“Yeah. I mean, they drive me nuts, and we have nothing in common, but I love them.”
Jesse goes silent for a long moment, seeming to forget where he is, then grabs two helmets from a workbench.
“You okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. He just takes his cowboy hat off and passes it to me. “You gotta hold my lucky hat while we ride.”
Next thing I know, I’m wrapping my arms around his waist and locking my hips into his. I hold on to his hat, praying it doesn’t blow away. Jesse fires up the Harley and steers it out of his garage and past the gates, immediately kicking it into high gear—probably because the paparazzi are already following us. Are they taking my picture?!
I close my eyes, and the wind whips around my body, freeing all the bad thoughts about the past week. It’s a little weird having my arms and legs wrapped around this sexy guy who gets on my nerves. While wearing a short skirt. While on my way to a music studio, a place I’ve only dreamed of visiting. Holy shit! I, Maya Henry, am going to a music studio! Jesse speeds up to fifty miles an hour, and I feel like I’m taking off in a plane.
After about twenty minutes, we pull into a reserved parking spot on Music Row.
“Omni Studios!” I exclaim as Jesse yanks off his helmet.
He takes his cowboy hat from my hand and helps me climb off the motorcycle. We store our helmets in the Harley’s saddlebags.
This is amazing. I pretend I’m heading inside to record my own album. I strut my stuff as we pass guitar statues and go through a security booth. Security guards wand the people patiently waiting in line, but Jesse waves at a guy and pulls me right on through.
Inside, people mill about the hallway. When Jesse appears, they scatter like ants at a picnic. He pays no attention, striding into a studio labeled with his name.
“You have your own studio?”
“I don’t share.”
Go figure.
Drums, a piano, and, like, a bazillion guitars and basses fill the brightly lit studio. I can’t believe I’m here! My eyes dart from the speakers to the mikes to the control room and its mixing equipment. The “On Air” sign is off. Wouldn’t it be amazing to watch it turn red and then dive into a session? I take a seat at the grand piano and drag my fingers across the keys.
“You play?” Jesse asks.
“Nah. But I’ve always wanted to learn.” In the past at band practice, Hannah taught me a few easy songs on the keyboard. I slowly play a few low notes.
She texted me a few times this week, asking to talk, saying she had no idea the guys wanted to replace me, but I haven’t felt like talking to her. Loyalty means a lot to me, and she just stood there and said nothing while the guys kicked me out of The Fringe.
Jesse squeezes in next to me on the bench, takes his cowboy hat off, and sets it on the piano. He cracks his knuckles, then stretches his fingers. “You know ‘Heart and Soul,’ right?”
“Nope.”
He flashes a look at me. “Where did you grow up? Antarctica?”
“Actually, Franklin.”
“Like I said, Antarctica.”
I elbow him in the ribs. “It’s not that bad.”
“I know…I wish I still lived in the country. My parents live an hour away down in Hillsboro, but I need to live closer to my studio and the airport.”
“You’ve got the money to build your own studio and the Jesse Scott International Airport out in the country, right?” I tease, and he gives me a look that says he doesn’t know what to do with me.
He takes my right hand in his and guides my fingers to the keys. That’s when I notice the blue ink stains on his hands. The ink is so ingrained that it looks as if soap doesn’t do the trick anymore. He must spend a ton of time writing lyrics.
“You’re gonna do the easy part—the upper register.” He shows me which notes to play, then makes me practice it a few times. “I’m gonna play the lower register now. Keep the beat, okay?” His fingers effortlessly drum the keys. “Start…now!”
I join in, and the music seems to relax both of us. Jesse starts telling me that along with Garth Brooks, Tim McGraw, and Keith Urban, he’s big into Neil Diamond, James Taylor, and Simon and Garfunkel—all the boys from way back. I confess that while I love badass girl musicians like Fiona Apple, most of the music on my iPhone is from the eighties. Prince, Madonna, Pat Benatar. My mom got me hooked on Queen.
“I love them so much I named my Twitter account QueenQueen,” I tell Jesse.
He smirks. “A Tennessee girl who dresses like Madonna and sings Freddie Mercury.”
Our musical tastes are very different, which makes me nervous, considering Nate never liked anything but metal, and I don’t want to spend my entire day with Jesse listening to country. I want to listen to the music I like. So it’s great that we discover a mutual love of Bon Jovi; he starts playing “Living on a Prayer” for us to sing along to, and I can hardly believe I’m practically doing karaoke with the king of country music. My voice stays steady through the song, just like when I sing backup.
“Your voice didn’t crack that time,” Jesse says. “That’s good.”
“I can relax more when I’m not the only one singing.”
We play until a gorgeous blond woman wearing this long, flowing bohemian dress sails into the studio. She lifts her sunglasses and squints at us.
“Jesse?” she asks. “Who’s this?”
Jesse and I stand. “Holly, meet Maya. Maya, meet Holly. She’s been my voice coach for forever.”
The woman beams as we shake hands. “Jesse’s never brought a guest to one of our sessions before.”
“She’s not a guest. Maya’s job shadowing me today.”
“Ah. That’s nice of you.” Holly looks confused.
“Maya’s a pretty good singer. No training.”
Right then, Mr. Logan strolls in wearing a fancy navy suit, blue tie, and shoes so shiny they temporarily blind me. Two young women in crisp black suits carrying portfolios, iPads, and cell phones rush in behind him. Whoever they are, they need more hands.
“I told you, no press,” Jesse says to the ladies. “It’s my day off.”
“At least let us put out a statement that you’re mentoring a fan today,” one woman says.
Jesse shakes his head. “This is a private favor for my uncle, not a stunt.”
The other lady says, “We’ll frame it that you’re visiting important Nashville landmarks with a talented fan—”
Jesse responds by shooing the two ladies out of the studio, shutting the door with a click behind them. It’s like watching a circus.
“Jess, I told you I was coming to pick you up,” the manager scolds.
“We got sick of waiting on you.”
“Did you really drive Maya here on your motorcycle? Your uncle is going to kill me.”
“Maybe you should’ve been on time then.”
I’d be flipping out at Jesse, but Mr. Logan stays cool and calm, adjusting his watch before shaking my hand. “Nice to see you again, Maya.”
“You too, sir.”
Jesse snorts. “Sir,” he mutters, and Mr. Logan gives Jesse a noogie, then pats his back.
“You know you’re not supposed to leave home alone without your security,” Mr. Logan says.
“I didn’t need it. Maya provided security.”
“Is Jesse already driving you crazy?” Mr. Logan asks me.
“He’s not too bad,” I say.
“Hear that?” Jesse gives Mr. Logan and Holly a look. “I’m not too bad.”
“Finally some good press,” Mr. Logan says with a laugh, and Jesse scowls. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. Just wanted to see how things are going.”
“It’s been, like, twenty minutes, Mark.” Jesse begins to play the Charlie Brown theme song on piano. It’s really cute.
“
I’m going to make some calls,” Mr. Logan says. He gives me another smile and goes to sit in the isolation booth where Jesse must do his singing. Through the glass, I watch Mr. Logan put a cell phone to his ear and pull a little book out of his jacket pocket.
Holly sits on a stool and arranges her billowing skirt around her legs. “So, Maya, sing something for me.”
She’s the voice coach to the biggest country singer there is. What if she thinks I’m terrible? “Um, I don’t do solos.”
The Charlie Brown music abruptly stops. “That’s getting old real quick,” Jesse growls. “You’ve got a world-class voice coach standing in front of you on my dime. So sing. Or I’m leaving, and you can tell my uncle why you didn’t complete shadow day.”
Crickets.
Holly says, “Okaayy.”
“Fine. I’ll sing,” I tell Holly. “Thank you for the opportunity.” I take a deep breath and try to relax as I belt out the first few lines of “Carolina in My Mind.”
Like Jesse, her face gives away nothing. She taps her lips with two fingers as I sing and nods when I’m finished. “No one’s ever taught you how to sing from your diaphragm?”
“Huh?”
She clucks her tongue. “Schools these days…”
Jesse stands up from the bench. “Sing like you normally would.”
I sing a line from the song, and then he puts his hand on my stomach.
“What the?” I smack his fingers away.
Holly chuckles. “It’s okay, Maya.”
Avoiding my eyes, Jesse moves close to me again and lays his palm on my stomach, his long fingers splayed across the red lace and black leather of my corset. Wow, that feels intense.
“This time when you sing the measure,” Jesse says, “try to push my hand off your stomach using only your breathing.”
“While I’m singing?”
“Yup. You’re going to sing from your stomach instead of your throat. It’ll make the sound fuller.”
I take a deep breath, and he waves a hand again. “No, no. Fill your stomach with air, not your chest.”
I glance at Holly, who is staring at Jesse like she’s seen a ghost. Inside the booth, Mr. Logan stands up, looks from me to Jesse, and pockets his cell phone. He rushes back out into the main room.
I inhale again, filling my stomach with air, and Jesse says, “That’s it. Now start singing.”
I rattle off another measure, trying to push Jesse’s hand away from my stomach. It takes a lot more effort than usual, and I can’t hear anything different in my voice, but whatever. He’s the expert.
“Better,” he says, one side of his mouth upturned.
Mr. Logan paces back and forth across the studio, staring at Jesse. He doesn’t seem all that interested in me or my voice, just his star client. Is he as surprised as I am that Jesse is being kind to me?
Then Holly pulls out the big guns and the real work starts. For the next hour, she has me sing scales and melodies that are way out of my comfort zone. My voice cracks a couple of times, making Jesse wince again like when I screwed up on guitar. Harsh critic.
Holly hands over various sheet music for me to try, and Jesse makes me sing along with a guitar and then the piano and then a cappella. An hour later, my stomach is killing me. Holly is very clear I will not be singing from my throat anymore—I have to sing from my diaphragm—but it’s tough to get used to. I take a break to sip some warm water.
“Maya sounds edgy,” Jesse says.
Holly adds, “I love her raspy tone. She’s got soul. You can’t learn that.”
“Thanks.” It feels good to hear. But it also slices deep. It reminds me that I’m not a part of a band anymore. It’s not like I have anyone to sing with, and I won’t be doing any shows anytime soon unless I find another band.
“You’ll have to work hard on your mechanics,” Holly adds, rising from the stool. Pushing on my tummy and back, she edges me into an uncomfortable posture. “You’ve started late in life.”
“But Uncle Bob was right,” Jesse says. “You have a good voice, but you need a lot of practice and training if you want to become something.”
“Thank you.” I smile at Jesse, and he nods, his gaze floating from my eyes to my nose stud.
“Let’s have some fun,” Mr. Logan says. He grabs a set of earphones. “Let’s get you in a booth and see what you sound like on tape.”
I take a step back. “No, no, no.”
“Why not?” Mr. Logan raises one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows.
Ever since I fainted while singing “Scarborough Fair,” and then the talent show “siren” incident, I’ve avoided being recorded. Those two are up on YouTube for all eternity. “I just don’t want to hear myself, okay?”
Jesse takes my elbow. “It’s okay. How about we do some scales instead? Me and you?”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
Jesse sits down at the piano. “Use the breathing technique you just learned.”
While Mr. Logan and Holly listen, Jesse and I sing for so long my stomach muscles feel like somebody’s ripping them in two.
“How do you do full concerts like this?” I ask and sip some water.
“People think my life is easy. It’s not. I work crazy hours, and when I’m not practicing or playing a gig, I’m writing or exercising. I never get much sleep.”
“You have to truly love music, or you’ll never make it,” Mr. Logan adds.
Jesse begins playing piano again—something classical—slowly, not methodically, with lots of flavor.
“I remember when I first heard you sing on TV,” I tell Jesse. “I must’ve been nine or so. I could tell how much you loved singing.”
“Still do,” he says quietly, softly drumming the keys.
“Want to sing your new song, Jess?” Holly asks.
He shakes his head. “Today’s about Maya.”
“I’d love to hear your song,” I say.
He looks at me, pensive, as he stops playing piano, stands, grabs an acoustic Fender, and slings the strap over his shoulder. He takes a deep breath before beginning to pluck out a melody. Shutting his eyes, he sings in the purest voice, “Eight years old when we first went fishing. Now ten years on, I wish we’d never gone. They say to live in the moment, to live right now. But I’m back there, when you loved me for me.”
Who’s the song about? His dad? Or Dr. Salter? Or somebody else?
When he’s finished, Holly pats his arm. He winces and opens his eyes. He takes a step away from Holly, and with a sad expression, she begins stacking sheet music into a pile.
She and I glance at one another before I say, “That was gorgeous, Jesse.”
A guy who clearly loves singing, who loves performing, and puts so much emotion and love into his songs—why would he quit? Give up something that is his whole world? The reason has to be big as life, right?
Jesse pulls the guitar strap from around his neck. “I’m starved.”
Mr. Logan claps once. “Lunch sounds great. Then we can resume the schedule for this afternoon. The tour of the Ryman Auditorium should be fascinating.”
Jesse sighs, grabs his cowboy hat off the piano, and puts it on.
“Mark.” Holly clucks her tongue. “I don’t know the rules of this job shadowing thing, but shouldn’t Maya be spending time with Jesse while he does his normal routine?”
Mr. Logan straightens his jacket and tie. “How about Mere Bulles for lunch, then? It’s fabulous. I got us a reservation.”
“Sounds nice,” I say, pretending I know what Mere Bulles is, but Holly shakes her head.
“Mark, how about you and I go to lunch together, and we’ll leave the kids alone to get to know each other. Okay?”
“But,” Mr. Logan blurts, and Holly gives him a monumental glare, so he quickly adds, “I think it would be great if you two went to lunc
h.”
“Really?” Jesse asks, looking up.
“I’ll send Gina and Tracy to handle any press who follow you and to deal with the restaurant. We’ll meet up after lunch.” Mr. Logan pats Jesse’s shoulder. “You okay with this?” he asks quietly.
Jesse glances over at me. “Yeah. She’s cool.”
Mr. Logan goes from looking surprised to happy in record time. “Good. I’ll have a car take you—”
Before he can finish his sentence about our ride, Jesse grabs my elbow and yanks me out of the studio and into the parking lot, where we jump on his bike and take off.
I Knew You Were Trouble
“We can’t go to lunch here.”
“Why not?” Jesse asks. “They’ve got the best steak this side of the Mississippi.”
“I, uh, can’t—” I look through the Mere Bulles window at the glittering chandelier and tables topped with white linen and lush flowers. “I don’t make all that much down at Caldwell’s.”
“I’ll spot you.”
“But then you’ll probably think I want a free lunch in addition to that record deal I’m so desperate for.” Several older women with very structured gray hair are congregating near us on the sidewalk, trying to get a closer look at Jesse.
“Let’s just go to Chipotle,” I urge him.
“I know you’re not trying to get a free lunch. And we can’t go to Chipotle without my security detail.” He keeps a close watch on the old ladies as if they are going to jump him. “There was a burrito incident.”
“A burrito incident.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, we still can’t go here. We’re not…dressed appropriately.”
He eyes my short black dress. “You look fine.”
“I wasn’t talking about me. Your jeans look like Swiss cheese.”
Jesse looks insulted. “There’s nothing wrong with my jeans.”
“Your mother would not be happy if she saw you going to lunch in those clothes.”
“We’re not talking about her—” He stops midsentence and strides down the busy Nashville street. “C’mon. Let’s get some barbeque instead.”
My black skirt bounces as I hustle to catch up with him. “What about your publicists? Aren’t they meeting us here?”
Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) Page 5