Bad Idea: The Complete Collection

by French, Nicole

  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. And 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.”

  Chapter Five

  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 have 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.

  “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?”

  “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.”

  Chapter Six

  Shama

  Two days later, I’m tired, hot, and really 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, e
xcuse 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.”