More Than Anything (8 page)

“Other instruments?” I realize I’ve been thinking about only me and Yam. It never occurred to me that I’d have a whole band on my stuff. I’m not sure how I feel about that, and I say so. Sebastian nods. “That’s one of the things I need to work out with you and with the label. They have a specific vision of what they think will sell best, and you as the artist have your vision. As the producer, I need to mesh those two and get the optimal possible result.”

I must look worried, because his tone softens. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to let them ride roughshod over you. With a voice like yours I could probably just turn on the mikes and walk away, but they’ll want more than that. If nothing else, I’m the guy who’ll keep them from ruining your sound. And if I do it right, we’ll come up with a whole vibe that will be your signature. There’s a world of possibility. Ideally I’ll pull some amazing performances out of you, and by the time we’re done, we’ll both be grinning ear to ear.” He chuckles. “If you don’t completely hate me first.”

“Why would I hate you?” I ask as June reappears.

“Because he’s a miserable slave driver and will make you do things over that are already perfect a hundred times. But humor him. He thinks he’s some kind of big shot, and nobody’s had the heart to break it to him he’s not. Except me,” she says, and my estimation of June increases ten notches.

Sebastian nods. “Well, there’s some truth to that – I need to get the best possible example on every song. But we’ll have plenty of time to go over the details. I just wanted to meet you and introduce myself, and tell you how excited I am we’re going to be working together.”

June elbows me. “I’ll be the entertainment committee. We’ll see if I can ruin you, or at least have a little fun while we’re at it.”

Sebastian eyes her, and I detect a little tension in the glance, but June seems oblivious to it. He claps his hands together and nods at me. “I’ve got to get back to work. Anyhow, think about what you want to record, and let’s plan on hooking up at nine, day after tomorrow, okay?”

“That sounds perfect,” I agree. He shakes my hand again, and for a moment I feel like I’m betraying Derek when we connect, which is silly. Sebastian is my producer. Whatever that means.

“I’ll walk you out, okay?” June says and watches as Sebastian returns to the control room. The light blinks on again, and she shakes her head. “He’s a workaholic. He’ll be in there until midnight or one, tweaking every tone, trying to get them just a hair better. It’s what he does. Thankfully the world agrees the effort’s worth it, but I worry about him sometimes. There’s more to life than sitting around twisting knobs.”

“Don’t take this…personally, but how old is he? He seems really young.”

June smiles. “Oh, you don’t know his story? He’s twenty-seven. He made a name for himself as a teenager, apprenticing for one of the top engineering producers in town, and within three years of being an assistant, was being booked like he was the talent. He did his first major label production when he was twenty, and it went double platinum.” She sighs. “He can be difficult at times, but he’s got an ear.” She hesitates. “I wish I had something I wanted to do as much as he loves this.” She sighs again. “Maybe one day, huh?”

I trail her to the steel door, and she opens it. “I see they got you the limo. Enjoy it while it lasts. Once you’re in here, it’s twelve-hour days.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, and I realize I am.

“Good. And I’ll be around every now and then to lighten things up. Girls just want to have fun and all that, right?”

She reminds me of Melody a little, and I smile.

“That’s the rumor.”

Steve ferries me back to the apartment. My head is spinning from the studio orientation or, more specifically, from Sebastian, who’s completely unlike anything I was prepared for. It’s not that he’s shockingly good-looking, although that’s a big surprise – it’s that he’s so nice, right down to putting up with June’s shit. If it was my studio, I’d have shut her down when she started in on me, but he was endlessly patient and good-humored.

I’m thinking over his words when I open the apartment door and see my phone blinking. I run to it and see a bunch of messages and two missed calls. Crap. The calls are from New York, and the messages are all from Melody, literally hourly, demanding updates.

I unplug the cell and see it’s almost fully charged, and text Melody back.

Me:
OMG. You won’t believe the place they have me in.

Melody:
That bad?

Me:
It’s a palace. I’ll buy a camera and send you snaps. And I have a chauffeur.

Melody:
No way.

Me:
Way. And I met my producer. He’s really nice. His sister’s cool, too.

Melody:
What’s his name again? I’ll google him.

Me:
Sebastian Stalt.

There’s about a sixty-second pause and then a flurry of texts.

Melody:
He’s a total babe. I’ll be on the first flight down.

Me:
He’s too old for you.

Melody:
Says he’s twenty-something. And famous. And single. Me like.

Me:
I’m working with him, Melody. Besides, I’m with Derek.

Melody:
What do you mean, with?

Me:
Not here. He’s in New York. But I’m with him.

Melody:
You’re in L.A. Sounds like you’re closer to Sebastian than Derek.

Me:
Why are you so shameless?

Melody:
Poor you. It’s raining men and all you can say is you don’t want to get your hair wet.

Me:
I got a treat basket. Expensive chocolate. It’s the size of a refrigerator
.
And my floors are marble. I shit you not.

Melody:
I hate you.

Me:
Gotta go.

Melody:
Remember the photos. Maybe of Sebastian wearing only a sock.

Me:
Pervert.

Melody:
Bye.

I’ve never met anyone as consistent as Melody. She’s laser focused, and I have no doubt that if she was down here with me, she’d have figured out how to fall into Sebastian’s arms minutes after meeting him. Some people can dance, some can sing, but Melody’s talents lie in other directions.

I dial the New York number back, but nobody answers. I carry the phone into the bedroom with me and unpack my pathetically few belongings and hang them up, and debate how many of the chocolates I can pilfer without ruining the basket’s packaging.

I busy myself unfolding the protective cellophane with the care of a surgeon and unbox a tray of truffles, each one more amazing than the last. I force myself to stop at six, by which time I’m alternating between wanting to barf and a sugar high. The box goes back into the basket with considerably less weight, and I do my best to make the presentation look untouched, though I’m not exactly sure who I’m trying to impress with that.

Next I go to the bathroom and turn on the hot water in the bathtub. They have an assortment of soaps and shampoos and lotions in a box, and I strip off my clothes as the tub fills. The pink goop I pour in bubbles to the point I’m afraid it’ll froth over and I’ll be explaining to the maintenance people about why I can’t be trusted with something as simple as water.

I shut off the taps and, balancing precariously, dip a toe into the foam. It feels like heaven. I carefully set the phone on the floor next to the tub and lower myself into the water, savoring the feeling of my first bath in forever.

If chauffeurs and limos and Belgian chocolate weren’t enough to make me feel like I’m in a dream, this puts me over the top, and as I close my eyes, I never want it to end.

Until I’m jarred out of my reverie by the shrill ringing of the phone.

I just about drown when I try to stand and slip, twisting something in my back. I force myself to calm down and sit back in the tub and then reach for the phone. New York calling, I see as I raise it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Sage. Finally,” Derek says. “I’ve been trying to call–”

“I know. I’m a dork. My battery was dead.”

“I figured it had to be something like that.” He pauses. “You were telling me about going to Los Angeles when we got cut off?”

“I’m here. Flew in today. It’s pretty awesome.”

“Yeah? Cool. Tell me about it.”

I describe the apartment and meeting Sebastian, and he sounds subdued.

“So you’re starting preproduction in a couple days? That’s great. I’m doing the same thing, although not with a guy like Sebastian. Solid studio in new Jersey, mid-level producer with some hits.”

“New Jersey? Are you going to commute?”

“Nah. I’ll find a rat trap around there. From the way they’re talking, it shouldn’t take that long to record it. They want it out before the ink dries on the cover.”

“Are they giving you money while you record?”

“A whopping five hundred a week. But with an appearance here and there, I should be able to stay out of the tunnels.”

I haven’t even asked Saul about money yet. Things are moving so fast. I remember I’m supposed to talk to several management companies tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll click with one and they’ll do all the heavy lifting.

“Why did you move out of our place?” I ask.

“Your landlady decided I was a rat bastard after reading about the split. Said it was no longer for rent.”

“I’m sorry, Derek. That was a good spot.”

“I had it coming. Besides, Queens isn’t so bad. If you ignore the shootings and the rats. But my chauffeur’s the train. Sounds like there’s a big difference between first place and second, huh?”

“None of this matters, Derek. Your record will go huge, and then you’ll be massive.”

“That’s what the company’s hoping for, I guess. They aren’t doing it for their health.”

He still sounds down. I consider not telling him about tomorrow night, but decide I’d better. He’ll read about it or see it on TV anyway.

“Hey, in the I-hate-public-appearances department, my label’s dragging me to an awards show tomorrow, and I have no idea what to wear.” I tell him about the dinner, and he perks up.

“You’re going to be on TV?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not about me, Derek. They just want to get me some free publicity.”

“You’ll be hanging out with MTV stars. Tell me that doesn’t rock.”

“It’s a little overwhelming. You know I hate talking to people.”

“You’ve been doing great on the shows. You’re a natural.”

“So are you.” I swallow, my voice suddenly tight. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“It sucks I can’t record in New York.”

“I know. But you said it’s only six weeks, right?”

“It’s always six weeks. I’m getting pretty tired of six weeks, and then six more. I feel like life’s passing by while I’m in limbo.”

“I feel the same way.”

“Maybe I can get away for a few days once basic tracks are done. I’ll ask.”

“That would be great. I’ll do the same. I’m sure between the two of us, we can figure it out.”

The conversation stalls with that vague promise. I want to say so much more than I have. Instead, I go with technology.

“Buy a phone, Derek.”

“I’ll get one tomorrow.”

“And then call me. Or text.” A thought occurs to me. “Or email me. I’ll get a cheap laptop or tablet.”

“Haven’t they hired you a personal assistant yet?” Derek teases, and I think about Ruby and our shopping outing tomorrow. Maybe it’s best not to share everything. It’s bad enough I’m talking about marble floors and he’s joking about drive-bys.

“I wanted to say…when I was leaving? In the rain? That was incredible.” My voice sounds tiny to me now.

“It was. I can’t wait to see you again.”

“Me too.”

It’s so different talking to him on the phone. Even though I can imagine his face, his flashing eyes, his smile, he sounds remote and distracted somehow, and I’m not sure how to bridge the gap. It’s frustrating. After a few more minutes of small talk, we disconnect, and instead of the warm glow I was hoping for, I feel kind of empty. And the bathwater’s getting cold.

I get out of the tub and towel off as it drains, thinking about the call. Maybe I can fly to the East Coast for a few days. Why not? Sebastian will have a better idea about the schedule than I do, but I can’t see my presence being essential for the whole six weeks. Maybe a long weekend.

Which stops me.

It doesn’t seem that way to me, but the logical part of my brain’s asking whether I’m rushing things. I mean, yes, it was crazy mad love in the rain, but that was only a few kisses. If Derek flew here tomorrow morning and spent the week, what would happen? Would I do a Melody and get the oil out? Or more likely, would I go back and forth between possibilities and make everyone’s life miserable?

“No. Not this time,” I say out loud as I eye my tattoo, which stretches from just below my breast, two lines of script I suffered an hour to get, the tattoo artist’s pink latex gloves and thinning black hair as vivid today as when I did the deed.