by Teagan Kade
“I know that, ma’am.”
My cell’s hot in my hand. “Good, because we’re about to do something about it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
MAT
I pride myself on mental fortitude, but seeing Selena come up against wall after wall is starting to chip away at my defenses. She collapses over the dining table, defeated, another news agency refusing to publish her side of the story. Ari and her spent the better part of a day driving from one to the next trying to see someone. All they got were excuses. It would seem Rick’s been busy building up his little black book of contacts these last few years.
Fucking bastard.
I spoke to Andrew about Sel’s royalties, Rick claiming her songs as Alice’s, but it’s not looking good. He might just get away with it.
I take a seat next to Sel and rub her back. “Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let him, or her, get to you.”
She sits up, a breathy exhale escaping her lips. Those lips have been busy, but I push the fun and games to the back of my mind. Neither of us can truly relax until we find some stability again, a world where Sel isn’t being labelled a backstabber, or cheat, or drug addict—like the girl who refuses to drink Coca-Cola because caffeine is addictive is a fucking drug addict. Jesus.
She’s been on the phone for hours now. She could go either way, but I see the resolve take over. She’s a fighter, always has been, those who come from little always are, those who have worked for what they have. “I’m not going to give in, Mat.”
“I know,” I nod, “but how about a sandwich first? You can’t fight on an empty stomach, right?”
A smile tickles the corner of her mouth. I’ve always loved the way she tries to hold it back, like a little fish hook tugging at her happiness.
“Your famous Cuban sandwich?” she grins. “The one with ham, roasted pork, Swiss cheese, pickles, and mustard?”
I stand and cross my arms. “You know, I’ve been to Cuba.”
“And…?”
“I learned my Cuban sandwich is nothing like a Cuban sandwich.”
We both laugh.
Sel’s smile is full now. “But you’re still going to make me one because you’re my sex slave.”
“I am your sex slave?”
She spanks my butt. She’s got quite a swing. “You know it.”
I head to the kitchen bowing in supplication. “As you wish, master.”
“Master?” she repeats. “I like the sound of that, though ‘La Princesa’ will suffice.”
She picks up her cell. “In the meantime, prepare to become my bitch, TMZ.”
*
TMZ does agree to run her side of the story, but without payment. It’s a win of sorts, but when the article does runs it’s filled with errors and misinformation. Sel doesn’t mention it.
To make matters worse, we could be booted from the White House at any moment.
“You want me to hire another washed-out celebrity?” says Seth, thumbing through a newspaper in his office behind the bar. I note the wall of photos of him with various boxers. Seth might be a boxing fan, but with a paunch like that I doubt he’s spent much time in the ring.
Trying to get Selena a job at the bar was always going to be an easy sell, even if Seth is playing coy. As for selling it to Selena? That might be a little more difficult. It’s not like she needs the money, though it would help, but she does need to get out of the White House, do something. I’d be happy to cozy up with her in bed all day, but ultimately that’s not doing either of us any good. Will she be pleased I’ve gone behind her back like this? I doubt it, but as Dad used to say, better to ask forgiveness than permission. Besides, this will give us a place to test out new songs, get actual feedback from people on the street, play live together.
Seth mulls it over a bit more. “She has to pull her weight. I don’t hire divas.”
I place my hand on my heart. “I know the spiel. You have my word.”
Seth laughs. “And what does that mean?”
I smile back. “Everything.”
*
“You did what?” Selena’s pacing around the lounge. The plastic covers are still on the furniture. It’s like living in a museum.
Hands in my pockets, I lean against the grand piano. “The fact is, we’re running low on money, and you need to get out. You need some fresh air.”
“So you go behind my back and sell your boss some pity story about how hard up I am? I hate to tell you, but the air isn’t exactly ‘fresh’ at the Bellhopper either.”
She’s even hotter when she’s feisty, not that my balls will fare well if this develops into a full-blown fight. I’ve been down that road before and have zero intention of going back. I’ve still got a horseshoe shaped-scar on the back of my calf from a disagreement I had with her when we were still in high school. “He said yes, by the way, fifteen bucks an hour.”
Her hands go up. “Fifteen bucks an hour!”
“Hey, you told me just the other day you missed honest work. Are you going full diva on me?”
That does it. The finger’s out, pointing like an arrow. “I. Am. Not. A. Diva.”
I bring in the sugar, hands out as I approach. “I’m kidding. Come on. How can you hate this face?” I put on my best pout. “Working together—how good does that sound? Sneak off to the supply room during our break maybe?”
I run a finger down the buttons on her blouse, take one and twist it between my fingers.
She’s slipping, lips hard together, refusing to make eye contact. “Don’t think you can charm your way out of this, mister.”
I snip another button undone. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Say I agree. What do you get out of it?”
I use the famous Barton smile. “Whatever I want.”
*
Sel came around. She’s good, a natural. Seth loves her. The customers love her. I’m almost a little jealous.
Almost.
Although he said he wouldn’t, Seth lets us perform together. We take the late slot, but it doesn’t matter. Word starts to spread Selena Torres and Mat Barton are playing at a tiny bar on the Strip. Social media is all over it. The crowd grows from my twenty or thirty regulars to forty, fifty, a hundred. Two weeks working at the bar and we’ve managed to sell the place out. There’s barely breathing room for our gig tonight, the empty kegs out back just keep piling up like we’re farming them.
Seth is swamped. Sel agrees to work the bar after the show, but I decide to head home.
I’m wasted. I was doing back-to-back shifts at the bar before Sel started and finally it’s catching up with me. Maybe it’s more than that. All I want to do is sleep. She knows to wake me if she needs me.
But I can’t.
I toss and turn and think of Dad. He loved this place. What would he think of it being sold off to some stranger for a pittance, all his earthly possessions gone?
It’s almost five weeks since Andrew delivered the ultimatum. We’re seriously overstaying our welcome.
I think about Rick and Alice and all the shit that’s gone down.
I think about Sel, how far she’s fallen and it threatens to break me. Being with her is fantastic, incredible. I wouldn’t change it for the world, but I’ve taken on her stress as well. We share everything now, a double burden.
Burden? You call what you’ve got a burden?
And this is the problem. I can’t even trust myself any more.
Finally, I get up and head downstairs. I sit in the den with Elvis and Sally trying to compose a new song for us to sing, something epic, but I’m empty—no creative juices left.
Ah, the woes of being a musician.
I toss Sally aside in frustration, a dissonant sound ringing out, Elvis jumps from the couch.
I sit there looking into the darkness and shadows. A box I found in the attic sits there. It’s full of songs Dad never got to finish. I haven’t had a chance to go through it.
I walk over and pick up a handful of notes, flicking through them for anyth
ing of substance.
And then I find it.
Inspi-fuckin’-ration.
It’s a song dedicated to my mother, yet she never mentioned it. Maybe Dad never showed her.
As I read through the lyrics the clarity of my father’s love for my mother is magnified. It’s so different to anything else he wrote, so… personal, subtle, and that’s saying something given the songs Dad was famous for. Hello, Pussy Galore.
I let the other notes fall and hold this song in my hand re-reading the lyrics. I reflect on my relationship with Sel as I do, what she’s come to mean to me, and it’s more than I ever could have imagined.
“You’re getting soft,” I tell myself, holding the song aside and looking down at my crotch. “Well, not everywhere.”
Elvis barks in agreement.
I sit smiling, thinking. This song needs to see the light of day, but would I be betraying Dad by releasing it? Mom?
I breathe out and speak to the tattoo of Saint Dympha on my arm, Sel’s saint. “What do you think?”
No response, no great beam of light.
“I see.”
The lyrics finish mid-sentence. The bones of the song are there, but it’s unfinished. I read it again and thoughts start to flow. I grab a pen and start to jot down notes, creative energy building.
I decide.
I’ll finish it, for Dad, for Mom, for Selena. I’ll pour my heart into it, everything I have.
I work it, mold it. I scribble out entire sentences at a time, bashing my head against the wall in frustration, the right words and phrasing eluding me.
Slowly, it comes together.
It’s my best work. I know it.
I’m barely awake when the sun rises, the front door unlocking to signal Selena’s arrival home.
I’m barely awake, but I’m finished.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SELENA
The second the final chord rings out, I know Mat’s onto a winner. The song’s sweet and sentimental, but the hook drives ahead with purpose. It’s beautiful, powerful.
My enthusiasm temporarily turns me mute.
“Well?” asks Mat. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a masterpiece.”
“Are we talking Bohemian Rhapsody masterpiece or more like November Rain masterpiece?”
I ponder it, pursing my lips. “No, it’s something else entirely, something fresh.”
Mat places the guitar down. “Good, so what the hell are we going to do with it? I’m sure it will get plenty of airplay when someone finds the lyrics a hundred years from now.”
“Will it work as a duet?”
His eyes sparkle. “I wrote it with you in mind. No one else. The chorus harmony should suit your voice perfectly.”
“So let’s sing it as part of the announcement. I’ll arrange a talk show or radio interview. We can sing it then and announce we’re performing at Magma. Trust me, everyone will want to come out when they hear it.”
A smirk. “You really think it’s that great?”
I run my hand up his leg. “Okay, so maybe I am a little, teensy bit biased, but I’m telling you. That song is born for greater things.”
“Together then?”
“Together.”
“And you’re confident you can score us a slot?”
I may be down, but I’m certainly not out. There are lots of people in the industry who still owe me favors, and while Rick has friends, he’s got enemies too. I’m sure I could sweet-talk at least one of them into letting us come on, especially given our recent fame thanks to the Bellhopper. ‘Former Pop Princess Turned Bartender!’ has made for a lot of press.
“The Barton name is going to be back on top,” says Mat.
I straddle him, pushing him onto his back and grinding my hips down on his obvious erection. “Not if the Torres name gets there first.”
*
We practice hard over the coming days, making the most of our little studio before someone comes to evict us—not that anyone but Andrew and Dom know we’re here.
What Mat has managed to do with this track is amazing, yet Mason never gave it a name. I nominate Better Days, and it’s settled.
Mat leans back in an office chair, looking over the mixing board. “We have to perform this at the festival. How’s the promo situation coming along?
I lean against the edge of the desk. “Nothing yet, unfortunately.”
Matt looks down between his legs. “We’re two fallen C-grade celebrities. Who the fuck’s going to want to take us on for air time?”
“Speak for yourself,” I reply.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m at least a B,” I counter.
His eyes run over my chest. “A solid D from where I’m standing.”
I throw an empty packet of Tic-Tacs at him. “Shut up, bozo.”
Mat leans back. “So, any bright ideas? There is this local station. I know the guy who does the graveyard shift. A couple of hundred people tune in.”
“That’s not going to cut it. We need major exposure.”
“And where do you propose we get that? You just said it. C-grade or not, no one’s going to talk to us thanks to Rick.”
An idea occurs to me. “There is one person.”
*
“Selena, darling. How are you?”
I take Delaney’s hand. It’s like holding a limp fish. “I’m well.”
“LA’s most famous bartender is back!” she squeals, clapping her hands together. She nudges me in the side. “And you brought quite the aperitif, if you know what I mean, huh?”
Sadly, I do.
I ignore her as best I can, her condescending tone. Another run on the Delaney Show is just what we need—big audience, target demographic. Getting on this show is a major boon for any artist. Normally, without an agent, I wouldn’t have a hope in hell, especially not twice so close together, but Delaney owes me for filling in when the big act she had last time pulled the plug hours before the show. Mat had been the surprise guest then. I wonder who she’ll dig up this time.
Delaney turns to Mat. “And here’s my favorite man candy—Mat, son of Mason.”
“Don’t make me sound biblical now,” Mat smiles, leaning over to kiss her fish hand. He does know how to play it up when called for, but he knows the stakes. If we nail it here, anything’s possible.
“I hope the closing spot is suitable,” continues Delaney.
“It’s fine, and thank you,” I smile back.
Delaney gestures to the band setting up. “Do your thing, you cute little love birds.”
We rehearse in ten minutes. Nothing major. It’s all very casual here.
Afterwards, Delaney points to left of the stage. “If you’ve forgotten, you’ll find the green rooms down there, and I do mean green now. The owners’ decided to paint it a bright shade of baby puke the other day. I can’t stand to be in there.”
I can see Mat’s a little put off my Delaney’s overt flamboyance, but he nods and smiles all the same.
“Don’t get up to any mischief while you’re in there.” Delaney winks, nudging me again. “Not without me.”
She walks away laughing.
Mat stands in front of me, an eyebrow raised. “Quite a character, isn’t she?”
I nod. “You can say that again.”
*
It’s strange, but I swear Mat is nervous before we go on stage. He paces back and forth in our baby puke holding cell, avoiding the mirrors. I think it’s the song, Better Days. It’s deeply personal. He probably hasn’t shared anything this personal before, but I know this is what’s going to win the audience over.
The door opens, a stage hand standing there, a bun on her head and clipboard in hand. “Five minutes.”
I come up behind Mat and massage his shoulders. “Relax.”
“I’m fine,” he says.
Men.
“It’s okay to be nervous, you know.”
He turns around to face me. “I don’t get
nervous. Dad never got nervous.”
I have to laugh. “But that’s just it, Mat. You are not your dad, understand? You’re something far better, and that’s saying a lot, because I remember your dad. He was a great guy, a master lyricist. Well, most of the time.”
Mat grins. “You don’t want to swap this one for Can’t Stop the Samurai instead?”
I put up a hand. “Hell to the n-o.”
A flashing light tells us to head to the wings. We’re about to go on.
Mat takes a deep breath and picks up his Lucille. “Here goes nothing.”
*
I keep eye contact with Mat as we’re introduced, holding it through the start of the song. It starts out soft and slow, building with each verse into a sonorous melody. When I’m sure Mat’s confidence is there, I close my eyes and concentrate on the lyrics, my hands reaching up to close around the mic, the words slipping effortlessly from my body. I’ve never known a song so easy to sing.
By the time it’s over I barely remember singing it all. With the fairy lights overhead, it’s like a dream.
One beat.
Two.
Applause. Thick and heavy, raining down around us.
They love it.
Delaney comes waltzing over beating her hands together. “Wow. Just wow. Selena Torres and Mat Barton, everyone!”
The sound ratchets up again and I cannot keep the smile from spreading. Mat kisses the top of my head and waves, the in-house band playing the credit outro.
When the house lights come up, the crowd is still applauding.
We’ve done it.
Delaney stands in front of us, smiling, shouting to be heard over the din. “I think they like you.”
*
It’s hard to keep our hands off each other in the car. I’m dying to get through that door and into bed, to feel Mat slide over my body, into my body. I need him with a hunger that’s bordering on insatiable.
My cell’s ringing. I take it out.
It’s Dom. I put him on speaker.
“Guys,” he starts, breathless. “Congrats on the show. My phone’s never been this busy. I’m talking promotors, press, even other agents… not that I’d give you two up in a million years. This one’s going places, people. I can feel it in my weary old bones.”