Sheet Music

by Tibby Armstrong

  “S’up?” Brent asked and settled into a chair. “I hear you’re having a rough go today.”

  David smoothed his palm down his face and inhaled deeply through his nose.

  “Look. Can you call concierge at the Ritz and arrange for a car to bring Kyra Martin ‘round?”

  When a full fifteen seconds passed and Brent hadn’t said anything David opened his eyes to make sure the man was still there. He was. Sitting forward in the chair with his mouth hanging open.

  David gave him his best you-so-don’t-want-to-fuck-with-me-right-now stare and the blue-eyed blond with polo-style good looks sat back.

  “You’re serious?”

  “As the grave.”

  “You’re giving her an interview?”

  The question itself was benign, but it made David’s stomach roil as if he’d eaten bad seafood. His answer sailed out on reflex. “Hell no!”

  Brent’s normally smooth brow creased into a frown. “Then, what?”

  “I’ve made it clear I don’t want her to write anything about me unless I give her the go-ahead. If she does, I’m going to feed her to the press as a groupie with a crush gone wrong.”

  The second the words were out of his mouth he opened it to take them back, but then he thought about Kyra bribing the hotel staff. She might have a vulnerable side, but she’d also obviously stop at nothing to get what she wanted. Just like his ex-wife. Now inviting her here seemed like a less than stellar move. He’d probably played right into her hands.

  “So, you’re setting her up?” Brent asked, a wide grin spreading across his face.

  David’s laugh sounded bitter even to his own ears.

  “No. She’s quite willing. Even paid someone to alert her to my comings and goings. I’m just watching as she’s hoisted with her own petard.”

  “Sounds like you’re having fun playing her,” he said and stood with a chuckle. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “Thanks. If you don’t mind, I’m going to shut my eyes for twenty. It was a late night.”

  Brent laughed knowingly. “Okay then. You rest up, man.”

  David didn’t bother to answer. He just fell back onto the couch and tried to ignore the feeling that his life, whether he liked it or not, was about to get a whole lot more complicated.

  * * * * *

  When the driver pulled up to the massive stone church that had once hosted services as far back as the fifteenth century, Kyra couldn’t overlook the irony that the men and women who recorded in there now were the world’s new icons, worshiped and pampered as lavishly as any pope or king.

  The building still sported the imposingly beautiful stained glass arches. Only the black high-security gates told her that those flying buttresses and towering spires helped to conceal anything other than an old world church.

  A guard checked her identification and waved them on through to a canopied portico. The VIP entrance. When she stepped out of the vehicle she recognized Brent Weber from his photographs. He held out a hand and she shook it.

  “Brent Weber, I’m Kyra Martin,” she said with a professional smile.

  “I remember,” he said with a knowing leer.

  She yanked her hand out of his grasp. Had they met before? She thought she knew him from his photograph. Had David said something to him?

  Rather than let him see how much he’d bothered her, she smoothed her features and took his measure. He was clean cut. Squeakily so, but there was an edge to him that screamed predator. It sent a chill down her spine to feel his eyes on her. Assessing her.

  A shadow played across her memory. “Do I know you?”

  His smile was wolfish. “You know my brother.”

  A puzzled frown creased her brow as she tried to remember the man he referred to. In the end, she shook her head.

  Brent’s eyes narrowed. “Adam.”

  “Adam… Adam Weber?” She felt the blood leave her face before returning to heat her cheeks. “Look, that was years ago.”

  He closed the space between them and ran a finger down her cheek.

  Kyra jerked her head to the side and suppressed the urge to retch.

  “You know, you should just go home before you ruin someone else’s career,” he said.

  Now she was angry.

  “I’m here on business.”

  Brent laughed and leaned in close. Too close.

  “Yeah? I heard about your business last night. Are you going to pull the same stunt with David as with Adam? Because, I have to warn you, you’re in way over your head.”

  Looking up at him, she found his attractiveness diminished. The snarl on his face made her want to step back, but she resisted the impulse.

  “I’m not buying your low-rent insinuations, Mr. Weber. As for what happened to your brother, I had nothing to do with it. Now, I suggest you take me to the studio, or let me find my own way. This conversation is over.”

  For a moment she thought he wouldn’t let her pass, might even call security to have her removed.

  “By all means.” He stepped back and gestured widely.

  “Thanks,” she snapped, moving sharply away from the guiding hand he placed at the crest of her derriere.

  The hallways were quiet. Doors marked Studio 1 and Studio 2 and Richmond Hall were on the first floor. They headed through an alcove to the second floor and one of the smaller studios.

  She distracted herself from her roiling emotions with thoughts of David. If he was only laying vocal tracks today he wouldn’t need much space. Just a small Iso booth and perhaps another modest-sized room for any impromptu instrumental tracks, she figured.

  When she walked into the dimly lit control room and saw him through the glass, a new kind of tension entered her body. He was in a special chamber designed to capture his voice in the microphone hanging just above his mouth level. His eyes were closed and she could hear the previously recorded and mixed rhythm, piano and guitar tracks playing over the speakers.

  Two men were in the room. She recognized one—the producer from his last album. The other man, shaved bald and wearing a Milton Keynes t-shirt was running the Neve mixing console. For seasoned professionals, both of the men in the room were kicking off boatloads of tension and she wondered what was going on.

  Kyra hung back, not wanting to come into David’s direct line of sight. She’d been in plenty of recording studios, and yet she was as wound as a cat with a tin can tied to its tail. Something about watching a man she was attracted to make music screamed foreplay to her.

  The song he was belting out had grit. Underneath, there was still the Bowie meets Sinatra trademark that had carried him this far in his career, but now it was mixed with electric guitars and an amazingly dirty reverb. The unlikely twist was like listening to satin shredded against granite, and it was hot. But it was also a huge risk.

  In that moment she understood the reason for the ratcheted stress level in the control room. David was changing his style.

  Why on earth had he brought her here? In a way, Brent was right. Didn’t he realize that if she didn’t like what he was doing she had the power to tell people who could ruin the release of this album with one deft stroke of the pen? She didn’t even have to be the person to write about it. All she had to do was leak his secret.

  The fact was, she loved it on the first note. She knew he had range and finesse, but he’d never really taken risks with it. He didn’t have to. What he’d been doing all this time worked. But this? This was incredible.

  True to her word, she hadn’t brought anything with which to take notes. She had no recording devices or cameras unless she counted her cell phone, but that would hardly yield something professional. Still, the journalist in her soaked in every last detail.

  Even without an interview, she had her article. She could tell the world David Tallis was recording an album with an edge. Their conversations might be off the record, but for this story angle…he didn’t need to say a thing.

  David opened his eyes on the last note and spo
tted her. Blue flame snapped into his gaze and set her heart beating in a tempo to match the music. From that moment the meaning of the song took on new dimension.

  The producer asked for a double on the lines David had just done and he nodded. The engineer cued the music and he sang the lyrics again, keeping his eyes open and on her the entire time.

  The song was about sex. There was no other way to describe it. It was about base consuming needs and wicked dreams. It wasn’t about love. It was about succumbing to the power and rawness of intimacy.

  The words ran down her spine and made liquid honey surge from her just as his fingertips had done the night before. It was a heady feeling to be sung to like that. To watch his mouth work the words and remember the way it had moved over her last night. His breath was controlled yet powerful, just like his thrusts into her body had been.

  Without thought Kyra sank into the cool metal chair behind her and gave in to what he was doing to her. Every word pelted her like a raindrop of hot energy. When he let his throat caress a note, making it trail out into a sandpapery growl she was glad she had sat down. If she hadn’t, her knees would have simply given out.

  When he stopped singing there was stunned silence in the room. Then the producer leaned into the mic and said, “Just like that. Again.”

  After three takes, each of them more powerful than the first, Kyra felt like her nerves had been scraped raw and she was sitting in the middle of a blast furnace. If they had asked him to do another she had determined to walk out. She couldn’t have taken it.

  “Where’s Stephanie?” she heard David ask.

  Kyra looked around. Stephanie Jersey? The studio guitarist?

  “She wasn’t scheduled today,” Brent answered, sounding confused.

  Kyra’s radar immediately began to sound.

  “I need to hear the acoustic layer. To make sure it still fits with this change before we call it a day.”

  He wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. Before he even made the demand she was shaking her head.

  “Why don’t you do it?” Brent cut in.

  “You know I’m a hack in the studio,” David demurred.

  Kyra felt the urge to kick him. She knew what was coming next and had already gotten up to leave the room.

  “Let Kyra do it,” he said and she froze with her hand on the doorknob.

  “No,” she said and turned around to glare at him.

  Everyone in the room stared back at her.

  Geoff said, “You play?”

  “No.”

  The producer turned to look at David and she could see his reflection in the control room glass. It said Are you nuts or just fucking with me?

  “I’m serious,” David answered.

  Kyra heaved a sigh. She hadn’t played in front of anyone in years and she didn’t intend to start now. Especially not when they were paying gobs of money for studio time that she would only waste.

  “It’s just a few chords, Kyra,” he cajoled.

  Brent studied her mockingly and she decided that she would do it. Not for David, but so sleazeballs like his manager wouldn’t think she was nothing but pussy with legs attached.

  “Fine,” she gritted and moved to go through the door from the control room into the instrument room.

  It took about ten minutes to choose the right guitar and tune it satisfactorily. Then the engineer set up a mic to her height and had her run some sound checks. When they finished, David was behind her with music he’d jotted on a piece of scrap paper for her.

  “It’s just some acoustic layering,” he told her with a nonchalant shrug. “No big deal.”

  She could have slugged him and her look told him as much. The bastard just laughed in response.

  “Let’s get it over with,” she ground out.

  As he left the Iso booth for the control room he just had to say to the guys, “Her dad’s Jerry Martin.”

  She closed her eyes and whispered, “Fuck you, David,” forgetting that the mic could pick up the sound.

  David turned and gave her a look that said You already have.

  Rather than giving him the finger she adjusted her headphones and said, “Give me the click track.”

  He hadn’t lied to her. It was only a handful of chords and she would have made her father proud, banging out the session in a few takes.

  “Thanks. That’s good,” Geoff said.

  As she put the guitar on its stand, her cell phone buzzed.

  Glancing at the display and back to the guys milling about in the studio, she held up a finger and walked into the dark lounge.

  “Hey Gil, what’s up?”

  “Anything?”

  She knew she couldn’t tell him she was at the studio with David. He’d twist her arm to write about it. While ethically she could do it, something told her if she just held off, she’d have a much better story to hand him.

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

  Panic laced Gil’s voice, and she felt like a complete jerk when he said, “You have to come home, Kyra. If you do, maybe I can salvage this.”

  “Gil, please. You know I need this as much as you do. I know if you give me the rest of the week I’ll have what we need.”

  She heard his frustrated sigh over the phone from several thousand miles away.

  “Promise?”

  “I swear I’ll do the best I can. It’s not like I don’t have a fire under my ass on this one.” And that was the absolute truth.

  She heard him open his mouth to say something else, but she cut him off with a tad more venom than she’d intended.

  “Look, I know. The conglomerate owns the market right now. If I don’t get an interview, I’ll be the failure my father intended. I get it.”

  The lounge door creaked and she looked over her shoulder to see David’s backlit form. His presence distracted her from whatever Gil was saying.

  “Look. I have to go,” she said and thumbed the end button. “Sorry about that,” she said and followed David out into the light.

  “Just wanted to let you know we’re finished for the day.”

  His expression was neutral. If he’d heard her conversation, he wasn’t letting on.

  “Sure. Thanks,” she replied, trying to distance herself. The little maneuver he’d pulled getting her to play still had her back up. She held her silence as they walked together down the stairs.

  “Drinks?”

  “Are you asking or telling?” she couldn’t help sniping.

  “Asking. I thought we could go down to the pub and have a pint.”

  “What if we’re seen together?”

  It was a reply calculated to make him retreat, but she was surprised when he didn’t immediately blanch at the idea. Her mind scrambled at his inscrutable expression, and the gears tumbled into place.

  Of course! How could she write a story about a man she’d slept with and done a studio session for? She’d be nailed to the wall as a hanger-on and serious non-contender. Nobody would believe she could be objective after that.

  Saying positive things about him would be the grownup equivalent of writing his name in a little heart on the front of her three-subject notebook and letting the class clown wave it around. She’d never sit at the cool kids’ table again. The only way she could write about him would be to tear him apart, and from where she was standing there was absolutely nothing wrong with him personally or artistically. Apart from his penchant for duplicity.

  She stopped short, fuming silently until he realized she wasn’t following.

  He turned, his body a study in power and grace.

  “You’re a jackass.”

  His brow snapped up.

  “You had me play so I wouldn’t be able to write about this. So I wouldn’t be taken seriously if I did.”

  His mouth quirked in amusement and she started to stalk past him, but he was one step ahead of her. As she strode by, he pulled her close and swooped down on her with a searing kiss.

  When he had her good and breathless, he l
ifted his head to look in her eyes. There was passion mixed with humor in his gaze when he said, “I have to admit, that’s not a bad idea, but no. It wasn’t my intent.”

  His words were cold water to her passion, and Kyra pushed herself away from his embrace.

  “Then why?”

  “I wanted to watch you play.”

  The simplicity of the answer stunned her. That couldn’t be all there was to it.

  “Why?”

  He drew her back toward him, his words a whisper against her lips. “It turns me on.”

  Her heart did a little flip and then sank to her toes. When she played music, she was free and wild. Like she was with David. It was exactly the kind of thing her father had discouraged. But maybe that was why she hadn’t been able to show them all what a success she could be as a writer? Perhaps a little more freedom was exactly what she needed?

  Concern etched in the tightened muscles at the bridge of his nose and he interrupted her reverie. “What is it?”

  She realized he must have seen the confusion on her face, and shook her head on reflex.

  “Tell you what. We’ll play a game,” he offered.

  He grinned and she couldn’t help smiling back.

  “A game?”

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”

  She laughed out loud—a considerable feat given her current state of turmoil.

  “As long as you go first,” she shot, wondering if she’d finally cracked his code.

  His expression darkened a smidge, but he didn’t back down. “Deal.”

  It looked as if her David Tallis education was about to begin.

  Chapter Six

  Kyra settled into the leather seat of the silver Bentley as David leaned forward to speak to his driver. The gray mohair turtleneck he wore stretched over his wide shoulders, defining each hard muscle beneath the sensual fabric. When Brent tapped on the tinted passenger-side window, David sat back and opened it halfway.

  Kyra could only see the blue and cream vertical stripes of Brent’s crisp cotton shirt, but it was enough to make her skin crawl.

  “What’s up for tonight? Are we going over Saturday’s mix?”

  “Tomorrow, mate.” His tone was dismissive, even to Kyra’s ears, and she wished she could see Brent’s face.