by Becky Wicks
‘It’s nothing,’ Stephanie blurts, clutching his arm and trying again to snatch the leather bound book back.
‘It’s not nothing, it’s a goddam goldmine,’ he says.
‘You should see Conor’s.’
‘We should go,’ I say, snatching it roughly from his hands and handing it back to her. I’m starting to really not like Travis Flynn. Actually I’m starting to want to rearrange his smug face.
Stephanie shoves the songbook back into her purse and I don’t miss how her cheeks are flaming but I realize another book has fallen to the floor. I bend down and pick it up, stand up as a brunette in too much make-up walks over and wraps an arm around Travis. He puts a bulky arm around her. ‘Think about it, OK?’ he says to us. ‘I’ll catch you at The Nice Rack. Ya’ll have a great night.’ He tips his hat, turns and walks with the girl back to his gaggle of fans.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say, putting a hand to Stephanie’s back, but there’s a hand round my wrist before we can even reach the door.
‘I thought he’d never leave. Conor Judge and Stephanie Jackson, did I get that right?’ We both turn to the woman who’s stepped in front of us now. She’s tall, dark skinned, beautiful, crazy curly hair and bright red lipstick. She releases my wrist, looks us up and down. ‘I couldn’t just let you go, I’m sorry, you guys are spectacular.’
I clear my throat. ‘Thanks.’
‘I don’t say that lightly. So, tell me, have you signed a contract for Stars yet?’ She’s rummaging round in her small green purse now. ‘Or either of those songs for that matter?’
‘What kind of contract?’ Stephanie asks.
She ignores her question. ‘Do you a have a demo?’
‘I have half a demo actually,’ Stephanie answers. ‘But we’ve only been working together a short while…’
‘OK, listen,’ the woman says, pulling something from her purse, finally. ‘I’m Mel, I’m with Ace Music and I’m really interested in hearing more of your work. We’re always looking for more writers for our team. I’d love for you both to call me and maybe stop by some time?’
‘Seriously?’ Stephanie sounds as stunned as I feel as she hands us both a card. I look at it. The address is Music Row. Mel smiles, revealing poker straight teeth. I notice the bird-in-a-cage pendant around her neck.
‘What you guys just did was special,’ she tells us sincerely. ‘This whole room heard it and I have it right here.’ She waves her cell phone in the air. She must have recorded us. ‘Where do you usually play?’ she asks.
I look to Stephanie. ‘We don’t play anywhere together yet. We’re actually hoping for a slot at the Bluebird…’
‘OK, good. That will be great for exposure, but I have a couple ideas I’d like to run past you, if you’re up for it of course?’
‘OK,’ we both say at the same time and Mel laughs, looks between us, mutters the word cute as the next act comes on to the mic. She lowers her voice.
‘I have to go see the rest. Call me soon, Jackson and Judge.’ She winks. 'Has a nice ring to it, actually.' She spins on her heel but turns back again at the last minute in a cloud of her own curly hair. ‘By the way, good job saving the cowboy from a fate worse than death!’
We both laugh awkwardly as she pulls a face and Stephanie pulls me out the door. ‘What the hell just happened?’ I say, as soon as we’re outside. Stephanie jumps up and down in her boots on the spot for a moment, making her hair fly out around her. She’s buzzed, I can tell. She’s not the only one. ‘I think she wants us for a publishing contract,’ I say incredulously, almost to myself. ‘That’s insane… if she’s legitimate, that is.’
‘Guess we’ll find out,’ Stephanie says, walking towards me and looping an arm through mine. For a second I want to pull her in and kiss her for real this time, but the traffic’s roaring past and the crowds of people are spilling out from buildings onto the sidewalk, and Travis’s words about the Hearts Community and my father are killing any romantic urges like fly swatters as soon as they strike me. I’m playing with fire every time I get too close to Stephanie but as she leads me back along 8th Avenue South I’m dying to play more, to practice, to feel that energy I felt buzzing between us on that stage. It was addictive. She is addictive.
I realize I’m still holding the other book that fell out of Stephanie’s purse. I stop. ‘The Secret?’ I read from the cover.
She nods as I stop, leaf through it. ‘Have you read it?’
‘Nope.’ I turn it around in my hands, read from the back. ‘The law of attraction?’
‘Alyssa swears by it. She attracted her soul mate.’
‘That Joshua guy? I’ve seen them in the news.’
‘They’re still together.’
‘So, how did she pull him from a book?’ I say, grinning in spite of myself. ‘Is it magical?’
She laughs, takes it out of my hands.
‘Religious?’ I say.
‘No. It’s just about changing the way you think; looking to the universe and the energies all around us to articulate our own destiny. You are what you think, basically.’
‘I like that idea,’ I say. ‘As long as you think good thoughts.’
‘Exactly. Your imagination is an extremely powerful tool. I’ve been reading it for a while, trying to imagine more positivity, more money, more luck.’ She looks up at me from under her bangs, eyes flecked with orange in the streetlights as she studies me thoughtfully. ‘And then I met you.’
9.
Stephanie
‘What brought you to Nashville?’ Mel asks me, sitting back on the couch. It almost swamps her, it’s so soft and cushiony. My leg is touching Conor’s, sitting next to me in the small ‘writer’s room’ at Ace Music on 17th Avenue South.
‘Dreams, mostly. And my father, before he died,’ I reply. ‘We wrote a lot together in Alabama.’
‘Dreams take work. You did the right thing moving to the city,’ she says, leaning forward from her couch opposite ours and pouring us both more sweet tea. The smell of her perfume fills the whole room and I know both Conor and myself are trying not to stare at her cleavage in her low-cut turquoise shirt. On the phone she said a publishing deal was exactly what she had in mind, and we just played a few more songs, which seems to have cemented the offer. I’m floating on a cloud. I can barely believe this is real.
Conor takes the glass she hands him. ‘So, do we need a demo?’ he asks her, all business suddenly. I curb a smile. Mel shakes her head of crazy curls.
‘I don’t know yet. But I can get you an afternoon slot to lay some stuff with our sister company Dixie Hits – it might better our chances at getting a cut for Stars. I want to put that one straight out there. It needs to go on a decent album and I can think of a few the works right now.’
Mel crosses her long legs in her skin-tight jeans and the ice rattles in her drink as she taps at her phone again on the table. ‘Some songs are fine the way you did it the other day,’ she continues without looking up, ‘as a guitar-slash-vocal. The important thing really is to make sure it’s sung in tune and that you can hear the lyrics over the music. Some people just don't get it though, unless the whole track’s laid like a full-blown record of course. We can help you. But I’ve been thinking,’ she pauses. She looks at Conor more than me, I’ve noticed. ‘I think the piano would sound great with Stars – I heard something raw in there I want you to explore if possible. If you don’t play, we can find someone who can.’
‘We both play,’ I tell her quickly. Conor looks at me in surprise. I don’t look at him on purpose.
‘Great,’ Mel chirps. ‘I’m excited to see what you guys can do. From what I heard, you make a pretty awesome team. How long have Jackson and Judge been together?’ She winks as she says our names.
‘Oh, we’re not…’
‘Not like that,’ Conor follows and Mel grimaces.
‘My bad, forgive me. I guess I mistook that spark for something else. Your energy… it’s just. Wow. You remind me of me and my
husband.’
‘You run this place together, right?’ Conor says, clearing his throat as my heart impersonates a trapped sparrow. ‘We read the website.’
She nods, leaning back on the couch, but takes her iPhone with her, places it lovingly on her lap. I bet she never spends a second without that phone. ‘This baby was a 1920's bungalow before we renovated,’ she tells him. ‘Took it from 1600 square feet of nothing to what you see now.’
An intern walks in with some papers, hands them to her and walks out again. ‘Now listen,’ she says, shuffling forward on the couch and handing them to us. ‘I don’t know what you know already but when you sign a publishing deal, the publisher - that would be Ace - pays you a yearly advance in return for keeping the copyright for everything you write while you're signed.’
‘So none of our songs will be ours?’ I say, feeling my heart wedge in my throat. We haven’t talked about the money yet, but I know there are things that need to be done to the house. Bills are stacking up again. My aunt Sandi called me just this morning. I can’t think about it.
‘None of them,’ Mel replies. ‘Well, of course, yes, sure the songs are yours, but we keep one hundred percent of the royalties coming in until we get that advance back. After that, we split it with you 50-50. What you’re being offered is pretty rare these days, and rarely turned down.’
‘We understand,’ Conor says, and I nod again as it sinks in. This is crazy.
‘I’ve seen you in Fret,’ Conor tells Mel now as he scans the paperwork on his lap, and I watch her raise a waxed, black eyebrow.
‘You’re Conor Judge?’
‘That’s me,’ he says and she laughs.
‘You don’t say! You know, I saw your last name and I didn’t even put it together. Your father sold me my last guitar! What a guy! How is he?’
A look crosses Conor’s face I recognize. Agitation. It strikes me, not for the first time, that Conor hates to talk about his father and his brother, but my head is reeling with so many things as they chat on about guitars and I look over the contract on my own lap. I feel like this is all happening to someone else. A few weeks ago I didn’t even know Conor, and now we’re about to sign a publishing deal and record a demo of a song we wrote together, on Music frickin’ Row. Is this my life?
I look around me at the room Mel has already said we can come to and write in any time we like. There are several guitars, a drum kit and a keyboard, but no piano. Just thinking about that piano at Conor’s, or the possibility of one being in the studio makes my palms sweat. I need to grow the hell up and get over it. I have to. I wanted this opportunity, to help try and save the house. So my aunt and Cory and David won’t have to be responsible for it… so Cory can have the chance I never had to go to college, or do anything better than hang around in Homewood.
‘So, what if no one wants our song?’ Conor asks now.
Mel shrugs. ‘I’m going to do my best to make sure they do. You take care of the art, I’ll take care of the rest… although, song writing is more than an art, as I’m sure you know. It's a business.’
‘Well, thank you for this business opportunity,’ Conor says with extra charm and a grin and she stands up. Is he flirting with her? My insides twinge in annoyance and jealousy. Our almost-kisses are playing on my mind like a song, sneaking in uninvited. Every touch sends my intestines twirling and I haven’t eaten properly in days. The other night I made Tal come collect me. I didn’t even go into his house. We made small talk on the street till she arrived as I stood there, waiting for him to kiss me. He didn’t.
‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ Mel says. ‘Right. You guys take those away and look over them. I’ll hook up the studio time and meanwhile I suggest you carry on writing. The more you can record at once, the better, and the sooner we can get your stuff out there.’
‘We really appreciate this,’ I say, meaning it.
‘Well, I’m looking forward to seeing what else you have up your sleeves.’
‘So are we,’ I say and she reaches forwards, squeezes my forearm, meets my eyes finally, albeit through her thick mascara.
‘Adorable, don’t lose that.’
I’m not sure whether she’s being nice or patronizing but she’s gathering up her purse, ushering us out of the room into the hallway. I'm struggling to get my head around the fact that it feels like we're in someone's house. I guess we are in a way. All the studios and offices here are basically houses. ‘OK, sorry, I have a meeting with Noah Lockton’s people…’
‘Noah Lockton’s people?’ I flash a look at Conor as I put the papers into my bag.
Mel smiles. ‘Just a Skype call before they get to town. He’s one of the artists I have in mind for Stars actually – they’re looking for a duet for him and Courtney Lentini.’
My throat dries up on the spot as Mel carries on. ‘Slim chance but you never know. People like Noah Lockton want to be involved in the writing of their own material. In other words, he doesn’t think he needs you but HotFlush always have their own ideas. They’re a bit like that.’
I feel my eyes widen. Noah Lockton and Courtney Lentini are only two of the most famous artists around right now.
‘When did you say you’re auditioning at the Bluebird?’ Mel asks now.
‘Friday,’ I say.
‘OK.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, that’s when they arrive. I’ll see if they can come and hear your magic for themselves, assuming you get a spot of course.’
‘We will,’ Conor says, and a half smile curls her lip as she walks us to the door.
‘I’m sure you will.’
She air kisses our cheeks and bustles off and Conor leads us back out of the cottage, onto the street. I’m still floating on that cloud. If it wasn’t for Conor I’d be stuck in some tree by now, dangling in the wind by my hair.
‘Conor, you don’t really think she’s going to bring Noah Lockton to the Bluebird?’ I say as we walk through Owen Bradley Park, which flanks the intersection by Ace Music.
‘That’s too surreal for me to even wrap my head around,’ he says. ‘Are you a fan?’
‘I guess. Isn’t everyone?’
‘We should ask Poppy and her sister what they think about this,’ he replies. ‘I’m pretty sure they have his poster up somewhere. Do you still want to come?’
I nod, still in a daze. Poppy is a kid he’s been teaching guitar to through his Notes For Hope Foundation, just outside of the city. I said I’d go along for the lesson as I’m working the late shift today. Gretchen was kind enough to give me more time off – she’s been pretty good about that lately, thank God. ‘This is all so weird,’ I breathe, but Conor’s stopping now, in the middle of the park.
I look with him distractedly at the life-size statue of the singer/songwriter, Owen Bradley, sitting behind a piano. He puts one hand on the statue’s bronze one, which is outstretched, like he’s gesturing to an on-looking crowd, then sits on the seat next to him. I reach for my necklace, but Conor reaches for my hand.
‘You didn’t have to tell Mel you played,’ he tells me, pulling me down beside him and searching my face. I study his deep, brown eyes in the sunlight – almost one solid color till they meet those black-as-night pupils. I notice all over again how his lashes are slightly tilted at the ends; how his scent soars up my nostrils and switches something on inside me that’s almost animal.
‘Yes, I did,’ I say, swallowing. ‘We were sitting on Music Row, talking about signing a publishing deal, Conor... I can’t let anything get in the way of this.’
I don’t tell him how much I need this publishing deal, how I need the advance, whatever it will be. He puts an arm around me and instantly all my synapses spark and the warmth of him floods through me like liquid fire. ‘I’ll help you any way I can, Jackson, you know that right? We can start right now.’
‘You’re the best,’ I say, leaning into him for a moment. He starts to sing Stars, miming on the fake piano keys and I can’t help singing along in our we
ll-practiced harmony, even as three Belmont students stop and stand around, watching us. It feels like the start of something somehow, but also like the end. I’m definitely and quite literally sitting at a crossroads with Conor.
Poppy runs from the house as soon as we pull up on the driveway, pigtails bouncing and her bright red patterned dress floating out around her. ‘Conor!’ she yells at him. She’s seven, almost eight and is the most adorable thing. She obviously idolizes Conor. I grab our guitars from the back and watch as she wraps her little arms around his middle. He picks her up and spins her around once, biceps straining in the sunshine. Another older girl is standing on the wooden porch. She must be fifteen, maybe sixteen. Poppy's sister.
‘Hey, Emma, what’s up?’ Conor asks her as we walk towards the house and up the porch steps. Poppy’s still clinging to Conor. He said he’s been teaching her guitar for the last few months here at their foster family’s home. Their dad was hospitalized with permanent and life threatening injuries a year ago and their mom turned to drink. They’ve been here ever since, along with four or five other kids.
‘We’re good, just back from school,’ Emma replies. She’s holding a ginger kitten, whose paws are batting at her long brown hair. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘I’m Stephanie,’ I say, putting one guitar down and holding out my hand. She takes it tentatively. I can tell she’s shy for her age. She reminds me a little of myself and I can’t help feeling so grateful all over again that my aunt Sandi was there for me and my brothers when my parents died and foster care never came into the equation. We follow her into the house and she walks on ahead into the kitchen.
‘Conor’s here!’ Poppy yells again from his arms as three more kittens and a mother cat pad up to our feet and curl around our legs. I put the guitars against the wall in their cases, bend down to pick one up, just as two boys, twins I think, about nine years old, appear from the kitchen and pick up the others. They’re laughing and shrieking and immediately we’re in the center of a whirlwind.