Spring Fling

by Claudia Burgoa

  “Tell Layla I said what’s up,” I say in a hurry. “I gotta go.” I hang up—Nico knows there’s no more time for goodbyes, not when I’ve got the sound locked in my head. I swing around to Barry. “Yo, we need a guitarist.”

  Barry nods—he’s been listening to my end of the conversation. “You want me to call Danny, the cat who worked on Drake’s last album?”

  “How about Elian Ramirez? I think he’s in town. He could do it.” I’m rocking now to an unheard melody. Ba-da-da-dahhhh. I can hear it clearly, swimming over the beat I wrote, but with a different voice. I shake my head. “We need a new singer too.”

  But Barry’s got no suggestions. Shit.

  “Who, Barry, who?” I demand. “Goddammit, who’s available right the fuck now? Deeper voice, kind of husky, but Latin? Coño, who am I thinking of? I need to get this shit down before it flies.”

  Barry taps a finger on his lips while Joaquin’s expression ping-pongs between us. “I don’t know, man. National ain’t gonna like it if you ax Katie Derek…”

  I wave him away. “They’re gonna like it fine when I give them a platinum record. She doesn’t work with this, and you know it.”

  “Ariana can do it the way you’re saying—”

  “Nah, she’s touring in Australia with Katie Derek right now,” I say. “Who else?”

  I’m snapping my fingers like a guy who needs his fix.

  Barry opens his mouth and rattles off a few more names, but none of them work. Fuck, fuck. I’m sitting here rapping my brains, trying to think of someone, anyone who can sing this fucking hook for me.

  And then, before I can name anyone else, the studio door opens, and the voice enters.

  “All right, where’s the bastard who delayed an entire video production to adjust a few fucking beats? Where’s the spoiled brat who thinks the entire fucking industry revolves around him? Which one of you assholes is DJ Cairo?””

  I swear to God, I don’t even remember what she said after my stage name comes out of her mouth. She practically sang it, like she was making fun of a singer, but it was melodic, and the deep, husky tone shot through my bones.

  Without even turning around, I raise my hand. “That would be me, sweetheart.”

  “Damn,” Barry murmurs behind me. He bats me on the shoulder. Then he does it again.

  Finally, I swing in, wondering what he’s on about and ready to get this intruder into the sound booth so we can finish this shit. Then I look up, and I can’t think at all.

  * * *

  Shama

  * * *

  He’s just...staring at me.

  I won’t lie. I stare too for a second. But I did it the nice appropriate way through the tiny window on the studio door. Because it was a shock—a shock, I tell you—to walk in here and see world famous, yet oddly reclusive producer DJ Cairo sitting there with no jewelry, no flashy clothes, no posse, brow furrowed while he listened to a track over and over again. Lost in the zone. Totally floating away on his music.

  Look. It’s not like I’ve never seen a hot musician before. Shit, I’ve been brushing these assholes aside like flies since I started in this business. Get it done, get it done. The number one rule of being a producer.

  But this...somehow this is different.

  I stride over and snap my fingers in front of his face. “Hey! Rapper boy, you there?”

  He blinks and bats my hand away. “Coño! No need to get into my face, damn!

  “You’re DJ Cairo?” I let the name slides of my tongue with disdain so thick it’s practically molasses.

  He’s not at all what I would expect a Puerto Rican rapper to look like. Where’s the hat? The chains? The baggy jeans? This guy is pale enough that he probably passes as white most of the time in spite of the deep-set eyes and close-cut hair that’s even blacker than mine, and the full mouth set in a never-ending smirk. And with nothing on but a simple white t-shirt, completely normal jeans, and a pair of Adidas sneakers, he looks like any guy off the street.

  I must have seen his picture before somewhere. A newspaper. Maybe a press release. Of course I have. That must be why he looks familiar.

  At that, he blinks, then gives me a lazy smile and raises his hand. “Claro, that’s me. But I’m going to need you to say that one more time, sweetheart. This time, into the mic, por favor.” He points toward the studio, and another guy, whom I’m guessing is the technician, is already standing, ready to escort me inside.

  I push his hands away. “Get off me! I’m not a back-up singer, you asshole.”

  “Then who are you?” Cairo grabs a red Yankees hat off the soundboard and claps it on backward. He absently toys with a small chain around his neck, pulling out a medallion of what looks like a Catholic saint while he scowls up at me. Ah, there’s the rapper I was expecting.

  I cross my arms. “I’m Shama Sandhu, your new producer. The studio ruined my first vacation in seven years to get you back on set. Do you have any idea how much time you’re costing them by tinkering with the auto tune?”

  The scowl deepens, which could be hot if I wasn’t so fired up.

  “No use making excuses,” I say. “You might be a hitmaking veteran, but you’re a virgin performer. In this economy, you’re lucky the studio gave you any kind of video budget for your first single, and if you squander it making the crew wait, you won’t get another.”

  “Oh, really?” he sneers. “According to who?”

  “According to me and my seven years wrangling idiots like you. Do you want to do this or not?”

  He taps his lip again. It’s distracting. And then that smile reappears, and for a second, I have to balance myself against the wall.

  “Fine,” he says. “You want me on set?”

  I nod sharply.

  A wide, slow smile spreads across Cairo’s face. “Fine, sweetheart. I just need your voice.”

  * * *

  K.C.

  * * *

  The second she said my name, like a woman who’s pissed and turned the fuck on all at once, the syllables dripping off her tongue like honey, I knew that was the exact thing this track needed. Sultry and stubborn, right where it belongs, like a call and response to the lilt of my rhymes.

  * * *

  Porque eres mi gatita (DJ Cairo)

  Porque eres mi mamita (DJ Cairo)

  * * *

  When I first asked, she stared at me like I was crazy. And for a moment, I thought I knew her. I must have seen her around, maybe in the studio, or at an industry party somewhere. I can’t pace it, but something about her feels right.

  But I ignore it, because there’s a part of me that turns on like a button at the weirdest fuckin’ things. A tone. A new pitch. And then I can hear it. Not just that one sound, but I can hear how it fits in a whole fuckin’ symphony in my mind.

  It takes us less than two hours to finish. For real, I don’t know if I’ve ever laid a track that quickly. It’s not just because Shama’s a damn natural, purring into the mic like she wants to make out with it later. No, it’s that with her, everything just works. She might scowl at me every time I ask for another take, but damn if her husky, somewhat imperious vocals doesn’t add exactly what this track need.

  Pop star out, cranky producer in. Add the extra riffs from the guitarist Barry wrangled, and we’re on our way back to the video set by noon. And apparently, not a moment too soon.

  “Finally!” shouts Blake, the director, as Shama practically drags me across the beach toward the section of the Santa Monica pier the studio blockaded for the shoot.

  “I know, I know,” Shama says, accepting a hug from the director. He kisses her on the cheek, and I have to fight not to be jealous. I just spent the last two hours with no one but her, Barry, Joaquin, and the guitarist. Now, standing here on a beach full of extras and crew members, I’m feeling a little invaded. I want our privacy back.

  And why would that be, mano? Nico’s laughing on my shoulder. That motherfucker. He knows what’s up. Whatever, I’m a professional. A
nd this pain-in-the-ass chick is my boss. At least for the next two days.

  I accept a slap on the hand from Blake.

  “We done?” he asks. “You got the new track?”

  I nod. “Joaquin?”

  My body man holds out his phone with headphones for Blake to listen. “Here you go. It’s so hot, man. You’re gonna love it.”

  Blake just rolls his eyes, but puts in the earbuds and starts bobbing his head almost immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, that is much better.” His eye pop open right when the hook thumps through the tiny speakers. “Who’s the girl?”

  “That would be me.” Shama looks bored, but I can tell she’s kind of proud. She knows the goods as well as I do. “Porque” is going to be the song of the summer. It’s gonna be her voice bumping through every open window between L.A. and New York.

  Blake gives the headphones back to Joaquin. “Ah...you know we don’t have a model for this. Shit, I know it’s good, but she’s all over this track, and I can’t do a whole new shot list. And we didn’t hire anyone to lip-sync…”

  “Nah, Shama’s gonna be in it,” I say, only just realizing I mean it. “Just add her to my shots during the hook. That’s all you gotta do.”

  At that, Shama swings around, her soft-looking lips open. “Um, excuse me?”

  Behind me, Joaquin chuckles, but already, Blake is sizing her up. I want to tell him not to bother. Shama’s just as gorgeous as any of the girls we got out here. Tall and slim, with an ass that doesn’t quit. Yeah, I was looking on the way out to the car. And on the walk down the beach. No shame in that. The fabric of her dress clings, and wasn’t nobody doing any harm, all right?

  But it’s not just the body. Shama is fuckin’ gorgeous in a way that’s a hell of a lot more real than most of the bimbos crowding the sand around us. Her hair is blacker than mine, if that’s even possible, and her skin is deep brown and glows like she’s been out in the sun a little too long recently. But it’s her eyes, which sparkle like black diamonds and are glaring right at me that will really make the video come alive. The push and pull that was in every utterance of my name—that’s going to fuckin’ jump out of the screen. I know it.

  “Yeah.” Blake nods appraisingly, and I can tell he sees what I see. “Shama, you got it, baby. We need you.”

  Another thick scowl. “Blake, I am here as a producer, not a performer. You need me here to keep this on track not to get off course!” She tugs at her hair, which is falling over her shoulders in thick waves. For a second, I imagine what it would look like spread across a white sheet. While I cage her under my body, undulating in time to the rhythm.

  Whoa, there, you horny motherfucker. One look at this girl, and suddenly you’re a Backstreet Boy? What the fuck is going on?

  “Come on, Sparks,” I say, cuffing her lightly on the shoulder.

  “Sparks?” She whirls to me, and Blake covers a smile. “Who the hell is Sparks?” she demands.

  But the fire I see only makes me like the nickname more. Not caring whether or not anyone is watching, I reach out and tug the end of her hair.

  “You are,” I say, enjoying the feel of the silky strands between my fingers and the fire that rises in her eyes. “All we need are these lips”—I drag a finger over the bottom one—“saying my name”—I smile, and I swear to God, I think she shudders—“into that camera. You think you can do that for me, sweetheart?”

  For a second, it’s like the hustle and bustle of the beach fade away. It’s just her and me standing there, my finger poised over her mouth while I’m wondering what the inside looks like. Her tongue sneaks out to one side.

  She stares at me for a long second, and just then, I wonder if she can see through more than just my bravado. Shama’s eyes are dangerous. They pierce right through you.

  Yeah. Sparks, for real.

  “But I’m not a video girl!” Shama suddenly bursts out. “Look at me. Do I look like these girls?”

  She gestures wildly toward the models and extras milling around the set, all of them in the smallest of small bikinis, asses oiled, done up to the nines. They’re hot, yeah. A few of them I’ve probably hooked up with at some point. But so is Shama, with her jet black hair and skin that looks dipped in gold. And she’s got one thing none of those girls have: spark.

  “Shama,” I say. “You want me to get this video done today, right?”

  She opens her mouth, then presses it shut again and nods succinctly.

  I shrug and hold my hands out. “Well, you better get to makeup, sweetheart. Because we ain’t got time to run new auditions, right?” I tap the watch on my wrist. “Chop, chop.”

  Shama opens her mouth like she wants to argue all over again. But instead, she turns toward the tent set up for wardrobe.

  “Fine!” she shouts as she stumbles over the sand. “But I am not parading around in my underwear. I have to work between takes, you know. And one more thing: under no circumstances will I twerk.”

  * * *

  Shama

  * * *

  Two seconds into this shoot, and I’m already regretting it. It’s chaos on the beach, we’ve got about two hours to get a party together that will last for five hours, and I’ve got a director, crew, and about two hundred extras to wrangle. Instead I’m sitting around playing dress up with the makeup and wardrobe people.

  At least I get to choose my own damn clothes instead of wearing the dental floss the models and extras considered bikinis. If, by some chance, my parents stumble upon this video, I’d rather not horrify them more than I have to by my association with someone like DJ Cairo.

  And so, the DJ himself and I end up sitting in makeup at the same time, me getting rubbed all over with gold shimmery body makeup before I put on the magenta cover-up, him getting smeared with and oil and water substance that makes him look like he just walked out of the ocean.

  “She’s a class act,” he keeps muttering to himself, winking at me when he catches me looking at him.

  It would be easier to do this if he wasn’t so damn good-looking. Most musicians aren’t, really. People love them because of their talent, their glamor, but when you’re up close, nine out of ten of them look like regular people.

  Not Cairo. I see now why the studio courted him so hard. The second the guy takes off his shirt, it’s clear he either has a really good metabolism or a hell of a trainer. Abs for days. Coated in a light sheen of oil, just enough that he looks like he’s been diving into the ocean recently. It’s all very…lickable.

  Curiously, he cringes when they settle a few of the thick gold ropes around his neck and give him a pair of diamond-encrusted aviators sent over from Gucci. This is basic stuff. A music video is just a marketing tool, and you have to speak to your audience. People are looking for the next Daddy Yankee, even if the guy looks more like Enrique Iglesias.

  “Come on, Cairo,” I jeer from my chair, where another hairstylist is putting the finishing touches of beachy waves into my hair. “Can’t you handle a little bling?”

  I hold up my own wrists, which are loaded with gold bangles to match the diamond-laced hoops the costume designer assigned me.

  Can you imagine if you brought him home, Shams? Layla’s voice giggles in the back of my mind. I chuckle with her. I can imagine perfectly the expressions on my stolid Indian parents’ faces if their daughter brought home a Puerto Rican rapper.

  “Carlos,” Cairo says quietly as he stares at his newly ringed fingers. He looks up, and his eyes pierce, even though the sunglasses. “That’s my name. Not Cairo. I used to be DJ Carlos when I first started mixing. But I did this tour opening for Abel Rodriguez in Europe when I was maybe twenty, twenty-one. The German announcer couldn’t read my name or something and pronounced it Cairo.” He shrugs. “My manager thought it was hot, so we kept it. It’s dumb, but I can’t lose it now.”

  I can’t deny its appeal. DJ Cairo is a much better stage name than DJ Carlos, which just sounds like some kid messing around on turntables in his dad’s basement. But his voice lacks
the bravado it had ten seconds ago, and when he looks up, his eyes are pleading. I’ve been involved in this industry for years, but still I forget how lonely it can be. When everyone thinks they know some version of you, eventually no one knows you at all.

  Time to put on the nice producer hat. Sometimes talent needs their ass kicked. But sometimes they need a little coaxing to get the job done too.

  “Hey,” I say, sliding off my chair and padding across the tatami mats to where he stands. “Are you okay there, slugger?”

  All right, so empathy isn’t really my best face.

  Carlos tips the aviators down and examines me over the rims with a sardonic expression. The sun hits the silver edge and gleams. “Why, you gonna cheer me up, pretty?”

  The cocky musician is back.

  I scowl. “I just need to make sure you can perform. I’m not your fluffer, asshole. I’m the producer.”

  “No, I’m the producer,” he corrects me.

  “Not on this video, you’re not.”

  This time he takes off his glasses completely, and I’m struck once more by how penetrating his gaze is. “Do you always talk to talent this way?” he asks.

  I snort. “Did you just refer to yourself as the talent?”

  His gaze doesn’t waver, but before he can answer, Blake pops up between us.

  “Okay,” he says. “We’re about ready to film the first sequence. The original plan was to juxtapose three separate parties, back and forth between them, so the audience can see how Cairo rolls. The pre-party, the beach party, and the one at night. Make sense, Shama?”