Hating the Rich Bastard

by Hamel, B. B.

  “Look, all of this, it’s built with money.” He gestures around him, at the expensive equipment and the building itself. “Somesuch is a music label, so we deal in music, which is inherently an art. But artists don’t have to starve.”

  I smile a little bit. “That’s not what movies and TV tell me.”

  “Movies and TV are stupid. Artists have been selling their work for literally thousands of years. I’m sure there was some great caveman sculptor that made bead necklaces for his idiot friends in exchange for whatever they used for money back then.”

  I grin a little, imagining Neanderthals exchanging cash.

  “What’s your point?” I ask him.

  “My point is, Ben has some lofty ideals about art and blah blah blah. Fact is, nobody has to starve for art, not if they’re smart about it.”

  “You want me to be smart about it?” I cock my head at him.

  “I hope so,” he admits. “I’m not asking you to sell out and make something commercial, but I am asking you to at least make something I can sell.”

  “And so far?”

  “So far, so good,” he admits. “I won’t pretend like I don’t love what I hear.”

  “Why the weird lecture on art history then?”

  “I guess I just worry.” He turns back to the console. “Everyone has to compromise in this world, Alice. Everyone sells out sooner or later. Might as well choose how you sell out before you’re forced to let the world choose for you.”

  He puts on a pair of headphones, flips a switch, and leans back in his chair. I assume the conversation is over at this point, so I turn to leave. Before I can head out, he says one more thing.

  “And don’t hurt him. He’s been hurt before, and I’m not sure either of us can stand him with another broken fucking heart.”

  I stare at Markus but he doesn’t look back. I don’t know what to say, so I slink away from the control room and head back outside. I don’t feel like playing in front of him, not when he’s in this weird lecturing mood.

  I don’t know where that comment about Ben came from. I don’t see how Ben is this fragile thing, not at all. He’s a rich bastard, cocky and confident, although I have seen some chinks in his armor. He’s insecure about his art, worried about the album we’re making, but of course he is, he’d be inhuman if he weren’t worried.

  Still, that’s really interesting. He’s been hurt before…

  I sit down and stretch my legs. I guess I understand what Markus was saying, though. I know a lot of music people that won’t give up on their grand vision of their art but they’re totally unable to sell anything at all. They end up working at Starbucks or some other crappy job, and they pretend like that’s somehow noble.

  I pretended like I was being noble. I was giving piano lessons, tuning pianos, but I wasn’t actually doing anything with my talents. I could’ve been trying to work as a session player or something like that. Instead, I was just writing little melodies and tunes for myself, waiting for my big break.

  Well, my big break is here. It’s not exactly the grand artistic thing I always imagined. Heck, it’s not even my project.

  But it’s paying really, really well, and I get to play piano. I can’t complain.

  I sit there on the stoop and think about all the artists that took commissions and had patrons and generally painted crap they never wanted to paint in the first place, but needed to eat, and all the great works we got from all those exchanges.

  * * *

  The rest of the guys show up and the session goes smoothly. I don’t notice when Markus leaves, which is for the best.

  I can’t stop thinking about what he told me, especially the part about Ben getting hurt in the past.

  I honestly never thought that was even possible. Ben doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to fall in love, let alone be able to get hurt by a woman. Even though he gets a little vulnerable when it comes to his music, he’s still always wrapped in layers of smarmy rich guy attitude.

  Basically, he’s an asshole, even if he’s a really charming asshole.

  Maybe I’ve misread him though. It’s possible, I guess. I don’t normally make that kind of mistake, though.

  All throughout the session I keep throwing him looks, wondering what happened. By the time we’re finished, Caleb and Tony head off together for a drink and I hang behind with Ben, putting away the instruments while he works in the booth.

  “How’s it sound?” I ask him, coming into the control room when I’m finished straightening up.

  He shrugs, taking off a pair of headphones. “Not bad. I’m not super happy with my guitar part though. We’ll need to redo that tomorrow.”

  “Are you ever happy with any of your parts?”

  “Not really.” He grins at me. “Part of being a perfectionist, I guess.”

  “Or you’re just really hard on yourself.” I sit down on the couch, watching him carefully as he sighs and stretches.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. I gotta relax.”

  “Yep, you do. But I actually wanted to talk to you about something else.”

  “Okay,” he says, swiveling toward me, eyebrow raised. “What’s up?”

  “I ran into Markus earlier.”

  He looks surprised. “You did?”

  “Yep. He must’ve gone out through another door.”

  “Out the back,” he says, waving vaguely toward the hallway. “There’s a little yard and an alley behind a fence.”

  “Right. Well, I showed up early and Markus was here, listening to our material.”

  “Fuck. Really?”

  “Really?”

  He looks angrier than I expected. “That asshole. Already probably writing the marketing copy in his fucking head.”

  “He mentioned something about that, yeah.”

  Ben sighs, clenching his fists and relaxing them. “Fuck. Well, at least he’s interested. I think it’d be worse if he didn’t do some of this shit.”

  “He said something about you.”

  That gets his attention. “He try and warn you away or some shit?”

  “Sort of. He said… he said you’ve been hurt before, in the past. I didn’t know what he meant. I guess it’s not my business.” I suddenly feel so stupid for bringing this up, like I have any right. I should’ve just kept the whole thing to myself.

  Ben smiles a little bit. “He mentioned that, huh?”

  “Not anything in detail. Just that you’ve been hurt.”

  He sighs and looks away. “I was in my early twenties, over ten years ago now.”

  “So you were pretty young.”

  He nods. “Young and stupid. It was… well, she was a musician. We signed her early on, one of our first acts. We had a thing, but it didn’t end well.”

  “What happened?” I press gently.

  “She got popular, went on a tour in Europe, and married some German guy.”

  I let out a laugh but immediately regret it. “Crap. I’m sorry.”

  He’s smiling, though. “No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s funny in retrospect, but it was fucked up at the time. She met this guy at a gig and they fell in love, I guess. She stayed there when the tour ended and they got married a couple months later. She dumped me through email.”

  “Email?” I groan. “No way.”

  “Yep. That ended our professional relationship as well, which really pissed off Markus. I was mopey and depressed after that, which also pissed off Markus, so it was basically his nightmare situation.”

  “I see. Markus is kind of a selfish prick.”

  “Yeah, he can be, but he was good to me back then, honestly. Anyway, that’s all there is to it. We broke up and now she’s a German.”

  I can’t help but smile. It’s such a dramatic story even though I’m clearly getting the watered-down version. I mean, I can’t imagine how I’d react if my boyfriend moved to another country and dumped me via email.

  I might turn into a rich playboy with a ton of walls up.

  “Anyway, it’s g
etting late.” I stand up. “Markus meant well, I just think he’s worried.”

  “He doesn’t need to be. We’re not dating and you’re not going to Germany.”

  “I’m definitely not going to Germany,” I confirm. “Although I have a flight scheduled for Paris in the morning.”

  “Bon voyage, ma cherie.”

  “Gross.” I head toward the door. “Oh, also, Markus says you need to stop with the arty shit and make something he can sell.”

  Ben laughs. “Did he use those words?”

  “No, he lectured me on art history.”

  “That sounds like him,” he says, grinning. “All right. We’ll work on that together, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, lingering in the doorway.

  Before I can leave, he stands up and walks toward me. “Thanks for bringing this up,” he says softly. “I think a lot of people would’ve just kept it all inside.”

  “Not my style,” I say.

  He stops close. “I know. I like your style.”

  “Ben,” I say softly.

  “What? I wouldn’t mind losing you to a Frenchman. At least they have decent healthcare.”

  I laugh softly as he steps closer, pulling me against him.

  “Seriously, I appreciate the concern,” he says. “I’ll talk to Markus and get him to leave you alone.”

  He kisses me softly. It’s so simple and intimate, not at all like the deep, passionate kisses we’ve shared before. It leaves me a little dizzy when he pulls away.

  “Goodnight, Alice.”

  His eyes are beautiful, his smile drives me wild.

  I turn and leave, one hand on my stomach, mind churning.

  17

  Alice

  The more time I spend with him, the more I kiss him, the more I touch him, the more I keep thinking about the baby I’m hiding from him.

  It was easy to ignore at first. I’m not visibly pregnant yet. My life hasn’t changed all that much, although I’m not drinking and I’m going to the doctor for checkups. All in all though, I don’t have to think about being pregnant all the time.

  Except when I’m around him. Whenever I feel myself getting comfortable and happy, I realize that I’m pregnant.

  I’m pregnant with his baby. And I haven’t told him about it.

  God, it’s so fucked. So fucked on so many different levels. And now I’m finally starting to really feel it.

  We go through the week doing our thing, working on a few songs. We add a couple more and Ben actually seems pretty happy with the direction of things. He’s playing more instruments, working on more complex arrangements, but overall we’re keeping it approachable and fun.

  I’m enjoying myself. I mean, I’m really, really enjoying myself. It’s the best job I’ve ever had, and definitely pays the best. As far as bosses go, Ben isn’t half bad.

  But there’s still the pregnancy, hanging over everything like a black cloud.

  I wish I could get rid of it. Not the baby, but this nagging, gnawing sense of failure and fucking up. Sooner or later I’m going to show, and what then?

  I’ll have to tell him. Either that, or I can run away with his money and quit the band and never look back. I can go into hiding somewhere, pay Nana’s bills from some anonymous bank account or something, and raise my baby all alone.

  I could start a new life.

  Except I’m not going to do that. Of course I’m not. It’s so incredibly hard to start a new life, and pretty much nobody can do it.

  I know I can’t. I’m strong, but not that strong.

  Which leaves telling him. I have to tell him the truth and let things fall where they will. Maybe he’ll be understanding and excited and everything will be perfectly happy and great.

  More likely, he’ll flip out because I lied to him. I kept this from him for a long time, way too long. He’ll lose his shit, and I can’t blame him. I should’ve told him right away but I never thought I’d get this involved with a man like him.

  In my head, I would keep my distance. I’d do my own thing, ignore Ben, pretend like that rich bastard doesn’t exist. Even if he’s gorgeous and charming and funny and sexy as hell, I’d raise my baby and live my life.

  Except that’s not what happened. Every time I see him, we’re more and more entangled.

  And I have no clue what to do.

  We go through a week of recording and writing before he calls me again in the middle of the night after recording.

  It’s around midnight. I’m thinking about going to sleep, the adrenaline and excitement of working in the studio finally starting to burn off. I stare at my phone and will it to stop ringing, but I know I have to answer.

  “Hi, Ben,” I say.

  “I know, it’s late, but I need you again.”

  I sigh, although I’m smiling. “What this time?”

  “Same problem. I’ve been going over the “Backyard” song like a million times and I need your ears.”

  The “Backyard” song is the working title for one of the tunes we wrote together. “I heard the mix earlier,” I say. “It was good.”

  “I made some changes.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Look, no bullshit. Just come over, listen to the song, tell me what you think.”

  “Fine,” I say with a sigh. “Send the car, sir.”

  “Happy to.” He hangs up without another word.

  I get up and get dressed. I know I’m acting like I hate this, but really I love it. I love that he can send a car for me, that he wants me to help him.

  Hell, I love that he wants to fuck me so badly he’ll bring me over under a pretense like this.

  I’m halfway presentable when the Uber arrives. The car smells like plastic and tobacco as the silent fat guy drives me over to Ben’s place. I leave a tip before hopping out and heading inside.

  Ben lives in a gorgeous apartment that costs more than my entire education, I’m willing to bet. He answers the door, still wearing the same clothes from the studio, looking a little haggard.

  “Thanks for coming,” he says, steering me over into the living room. “Want a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He pours himself a whisky and hits play on the CD player. He stands off to the side while I listen.

  He’s right, there were some changes. He added a string arrangement that’s actually pretty perfect. My piano got buried in the mix, but that’s okay, I don’t mind.

  When it finishes, I grin at him. “I love it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Seriously, I do. It’s still a little pop-ish but the strings make it…”

  “Dark,” he says.

  “Exactly.”

  “Like a weird Gothic horror story, except about bubblegum and candy canes.”

  “Right. It’s a really weird and awesome split.”

  He looks so relieved and sits down next to me. “I thought I was being stupid, putting in the strings, but it felt right.”

  “No, I love it. Seriously.”

  “I wish I had real strings though.”

  I give him a look. “I doubt Markus is going to spring for an orchestra.”

  He groans. “I guess not.”

  “Look, it sounds great. Whatever samples you used are perfect.”

  “Fine. Next record, though…”

  “Orchestras, opera singers, whatever you want.”

  “Beautiful. My favorite words.” He smiles at me again and I’m struck by how relieved and relaxed he seems.

  All he wanted was my opinion. It’s odd, actually, how much he cares what I think.

  I’m just some girl that can play the piano well and tune it by ear. There’s nothing special about me, I’m sure there are hundreds of piano players with more talent than I have in the city.

  Except I bet he wouldn’t agree. He’s been in the studio with some of the biggest bands of this century and he thinks I deserve to play on his own pet project. It’s terrifying, exciting, amazing, everything. He believes in me so much.<
br />
  And I lie to him every single day.

  He moves closer to me, putting a hand on my thigh. “I promise I didn’t invite you over just to touch you,” he says softly. “But since you’re here…”

  His grin is so devilish, delicious. I stand up quickly.

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “Okay. That’s fine.”

  I step away from him, shaking my head. “It’s not fine. I’m sorry, it’s not.”

  “Alice, what’s wrong?”

  I want to tell him so badly. I have to tell him. All I need to do is say the words and I can be done with all of this. It can end and we can figure out where to go from here. All I have to do is open my mouth and speak.

  “I can’t,” I say, almost strangled. I practically run for the door, flinging it open and leaving his apartment.

  I hurry down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the street. I’m afraid he’ll chase after me, so I hail the first cab I see and jump in, giving the driver my address.

  My phone rings, and it’s him. I ignore his calls, eventually turning it off. I can’t talk to him right now.

  I’m embarrassed. I just ran out of there like a stupid moron, all because he’s into me and he wants to touch me again. I want it just as badly as he does. I mean, why else would I drag my ass to his apartment in the middle of the night? We could’ve listened to that tomorrow.

  No, I can’t kid myself. I want him badly enough to lie to him. I want him badly enough to break myself in two playing on his album and carrying his baby, my little lie.

  He’s a rich bastard. I should hate him. But I don’t. I don’t hate him at all.

  I turn away from my feelings. I have to. I can’t look them directly in the eye.

  I’m a liar and I can’t look myself directly in the eye, either.

  18

  Ben

  “We could start without her,” Tony offers, idly stomping the kick, a driving, motoric beat.

  “I can do a little piano,” Chase adds. “Not like she can, but still. We can still get work done.”

  I shake my head, pacing across the studio floor. “Let’s give her another ten.”