Spring Fling

Home > Other > Spring Fling > Page 20
Spring Fling Page 20

by Claudia Burgoa


  “I like it,” I said. “What comes first?”

  “First we need to do the pre-party. The set-up. Just a few friends hanging out at the beach. Cairo starts rapping. It’s chill, everyone is drinking, laughing, having a good time, and as the beat heats up, so does the party. We’ve already done a lot of the basic shots of the beach crap—hot bodies, volleyball, you know. But we need you two. This is where you meet.”

  Carlos grins at me, his teeth bright white. “You should give me a dirty look like you did in the studio.”

  I glare at him.

  “Yeahhhh,” he says. “Just like that.”

  Blake smirks.

  I just shake my head. “Okay, so after that, then what?”

  “Then we’ll do some work with the group as the sun starts to go down,” Blake says. “That’s got to move the fastest so we can get the light. I’ll be working with Cairo while the other cameras are on the crowd.”

  “Show me,” I say, beckoning for the shot list. It’s pretty simple. There are five cameras rolling at the same time to get as much as possible to edit later. I’ve seen Blake’s videos before. His work tends to be on the spontaneous side.

  “The end is at night. After everyone goes home.” He looked to Carlos. “Originally we were going to shoot you by yourself, but since you added Shama’s voice to the hook, I’m thinking it should be with her too.”

  Carlos nods. “Yeah, I like that. Sort of what happens when the lights go out?” Again, he shoots me his cheeky grin. “The after party, right?”

  The way his voice slides over the words leaves no doubt what kind of party he’s envisioning.

  I scowl even more.

  “Just like that,” Carlos says again.

  I hand the shot list back to Blake. “Everything else ready?”

  He nods.

  “Good,” I say. “Because thanks to this guy, we don’t have any time to lose.” I yank on Cairo’s arm, ignoring the way his slick, oiled skin feels warm and very hard under my hand. “Come on, you. Let’s get this over with.”

  * * *

  Shama

  * * *

  Two days later, I’m hot, tired, and cranky. Unfortunately, Blake is as much of a perfectionist with his videos as Carlos is with his songs. Shot after shot after shot after shot, which meant that when I wasn’t actually being filmed myself, I was working double duty to make sure the extras wouldn’t wander off, help the crew prepare for the next shots, while we were all racing the sunset.

  So now I’m sick of the beach, sick of this song, sick of baby sundresses, sick of being covered with gold body paint, and really sick of watching silicon-lipped models gyrate all over Carlos. It’s not because I’ve spent approximately eight-five hours with the man staring into my eyes like I’m the only person he sees. It’s not because we had to pretend to almost-kiss for at least an hour or because I can still remember what his cologne smells like. It has nothing to do with the fact that I fell asleep last night with my vibrator in hand because I cannot get the asshole out of my head.

  And he knows it. He has to fucking know it. Every time he catches me scowling at one of the girls, he smiles. Every time he sees me staring at his finely-formed ass or those should-be-illegal arms of his, he smirks.

  It’s getting harder and harder to keep others on task when I’m losing my focus. That’s what’s making me cranky.

  But finally, it’s Saturday night. It’s the last scene of the video, the one where it’s just me and Carlos, alone on the beach at night. The “after party.”

  “You two can rest on the blanket for a while if you want,” Blake says, gesturing toward the giant setup at the top of a dune. “Just don’t move, okay? We don’t have time to start from scratch.”

  Carlos and I sink down onto the rug. The designer basically created any woman’s dream date, with a giant kilim rug dotted with cushions, candles, scattered fruit, and tiki torches all around us. It’s basically a sex pad in the middle of the beach, and if we weren’t surrounded by a crew, it would probably be doing the trick.

  We sit for a long time while the lighting crew works to get things right. No one knows how much waiting happens on a video set.

  Carlos lays back on the rug, and eventually, his eyes closed. Not for the first time, I notice how thick his eyelashes are, resting against his pale skin. In the moonlight, he looks almost ghostly, like a pirate.

  His eyes open, and he offers a lazy smile. “You checkin’ me out over there, pretty?”

  I snort. “Just making sure you don’t pass out.”

  “Whatever. You’ve been staring a hole at me for two days, mami. How long has it been? One year? Two?”

  My jaw drops. “Um, excuse me, Mr. Sexual Harassment. That is none of your business.”

  He shrugs, lying back again and closing his eyes. “You gonna tell Blake on me? Report me for a couple of jokes when you’ve been throwing shit at me for days?”

  Finally, I lie down too. I’d rather look at the stars than his smug face. “I just want to finish this crap tonight so I can start my vacation properly.”

  “Vacation? What vacation? Don’t you live here?”

  I shake my head. “Technically, not anymore. I was taking a few days on the beach, staying at a hotel when Gary called. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Leaving for where?”

  I toy with the hem of my skirt. “Delhi. I’m taking a year off to do some documentary work.”

  I wait for that familiar “how nice” or something equally trite. It’s the response I always get when I tell people my plans. They look at me like I’m a child who wants to play make-believe, not a grown woman with her own dreams. I might as well say I’m leaving L.A. to find a frog to kiss.

  “Passion project?”

  I turn. There isn’t a drop of placation on Carlos’s face. In fact, he’s watching me intently.

  I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. I’m just really tired of producing.”

  “Well, it’s not your work, is it? It’s managing someone else’s.”

  I perk up more, surprised that he gets it. “That’s right.”

  He sits up and balances his arms over his knees. I sit back up too.

  “It was like that with this album. I worked on it in secret for...shit...two years? Maybe more?” He draws a line in the sand with his finger, tracing a box and then a circle inside it. A turntable. “For ten years, I made music for other people. Wrote their beats. Mixed their shit. Charted artist after artist.”

  “Hey, you did win a couple of Grammys.”

  That sly smile makes another appearance. It’s tinged with an adorable shyness, though, instead of the cockiness that comes out around others. “I was a producer, like you. I wasn’t onstage or nothin’. Those wins never really felt like mine.”

  I shrugged. “It’s still an impressive achievement, especially considering how many voters don’t like hip hop.”

  “Impressive, maybe.” Carlos shrugs, his big shoulders rippling under the moon. “But a real artist has their own voice. They need to speak their truth.”

  His words echo my truth, the truth that was driving this whole crazy trip I was about to begin. “So what’s the documentary about?” Carlos asks.

  “I...I don’t know yet.” I stare at the weave of the kilim rug, wondering who made it. If it’s authentic, lifted from a souk in Marrakech, or if it’s a knock-off from Bangladesh. Both places sound worth exploring with my camera. “I’ll have to see what I find.”

  The other truth is, I want to create my own art, but I don’t know if I’m really an artist. I won’t know if I have a real voice, a real truth, until I try to speak at all.

  The idea is terrifying.

  Carlos sighs and looks up at the stars. “I’ll never get tired of this.”

  I look up too, welcoming the change of subject. “The stars? I guess there are a few out tonight. Better than most nights.”

  He nods. “You can’t see them in New York at all, ever. It’s the only thing I like better about the
West Coast.”

  I nod. After spending four years at NYU, I remember yearning for my parents’ house in New Jersey. The glow of Manhattan obscures everything but its own corona.

  “So where’d you grow up, Sparks?”

  “Montclair,” I say. “Not far from the city, but close enough.”

  He whistles. “Montclair is nice.”

  I nod. “Yeah, it is. I was lucky.” I consider my parents, who still live in the same split-level house where I grew up. Still have the same La-Z-Boy furniture that smells faintly of cardamom and coriander. Every day, my mother cooks and cleans, tending to her empty nest while my dad goes to work. In another few years, maybe he’ll retire.

  “What about you?” I ask. “You’re from the Bronx, right?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, the Kitchen. Forty-ninth Street.”

  “Really? That’s funny.” I smile. “I actually have a friend who grew up on that street too. Well, he’s my best friend’s husband. You don’t know a Nico Soltero, do you?”

  For a second, Carlos gives me a funny look, and again, I’m struck with that faint sense of déjà vu.

  “Ah, I’ve heard the name,” he says. “It’s a big city, though.”

  “He and Layla are the best,” I continue. “They live in Riverdale now with their kids. Tiny happy little family.”

  “You sound a little jealous.” Carlos lies back on the rug.

  I sigh and lie back again too. Above me, Cassiopeia spreads her arms wide like she wants to give me a hug. It really is a magical night. Usually you can’t see more than the brightest of stars here.

  “Maybe I am a little,” I admit. “I don’t know. I’m not in a hurry to get married or anything, but I think it would be pretty amazing to have the kind of partnership they have. It’s hard to explain if you don’t know them, but from both sides, it was love at first sight. They had their hard times, but I have never met a couple more devoted to each other.”

  My parents suddenly spring to mind with their quiet dedication. Not all love is passionate—they are a good example, an arranged marriage that evolved into a beautiful partnership over the years. That’s not something I could ever do, but I respect them for it.

  “It would be pretty amazing,” Carlos agrees. “Ambition has its own price. It’s tough being alone.”

  I turn. “Are you really alone? It seems like there are always people with you. Or who want to be.”

  Carlos just shrugs. “You can be with all sorts of people and still feel alone.”

  I ponder that for a moment, considering who has been around him. Video girls. Techs. That kid Joaquin who seems to exist just to pump him up. I definitely spotted a few people trying to slip him tapes or cards. To DJ Cairo, the hitmaker.

  I wonder if anyone knows his real name.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I can see that.”

  For a few more minutes, we gaze up at the stars, and it’s like the crew bustling around us doesn’t exist. All I can feel is Carlos’s warm shoulder against mine, sense the gentle shift of skin on skin as our breath causes our bodies to move.

  For a moment, I don’t want to leave L.A. at all. Not if I could stay on the beach with him.

  Whoa. Where in the hell did that come from?

  “All right, guys, ready?”

  We stand up to find Blake poised with a couple of camera guys. The hair and makeup team come in to fluff my hair and straighten my dress (blue this time).

  Carlos gives me another shy smile. “Ready to finish this thing, Sparks?”

  Unaccountably shy myself, I nod.

  “All right, guys, this is the seduction scene. Third verse, Cairo,” Blake calls out.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your vacation,” Carlos says, reaching for my hand. He pulls me close while the lilting beat we’ve all come to know so well starts. “I...I didn’t mean it to be like this. But I didn’t know I needed you until you walked into the room.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but find I don’t know what to say. I’m caught in the depth of his dark eyes, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. But I need to leave L.A. I can’t stay here just to get burned.

  “I—”

  “Let’s go!” Blake shouts from behind a camera.

  And I watch as Carlos launches into another lip-sync, moving his lips while sound emits from speakers next to the camera. It reminds me that this is fake. None of these moments are designed for anything but performance. And this world is something that after tonight, I’ll be leaving behind forever.

  Still, Carlos’s deep eyes never leave mine. And as I watch his mouth move silently in time with the music, I find myself wondering how I’m going to feel knowing he might never look at me like this again either.

  * * *

  K.C.

  * * *

  “Room 714.”

  That was what she whispered after Blake called, “That’s a wrap.” Right before she pressed a piece of plastic into my palm.

  “For what?” I asked just before she disappeared.

  She turned and grinned, looking almost devious under the remnants of the moonlight. “For the after party, of course.” And before I could reply, she slipped into the wardrobe tent to change out of the slinky blue dress, leaving me to wonder just what this party might be like.

  Shocked the fuck out of me, lemme tell you. Two days ago, this woman hated me. For two days I’ve been staring at her whenever I wasn’t looking at the camera. Wondering why I dreamed about her nagging voice at night, threaded with the husky sound of my name coming through her lips.

  But now I know.

  Because she’s not a strange woman. She’s a someone.

  Layla. Nico. Pretty little family in Riverdale.

  It wasn’t until she mentioned their names that I realized why Shama seemed so familiar. It’s because we’ve met before, at my mother’s freaking apartment, no less. Thanksgiving. Almost ten years ago.

  She didn’t remember me either, but back then, I was still just a skinny, pale-faced asshole with a goofy grin and some corny-ass game. It’s amazing what a trainer and a few extra years will do. I also had no major name for myself yet, and she and Layla had just finished school. Money was coming, but fame was a long ways off.

  And Shama...damn...yeah, she looked different back then too. Her hair was shorter, her cheeks were a little rounder, smooth with the naivety only someone just out of their teens has. But she was beautiful. I remember that. And she still had that attitude.

  I palm the card back and forth in my palm before sliding it into the back pocket of my jeans. She wants one night before she leaves. A game with a famous musician. Take advantage of this cat-and-mouse game we’ve been playing for two days before she takes off.

  I’m undecided on the ride back to my own hotel on Wilshire. Undecided while I shower off the residue of the video and change into a pair of black pants and a black t-shirt, keeping just the chain my mother gave me.

  I stay undecided while I tell Joaquin that he’s done for the next two days. As I sneak back downstairs to grab a taxi. When I stop at a supermarket for a bouquet of cheap pink roses, champagne, and some strawberries, like I do for a lot of the girls I meet at events.

  And yeah, I’m still undecided when I find myself standing on the seventh floor of the Marriott, turning the card key over and over in my palm while I stare at the numbers next to the door.

  714.

  Then, before I make my decision, the door opens.

  Shama stands there, looking ten times more gorgeous than she did on the beach. Gone is the makeup, the jewelry, the glitzy fuckin’ dresses. She’s in nothing but a t-shirt and these little shorts that ride up her smooth brown thighs. Her hair is tossed over her shoulder, wavy and slightly wet after a shower. A drop of real water, not makeup, still glistens on her cheek. After two straight days of work, she looks tired. But also relaxed. Back on vacation.

  I blink. I know what this is. I might have the feeling like once we cross the line we’ve literally be dancing around for days, the e
arth is going to shatter, but the reality is, Shama has a flight tomorrow morning. She’s leaving L.A., maybe for good.

  And I’m leaving too. After this video is done, the tour starts. The promotional blitz. I’ve got real money to make, a project to finish, and it’s not going to help if I’m pining after some girl I can’t have.

  But there’s no doubt in my mind anymore.

  We have one night.

  And the fuck if I’m not going to make the most of it.

  Suddenly the roses, the champagne, the strawberries—all of it seems cheap. Every bit of game I have seems ridiculous.

  I consider the painting that hangs in my apartment in New York—the picture of a woman’s nipple that I thought was a sex magnet when I was twenty-three. Nico still teases me about that thing. Apparently when he brought Layla to the apartment one weekend, she took one look at that thing and ran in the opposite direction.

  Smart girl.

  I wonder if that’s when he knew she was worth the trouble of settling down. A woman who knows her worth is a woman worth having.

  Who said that?

  Papito, please. Ah. Ma. Yeah, I should have known.

  I press the Santa Cecilia medallion to my lips. I haven’t taken it off since my first communion. A gift from my mother, who knew I had my own gifts to share with the world. The patron saint of music to guide me through this crazy life. Maybe she knew I was going to have it before I did.

  A woman who knows her worth, papi, is a woman worth having.

  “Ahem.”

  Shama’s husky voice pulls me out of my daze. A woman who knows every inch of her worth, from the top of her shiny black head to the tips of her perfectly painted toes. Shama knows she’s worth the fuckin’ world. I knew it the second I heard her voice. That’s what I needed on the record. That worth.

  “H-hi,” she says. But then she straightens. That confidence—it’s so much more than swagger—is back. “Are you coming in?”

  But I don’t answer. I just stare for a few seconds longer, taking in this beauty in front of me.

  And then I kiss her.

 

‹ Prev