I sling my guitar over my shoulder as Saffy gives us room to pass. I nod my thanks to her as I follow Nashville into the room. There’s got to be at least ten people in here, some lounging on sofas at the back, others standing, looking through the glass window into the recording booth.
Although I really had no idea what to expect from today, I guess I’d assumed it would be just me and Rex. Not like this, with a cast of hangers-on.
I scan the wood-paneled room, searching for Rex—not the cargo-pant-wearing, fresh-faced teenager with the “frosted tips” of the poster, but the forty-something version I’d seen image after image online in the last twenty-four hours. The Rex of today.
I spot him through the window of the recording booth—Rex Randall, my father, in the flesh for the very first time. My heart drums in my ears. My God, this is surreal.
I watch him closely, glued to the spot. He’s talking with some guy, looking casual and confident—the opposite of what I’m feeling right now. Like Nashville, he’s wearing black head-to-toe. Unlike Nashville, there’s no ball of thinning hair on top of his head. He’s in pretty good shape for his age, particularly considering all the articles I’d read about his being in rehab more than once over the last forty-two years. Clean now, they say. He sure looks healthy, put together, in control of his life.
Fuck me. I’m assessing him like he’s some sort of piece of meat at the market.
He laughs at something the guy says as a blonde slinks over and paws his chest. She’s dressed in an outfit that wouldn’t look out of place on a lingerie model, and he responds by slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her in for a kiss. She must be his new wife, the one I saw online. The one with Trophy written over every inch of her young body.
I watch him closely, trying to see him as my dad rather than some familiar famous guy. Impatient, I shift my weight as the noise of the chatter around me builds.
As I’m starting to have second thoughts about being here at all, he looks up and his eyes meet mine through the glass. A flicker of recognition registers on his face and he loosens his grip on the girl, saying something to her before he saunters over to the door.
I gasp in air. After twenty-four years of being lied to, I’ve finally learned the truth. And it’s here, right in front of me.
The missing piece of the puzzle.
Nashville takes me by the arm and pulls me toward the door to the recording booth. I tug away. I don’t need to be led around like some child. Nashville chuckles at my response, letting me know I’m behaving like a kid. Screw him. I’m here for Rex, not him.
“Rex. This is Cole Grant,” Nashville announces. It’s formal and unnecessary. By the look on Rex’s face when his eyes landed on mine a moment ago, he knows exactly who I am.
I have to restrain myself from pushing Nashville out of the way.
Rex, says as his features soften, “I can see that.”
My heart has gone from thudding to pounding, and my belly has twisted into a knot.
His smile is warm and inviting. “Cole. At last, we meet.”
“Hello,” I mutter, not knowing what to call him. “Sir” or “Mr. Randall” seem too formal, despite my Southern manners dictating I choose one. “Dad” is definitely a step too far. At least for now.
“Get in here.” He steps closer and collects me in a hug, slapping me on the back as I breathe in his cologne. My guitar bangs against my side. It renders the touching moment awkward. I remain rigid as my head swims with a myriad of thoughts and questions.
As he releases me, I have the presence of mind to remove my guitar and lean it up against the equipment table.
Rex nods his head at it. “You brought your guitar.”
“Yeah, I—” I crease my brow as I look at it. Why did I bring it? Maybe it’s because it’s something we have in common? Maybe he’d be more open to me if he knew I was a fellow musician? Then again, the last twenty-four hours have been a total blur. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I shrug and answer truthfully. “I don’t know why I brought it.”
“Well, I’m glad you did.” Rex holds me at arm’s length, his hands rest on my shoulders. “My God. You do look like me.” He turns to Nashville, who’s hovering beside us. “Doesn’t he look like me?”
“He’s got your eyes,” Nashville responds with a nod. “Perhaps your jawline.”
“Yeah, the eyes, the face, everything. You’re a handsome dude, you know that? Just like your video.” He flashes a set of perfect pearly whites when he grins with pride and humor. “Tall, athletic. Like your old man, right?”
I smile at the compliment, trying to relax. “Umm, thanks.”
Crap. How do I talk to this man?
I know I’m coming across like a deer in headlights, but this is not how I pictured this moment. No way. Not in a crowded room. Not with a guy named Nashville hovering too close for comfort, listening to every word we utter.
My mind pings back to something Rex said. “What video clip?”
“The one of you singing in that bar on YouTube. Nashville saw it and showed it to me. You’re good.”
I feel my brow pucker. There’s only one video of me on YouTube as far as I know. My buddy Charlie had taken it a couple of months back when I sang at his bar in Nashville. It’s a place I’ve played at a handful of times. He told me it would help bring customers in if they saw me performing online.
“Hey, why don’t I clear the room and we can sit down and talk?”
I let out a breath and relax a couple of notches. “Sure, that’d be great.”
Rex gestures for quiet, and everyone in the room immediately follows suit. I know my cousin Avery would love that type of control with her twin toddlers, Gracie and Liam. Random thought at a time like this.
“People. Can you all give us the room?” Rex asks.
The obedient dog that he is, Nashville snaps to it, herding people like cattle out of the room, some protesting, most just doing as they’re told.
“Even me?” Rex’s wife throws him a petulant look.
“Even you, babe.”
She harrumphs as she meanders out of the room behind the rest of the group.
I stand and wait. Eventually, the room is empty but for Rex, me, and the ever-present Nashville. Who is this guy? He’s all up in my business, and it’s pissing me off.
“Take a seat,” Rex says.
I plunk myself down and Rex sits on the opposite sofa.
“You want a drink? Nashville, get us a drink.” He turns back to me. “Coffee? Water? Something else?”
Suddenly aware of how dry my mouth has become, I reply, “Water’s good.”
A hovering Nashville walks over to a refrigerator I hadn’t noticed, pulls a couple of bottles out, and hands them to us.
Rex unscrews the cap and takes a swig of his. He lets out a sigh. “Singing is thirsty work. I forgot how much water you need to drink. I’ve been recording a new track this morning. It’ll be the first single on the new album.”
“Yeah? What is it?” I take a sip of my own water, the cool liquid slipping down my throat.
“It’s my comeback song, actually. You know, after all the time I’ve had out of the limelight.” He lets out a chuckle. “I bet you’ve heard about some of that.”
Like the sex scandal, the alcoholism, the rehab? Oh, yeah, I’ve heard about it all right. “Just what I’ve read online.”
“Well, it’s all got to be the truth, right?” His laugh is sardonic.
“Yeah.”
He leans forward. “I can’t tell you how incredible it is to meet you. My son.”
The nervousness and fear that have plagued me since I got Mom to call him to say that I wanted to meet him has begun to melt away. “It’s all kind of out there, right now. I’m trying to wrap my head around it. You, me. This whole thing.”
“I guess. But good. Right?”
“Oh, yeah. Good. It’s just taking me some time, you know? I mean, I’ve only known about you for a day.”
&nbs
p; He takes another sip of his water. “What did your mom say about me?”
I lock my jaw. “She never talked about you. Said my father was just a guy she knew in high school. A mistake.”
He gives a crisp nod. “She was partly right. We did know each other in high school. But seeing you here, now,” he shakes his head, “it wasn’t a mistake. Far from it.”
The anger that’s been bubbling under the surface flares. “She should have told me about you. I had a right to know.”
“She had her reasons. And anyway, what matters is you’re here. We can start from now.”
I look down at the bottle of water in my hands and play with the label. I have so many questions. Where do I start when we’ve got almost a quarter of a century to cover?
“Your music.” He takes another swig of his water. “That clip. You’re good. All country?”
I shrug. “I guess. Country and folk. Ballads, really. Just me and my guitar, that’s the way I like it.”
He studies my face. “You ever thought about trying something different?”
“Like what?”
“I’m the unofficial ‘King of Pop,’ you know.” He uses air quotes. “With your talent and my help, you could be my heir.”
His heir? I remember reading about how even though he’s gone, Michael Jackson still has that title, despite what some claim about Rex.
“Thanks, but I’m happy with what I’m doing now.”
“Playing gigs at a bar in Nashville? Working construction?” Distaste rings in his voice.
I lift my chin. “I play at my friend Charlie’s place, and I love it. I’m in it for the music, not the fame. And I happen to like my job.”
“That’s great. I just thought you might want more.” He studies me. “Think about it.”
There’s nothing to think about. I’m not interested in fame.
“Rex? You’ve got that press conference with the Pop Princesses in two,” Nashville announces from across the room.
“Sure.” He returns his attention to me. “After which I’ve got to get these vocal cords of mine working once more.”
“How many years since you performed?”
“Far, far too long. I’ve missed it.”
“I get that. Music’s my escape. It has been ever since I was a kid.”
“See? You are my heir. Both as my son, and musically. Perform with me and my band at the concert next Saturday. It’ll be amazing: father and son, together after all these years.”
Alarm knots my belly. “I’m not ready for the world to know I’m your son. I need time.”
He nods. “Okay. Take as long as you need. No announcements, nothing. Just you and me getting to know one another. Sound good to you?”
I return his smile, my concern dissipating. “Yeah.”
“And if you feel you can, will you perform a song with me at The Garden next Saturday? I’ve written something for us.”
“You have?”
By way of response, he stands, and I follow cue. He nods at the hovering Nashville, who collects some papers from a bag and hands them to Rex.
“Take a look at that song,” Rex says. “I think you might like it.”
I read the title. What I thought I’d lost. My eyes raise to his. “Is this about—?”
He puts his arm around my shoulders. He’s about an inch shorter than me, so he has to reach up. “It’s about you and me. I wrote it a long time ago, but I changed the words last night after I talked with your mom. I was hoping you might take a look at it. Tell me what you think.”
Rex Randall is asking me what I think about a song? He’s asking me to perform with him. Yup, today is surreal, that’s for sure. “Yeah, sure. I’d be happy to perform with you.”
He slaps me on the shoulder. “Excellent.”
He walks me to the door, his arm still around my shoulders like he’s, well, like he’s my dad. “Right now, I’ve got this press conference and then I’ll be back in here laying down this track. Let’s get together later in the day, maybe in a few hours? Nashville will text you to let you know when. Maybe you can take a look at that song while I’m busy and let me know what you think?”
“That sounds great. I’ll just hang around here, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course.” He places his hand on the doorknob and pauses. “How’s your mom doing with all this? It’s gotta be hard for her.”
I’m stung by the reminder of her betrayal, how she kept Rex a stranger. I have to work hard to control my voice. “Yeah, fine.” I’m not going there. This moment is too important. “I’ll ah, see you later. Rex.”
“See you, Cole.”
As he closes the door behind me, I stand in the corridor alone, my brain whirring, trying to put all the pieces together. My mom. My life. Rex. Until this moment, I didn’t know if getting on that plane to come here was the right thing to do. Hell, I even wondered if I was insane for doing it.
But now, as I stand here at the recording studio in Manhattan, I know it was exactly the right thing to do.
Chapter 5
Gabriella
“We’re the opening act, Mom. That means we’re the least famous, even though we are so much hotter than that aging rocker.” Britney’s complaining, petulant voice is whinier than usual. Or maybe it’s just that I’m in a crappy mood, thanks to the drinks debacle earlier today.
After getting that mess cleaned up at the studio, I made the trek back to Greens to repurchase drinks. I then trudged said beverages back to the recording studio, managed not to splatter them all over myself and some hot, random guy, and delivered them to the Pop Princesses’ room—getting no thanks whatsoever for doing any of it.
So, yeah, I probably am in a crappy mood.
“But darling, you know what a huge star Rex Randall is,” Sylvia says.
Britney’s put her ever-present phone down to complain further. She clearly has a point to make. “Was, Mom. Was. It’s been like fifty years since he was popular back in the nineties.”
I press my lips together to stifle a giggle. Math is clearly not Britney’s strong point.
“Darling, opening for Rex is a very big deal. It’s like being the headliner at your own concert. You’re starting out. This will give you the boost you need.”
Sylvia is forever trying to placate her entitled, over-indulged, and frankly hideous offspring. And she usually fails—much to my secret delight.
“No, it’s not, Mom!” Britney replies at the same time as Kylie moans, “You’re so wrong, Mom!”
Both girls are spread out on chairs in the room the Pop Princesses have been allocated at the recording studio. They’re waiting for the press conference with Rex Randall. The girls are fully made-up, no hair out of place, tight and tiny dresses covering their modesty. Well, almost.
Britney takes a sip of her disgusting green smoothie. “It’s not cold enough.” Without even a glance in my direction, she thrusts the paper cup at me.
When I don’t jump to attention immediately, Sylvia shoots me one of her oh-so-friendly evil glares. “Well, Gabriella?”
“Greens is seven blocks away.”
“And?” Sylvia’s eyebrows try their best to lift, but they’re stopped in their perfectly-plucked tracks by the industrial load of Botox she has injected on a regular basis.
“And it’s June.” She’s a New Yorker, just like me. She understands how hot and humid it can get this time of year.
“I’m not interested in excuses. Britney’s smoothie isn’t as cold as she wants it to be. I need you to fix that for her. Do. You. Understand?” She speaks slowly, enunciating each word as though I’m a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic.
Outwardly, I remain calm; inside, I’m throwing the damn smoothie in her face.
Not for the first time I wish Cece hadn’t messed up by shoplifting, preventing me from my escape.
I let out a resigned sigh. “Yes, I understand. Only, short of going the whole way back to Greens, I’m not sure how to make it colder.”
>
“Have you heard of a thing called ice?” Sylvia’s smile drips with sarcasm.
“Yeah, Gabriella. Have you heard of ice?” Britney only looks up from her phone long enough to throw me a patronizing look as Kylie sniggers.
I swallow down several retorts, and say, “I’ll go get some for you.”
“Now was that so hard?” Sylvia turns her attention to her reflection in the mirror, sucking in her cheeks and pouting. For a forty-something-year-old woman, she sure acts like a self-obsessed teenager.
“Take the ice bucket.” Sylvia nods at the empty blue tub on the coffee table.
I collect the bucket and trudge down the hallway. I hear a man singing not too far away while strumming a guitar. It’s soft, melodic, inviting. Whoever that is, I could listen to him sing all day long.
As I walk down the empty corridor, the music grows louder. I round a corner and stop dead in my tracks. It’s my rescuer, Southern Guy. Cole Grant. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, looking totally delish in his jeans and T-shirt. His gorgeous brown eyes are closed as the song falls from his lips, his hand rhythmically strumming his guitar.
Cole Grant, hero of the hour—and an incredible singer, too. Is it fair that he’s tall, athletic, good looking in that “I don’t give a rat’s ass about my looks” kind of way and hotter than the Sahara in summer, and can sing?
Nope. I don’t think so.
After he and I “met” this morning, I hoped I might see him again—and not just because he represents a way in to Rex Randall.
His love of music radiates from his every pore, and it has me thoroughly entranced. His voice is rich and warm, with enough light and shade to show the emotion behind every word, like he’s lived the song, like it means everything to him.
He strums the final chord and then leans his head back on the wall. Slowly, he opens his eyes, and I recognize the post-performance fog I know so well after really feeling a song, like he’s been transported to another dimension and now needs to readjust to reality.
After a beat, he turns his head and looks directly at me, surprise written across his face. “It’s you.”
I’ve been busted checking him out. Totally busted. “Hey there, cowboy,” I say with about ninety-nine percent more confidence than I feel.
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