by R. E. Blake
“Shame on you for those dirty thoughts. Of course not. I mean, not entirely.”
“When do you get in?”
“Next Tuesday.”
“One thing, though, and I don’t mean to be a party pooper. I’m in preproduction, so I’m busy most of the day.”
“Oh, my lord. The way you said it I thought it was something serious, like one of those scoundrels got you pregnant.”
“That would be tough.”
“Stay away from shifty-looking white doves. That’s my advice.”
Just five minutes chatting with Jeremy lifts my spirits, which were unaccountably low. I have no reason to be down. I just did a performance Sebastian thinks is the bomb, Derek sounds like he feels the same as I do, and it looks like the sky’s the limit.
But I get like that sometimes.
Sometimes I wish I could divorce myself, because nobody knows how to ruin great moments like me.
I’m just getting out of the shower when my phone rings again. It’s Sebastian, and he sounds excited.
“Have you eaten dinner yet?”
“No…”
“Pick you up in ten?”
“What’s going on, Sebastian?”
“I just got done with Saul. We’re celebrating.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“How bitchin’ you are.”
I finish drying off as I consider his invitation. I try to think of a clever response, but he cuts in. “What’s your favorite food?”
I don’t even have to think. “Italian.”
“I know the perfect place. Dan Tana’s. A true Hollywood joint.”
“I don’t know, Sebastian…”
“Because you’ve never tasted their food. Trust me on this.”
I sigh, trying to sound exasperated, but I can’t muster the annoyance. Actually, I’m glad he called. A night out sounds like the perfect end to an emotional day. And he’s not hard to look at. Melody would be so jealous. I can sense more selfies coming.
“Okay. Give me fifteen minutes. I just got out of the shower.”
He doesn’t say anything. I hope he’s not imagining me naked. “Fifteen. You got it.”
I need to do laundry because I’m exhausting my wardrobe. I figure the leather pants are too dressy for Italian, so I wind up with my Girl Power shirt and the bell bottoms I swore I’d never wear.
The Porsche’s parked out front when I get to the lobby, top down, and Sebastian looks happy even through the tempered glass of the door. I shoulder my way to the car, and he greets me with a smile as I slip into the passenger seat.
“Hope you’re hungry. The portions are humongous,” he says.
“I could eat.”
He accelerates from zero to a thousand in about two seconds, and we’re at the restaurant in a blink. It’s exactly as I pictured it, with movie star photos on the walls and massive portions. We order the lasagna, which he promises is large enough to share, with a starter salad that could feed everyone I know.
He leans forward, a twinkle in his eye. “Saul’s beyond pleased. Part of this game is to keep the label excited, and believe me, he’s seeing dollar signs after hearing that tune. He agrees it’s a smash, and also agrees that it’s probably the take, even though we’ll do it again about a million times, just in case you can do it better.”
“That’s great,” I say.
“What makes it important is that he’s now super motivated to get this out in a hurry and will put everything he’s got behind it. If Saul does that, you could fart on tape and it would chart on Billboard. Do it rhythmically and it’ll go top 10.”
I almost spit lettuce all over the table. Sebastian is funny. In spite of myself, it’s easy to warm up to him.
“So what do we do to make that happen? Not the farting.”
“It means longer hours for you and a more intense schedule. How do you handle pressure?”
“I was living in the park dodging perverts while scrambling for my next meal a couple of months ago. You want to talk pressure?”
“That’s what I was hoping. He wants more original material, too. More like sixty percent originals, forty standards. So I’m going to put the full-court press on everyone I know for their best stuff. And I know a few people.”
“I haven’t had a chance to listen to the songs you emailed me yet. I was a little burned out after today, and I wanted to listen with a clear head.”
“No sweat. I already know which two you’re going to love.”
He’s got such confidence, but it’s not egotistical. He’s just done this so much he knows. From anyone else that would come off as cocky. From him, it’s matter-of-fact, and I have no doubt he does know.
I nod. The salad’s awesome. Crunch, crunch, nod, crunch. I’m seriously hoping I don’t have any oregano or parsley stuck between my teeth.
I have no idea why I feel so self-conscious around Sebastian, but I do. Comfortable, but a little intimidated. He’s done so much, has so much experience, and I’m just starting out. It’s crazy that I’m sitting with him getting ready to wolf down pasta like it’s a normal night out, nothing special, no big deal.
He’s looking at me with that faint air of puzzlement that’s quickly become his norm with me. Unlike Derek, he can’t seem to read my mind, other than the inappropriate parts, which seem to be growing daily.
I feel compelled to fill the silence with words, to explain. “Nothing. I was just thinking about how fast everything’s happening,” I say, opting for the truth.
“It is, and it’s going to accelerate. None of which should affect you for the next month or two. You stay focused on making this record and let the elves do everything else behind the scenes.” He finishes his salad and takes a sip of the Chianti he ordered. I’m drinking soda. “Do you have a manager yet?”
“Yeah.” I tell him about Terry. He nods.
“I know her. She’s good. A battle-axe. That’s what you want on your side. This business can eat you alive if you’re not careful. You can’t trust anyone.”
I smile. “Including you?”
He laughs. “Especially me. I’d take you to the cleaners and take all the credit, but June would kill me. So you’ll have her to thank for anything good coming from my end.”
I put my fork down, done. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
“That’s the spirit. You’re already getting the hang of it.”
I laugh again. “Do you take all your artists out for pasta?” I want to take back the question the moment I ask it, but it’s too late.
“Only the beautiful, talented ones.”
Boom. That’s not at all producer-artist professional, from what I can tell. But it’s nice to hear.
“You silver-tongued devil.”
“Guilty.”
The server whisks our plates away and reappears moments later with a platter of lasagna you could land a 747 on. I stare at it in awe. It’s like an ocean of cheese and meat sauce.
“That looks healthy,” I say, my mouth watering.
“Hey, you’re young. Enjoy it. Once you’re on the road, you’ll be eating fast food and wishing for death.”
“Forget the part about silver tongues. Is it really going to be that bad?”
“First tour, probably. Everything’s on a budget, and you’re paying for it all out of your slice, so you won’t be fine dining. It’ll be a bus to nowhere if you’re lucky, or a van and two rooms at a fleabag motel if you’re not. But once you’re big, which shouldn’t take that long, you’ll get the star treatment – first-class hotels, comped meals and clothes, maybe even a jet now and then. The problem is that’s still going to come out of your cut, so be careful. More than one multiplatinum artist has declared bankruptcy after selling a blazillion records.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You make it sound like white shark water.”
“That and more. I’m not trying to scare you, just tell it like it is. I’ve seen a lot, and everyone’s going to have their hand in your pocket. You a
nd Terry will have to fight tooth and nail to get a fair deal, and even then, you won’t be able to trust the numbers anyone gives you. The concert halls will lie about receipts. The record company will dick you just out of habit. Crates of swag will disappear from your tour merchandise. Expenses will be inflated.”
I shake my head. It’s too much information. He’s scaring the crap out of me. “So why would anyone want to do it?”
“Because they have talent, and because it beats flipping burgers or working behind a desk. Just remember one thing: Nothing in life is free, and never more so than in the music business.”
The lasagna is all that and more, and I take a picture of it for Melody, who’s going to give me huge rations of grief for having dinner with her producer. First ice cream and now dinner, and I’m not naked yet. I can already hear the disappointment.
When we get done with the food, I feel like I swallowed a bowling ball. Sebastian looks like he just got back from the gym. A part of me thinks about what I’d be doing if I wasn’t with Derek, but I shut that off. I am. While it’s flattering to have Sebastian flirt with me, there’s only one Derek.
I can practically see Melody sticking her finger down her throat.
Which is fine. When she comes down, I’ll introduce her to Sebastian and watch her do her best black widow act. A part of me feels a little sorry for Sebastian. He doesn’t stand a chance against bombshell Latina jailbait on the prowl. My money’s on Melody every time. I have yet to see it fail.
Except with Derek.
I smile to myself, and Sebastian mistakes the smile as being directed at him, and returns it. I clear my throat as he finishes his wine.
“Wow, Sebastian. That was too much. I’ll never forget it.”
“We can come back as often as you want.”
I shake my head. “This will last me for quite some time.” I check the time on my phone. “Sorry. I’m just tired. Not much fun, am I?”
“I’m having a great time.”
He pays the bill, and we exit the restaurant. I’m surprised by a flash, and then a thin man in a windbreaker with a camera around his neck darts off down the street to where a car’s waiting. I look at Sebastian.
“What was that?”
He shakes his head. “Paparazzi. They’re like cockroaches here. You’re news, Sage, so you can expect more of this.”
“How do you know they weren’t after you?”
“I come here a couple of times a month. That’s the first time it’s happened. Three guesses.”
“Really?”
“Sure. A busboy gets fifty bucks for making a phone call. It’s how things work. Don’t sweat it. It’s worse when they don’t show up, because it means that nobody cares.”
I think about his comment all the way home.
What a weird business.
No, what a weird day.
Chapter 12
My second day of preproduction with Sebastian runs ten hours. I had no idea that listening to songs could be so draining, but it is. They all start to sound the same after a while, and I’m in awe of how Sebastian can sit there, soldiering on, when my ears are fried.
He gives me a ride home, no offer of dinner this time because he’s going back to work, and when I get to the apartment building, I see there’s mail in my box – a postcard with a picture of one of the carriages in Central Park. On the reverse side are three handwritten lines that break my heart:
Sage. It doesn’t matter how long it took to find you or to figure out we belong together. What matters is that I want you more than anything and miss you so much it hurts.
I stand in the lobby, rereading the simple message from Derek, my hand trembling and a tightness in my chest. So few words, yet each one tugs at my heart as I remember his unruly hair and flashing green eyes as he grinned at me on our first visit to the park, what now seems like years ago, but was only a few months. Of all the things he could have done, this was perfect.
I make my way to the elevator and hardly notice when the door slides open. I step into it and press the button for my floor, holding the postcard to my chest. I feel both embarrassed for my sudden unexpected sentimentality and elated that Derek was obviously thinking about me as much as I’ve been thinking about him.
When I enter the apartment, I walk to the dining room table and retrieve my cell. One of Sebastian’s rules is no phones at the studio. He’s got hysterical stories about phones ruining takes, and believes they dilute the artist’s focus, checking messages and chatting while he wants them fully absorbed in the project.
I can’t argue. Sebastian’s system works.
I’ve got at least twenty text messages from Melody, ten from Jeremy, and three missed calls from Derek’s phone. I scan the messages first, and the latest one from Melody has the URL of a gossip site listed, with the cryptic message, “Check it out.”
I’m easy to bait, so I go to my tablet and tap in the URL.
And just about have a stroke.
There’s a special feature, titled, “Where Are They Now?” The first photo is of Sebastian and me outside the restaurant, looking admittedly friendly, with a short blurb about how teen sensation Sage has been having intimate dinners with her highly eligible bachelor producer. There’s enough leering innuendo to paint a house with, and I swallow dryly as I read it.
Then I scroll down, and there’s Derek, looking like ten million bucks…with singing sensation Serena on his arm, coming out of a club.
WTFF?
I read the blurb, and it says that club-goers were treated to the sizzling chemistry between America’s hottest pop star and its up-and-coming heartthrob. That would be Derek, I guess. It goes on to share in breathless terms Serena’s bad-girl reputation for pushing the envelope on sex in videos, and speculates what their love child might look like.
I see red for a few moments and then talk myself down. I return my attention to the phone, while staring at the photo of my guy and some total slut. The smirk on his face has the same effect on me as waving a red cape in front of a bull. Even though I know the media likes to distort to get attention, it’s pretty damaging no matter how you slice it.
The messages from Derek are short.
“Sage. Call me when you get a chance. Phone’s on.” “Are you there?” “Do me a favor and call, will you?”
I press redial and listen as his line rings. When he picks up, he sounds out of breath.
“Sage.”
“Derek.” I try not to sound pissed.
“How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know. Working all day. No phones allowed.” I hesitate, considering how to ask my question, and settle for, “How about you?”
“Same here. Why no phones on your end?”
“Sebastian doesn’t want them in the studio. He’s the boss.”
“Some boss.” The tone’s ugly. I close my eyes and count to three. I’m not sure it does any good.
“What does that mean?”
“I saw the photo of you and him having dinner, Sage.”
“Is it illegal to eat now?” I snap. Way too harsh, but I can’t stop myself.
“In a lot of states, depends on what you’re having as the main course.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m not. I’m joking,” he says, his tone making it clear that nothing about the situation is funny.
“Ha, ha. You must be developing a good sense of humor. I guess you have to have one to date Serena.”
“That? Sage, that’s nothing. I can explain.”
“Derek, I had dinner with my producer. Completely innocent. You’re spotted at a nightclub in New Jersey with the poster girl for Whores R Us. It’s not the same thing.”
“Sage–”
“Spare me, Derek. It’s a long way from California to New York, I know. And I’m sure you’re only human.”
“Sage, she’s working in the other studio. There are two control rooms here. We got to talking. She suggested we go have a drink. It was nothing.”
<
br /> “Right. You’re out boozing with Ms. Teen Sex USA. But it’s innocent.” I’m building a big head of steam, but I can’t help it.
“You know the media. They were just looking for something to spice up the photo – it’s all an invention.” He pauses. “I had a drink with her. That doesn’t mean anything else happened.”
“Yet.”
“Sage–”
“I can’t believe all I’ve been doing is thinking about you every day. Apparently my idea of being together is different than yours. I’m not out partying with porn stars and trying to explain it away when I get caught.”
“She’s not a porn star.”
“Close enough. Probably doesn’t have the talent. She sure as hell can’t sing.”
“And I didn’t ‘get caught.’”
“Derek, you were busted by a photog. That’s totally getting caught. It doesn’t get more caught than that. Were you even going to tell me about it if it wasn’t all over the web?”
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. I flush with victory. My logic is unassailable.
When he does speak, his voice is softer. “You haven’t read your messages, have you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I texted you last night. Before we went out. Telling you I was going to the club with her.”
I hold the phone away from my face and scroll through the messages. There’s one from last night, delayed delivery due to technical problems, received at three a.m. California time. From Derek. It says, “Met Serena working in studio next door. Going out for an hour. Miss U.”
I want to die.
“That doesn’t change anything,” I start to say, but my tone’s defeated. Of course it does. He made full disclosure before he went out with her. I’m still not happy about it, but he’s not a snake.
“Uh-huh. I missed where you texted me to let me know you were having dinner with Superman.”
What I should do is take two or three deep breaths, think, and be reasonable. That’s not how the next words come out.
“Am I supposed to text you whenever I eat?”
“Sage, come on. Lighten up. I didn’t do anything wrong. We both know it.” The unspoken part being that I did.