the show, or at least know someone who was. Or had two bucks for a thrift shop castoff, which is actually the case.

Traffic in Malibu’s a snarl, and after sitting stalled for ten minutes, Sebastian takes a side street and heads for the coast, away from the public beach.

“Where are we going?” Melody asks, eyeing the long line of cars behind us.

“I know a guy who has a place here. I’m pretty sure he won’t mind if we chill there,” Sebastian says.

“You do? Awesome.”

We pull up at a white modern beach house that looks like just the garage door costs a few million, and Sebastian kills the motor and gets out of the car. He makes a phone call, has a murmured discussion, and then laughs and hangs up.

“Come on,” he says. We tail him to the electronic security gate across the walkway. He punches in a code, and it swings open. Melody and I exchange a glance. Sebastian rules.

He repeats the procedure at the front door, and then we’re inside a home that looks like every excessively expensive place ever featured on
Cribs
. Slick black leather sofas, a sixty-inch TV, marble floors, colorful abstract oil paintings…and a wall literally filled with gold and platinum records.

Melody walks over to them and reads one of the plaques and, when she turns to Sebastian, looks shocked. “Is this really…?”

He nods. “Yup. He’s not in town. But he says the wine cellar’s in the basement, and he has a few hundred bottles of Cristal if we’re thirsty.”

“No way,” Melody says.

Sebastian grins and heads downstairs. He’s wearing another one of his trademark white linen shirts, but this time with board shorts, and we both watch him descend the steps with admiring gazes.

When he returns, he has two champagne bottles in his hands and an ear-to-ear grin.

“Boy, he wasn’t kidding. Who’s thirsty?”

Melody doesn’t need her arm twisted, and I agree to a glass. Sebastian ferrets around in the kitchen and returns with a stainless steel ice bucket and three champagne flutes. “Want to head out to the patio?” he asks and doesn’t wait for a response. Of course we want to head out to the dream home’s beachfront terrace so we can sip champagne from crystal glasses. I mean, what’s the point of living if it’s not this?