by Abby Jimenez
When I woke up Saturday morning I felt for my phone on the nightstand. I typed in my message, barely awake.
Jason: It’s a new day and I get a new question.
The jumping dots didn’t appear, and when the phone rang in my hand, it was Ernie.
“Good morning, Down Under. I’m guessing by your context clues that you haven’t checked your email today?” I could tell by the wind coming through the phone that he was in his coupé with the top down. “I’m going to need you to not lose your shit. It’s a fifteen-hour flight to Australia and I can’t be there to chokehold you off a ledge.”
Fuck. I sat up in bed and put him on speaker. I opened the email and took one look at the attachment and shook my head. “No. I write my own lyrics. I sing my own lyrics, Ernie.”
“I know. I know you do and this is a giant load of steaming horseshit, but we talked about this.”
“We talked about someone else writing my music?” I squinted at the screen. “What the hell is this? It looks like a pop song. They rhymed sweetie with teeny. I’m not singing this crap.”
A horn blared through the phone, and he told someone to go fuck themselves. Ernie drove like a madman. “Look, you need a strong crossover hit. I like indie rock. It’s nice to listen to while I smoke a joint when I’m hiding from the wife, but that stuff doesn’t go platinum. If you wanna get Don Henley famous like you said you wanted to, crossover hits for mass market is how you do that.”
“Yeah, I get that,” I said. “But I was supposed to write the music.”
“Well, we tried it your way. You haven’t written anything in six months and your label’s getting itchy. They wanna know they’re gonna get a return on their investment. You’re in bed with these people now, it’s time to tickle their balls a little. Lie to them. Tell them what they want to hear, that you’ll roll over and sing what they ask you to, then write something that’ll blow their fucking socks off and bait and switch them when you have it. Done.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “Fuck,” I mumbled. “And if I can’t write something that’ll blow their fucking socks off? Then what?”
“Then it’s two songs on an album of ten and you do whatever the hell you want with the rest of it. Look, you and your label have the same objectives. To sell records. If you can’t come up with the material to do that, they’re gonna come up with the material for you. It’s a partnership. I know you’re an artist and this is your medium and the very suggestion that you sing something that you didn’t write feels like picking which STD you want, but you went with the big boys and now this is big-boy time. It’s time to put on your big-boy pants.” Two swift honks. “You grin and bear it, and you know why? Because you are a goddamn professional.” Another long, blaring horn.
I stared at my reflection in the black TV on the dresser at the end of my bed. I couldn’t write. I was having some sort of lyrical performance anxiety. I’d never had to compose on demand before, and knowing they were waiting for it felt like an energy suck. I’d cranked out the soundtrack, but just barely, and the best stuff on the album was the three songs I’d written with Lola Simone—and that was mostly her. I’d taken those two weeks hiking in New Zealand hoping the solitude would kick-start my creativity again, but not even that had done it for me.
I wasn’t opposed to collaborating. I wasn’t even entirely opposed to singing something I didn’t write—but the song had to be great. It had to sound like me, and it had to be amazing. And that’s not what this was.
I pinched my temples. “I hate this.”
“Yeah, well, let the money and fame console you.”
I glanced again at the lyrics and cringed. I didn’t even like the idea of saying I’d sing this. But what choice did I have? I didn’t want to look uncooperative, and it wasn’t like I had anything else to give them.
“Fine.” I spit it out like the word tasted bad in my mouth.
“That a boy. Also, they’re adding pyrotechnics and fog to your concerts.”
“What?”
“I hope you like confetti. I’ll let them know you’re on board and you’re thrilled. Hey! Pick a fucking lane—”
The call ended.
I let out a long breath. I sang on stage with nothing but a spotlight, a stool, and a microphone. I didn’t do props and theatrics, and I sure as hell didn’t sing some pop shit I didn’t write.
Ernie had warned me about this. I’d known when I signed my record deal that this day might come, and I’d find myself compromising my vision for my work. But now it felt like more than that. It felt like I was selling my damn soul.
I tossed my phone on the bed and got up and took a shower. Then I made black coffee in the little coffee maker and went out to the balcony to drink it.
My room overlooked Marvel Stadium, where I’d play tomorrow. People walked around below like ants in the light drizzle, nothing but glass and wet concrete as far as the eye could see. No trees. Just the smell of damp asphalt.
This hotel was a nice one. All the amenities. Not that I was picky about where I stayed. I could sleep on a couch with my arm over my face. It was just a nice change—and one that came with having a big record label that had assigned me a personal tour manager. Per diems for room service, top-of-the-line recording studios, hefty advances, first-class flights—that I usually gave away, but it was a frill nonetheless.
I blew a resigned breath through my nose. Ernie was right. It was a give-and-take. I’d been an independent musician for so long, I just wasn’t used to being told what to do and how.
I’d have to get used to it.
Sloan still hadn’t texted.
I leaned on the railing and checked my phone again, wondering if it had chirped and I’d missed it. I double-checked that my last text had gone through. It was marked read.
She’d never taken this long to respond before.
When a text came through from Lola with a picture of her licking her nipple, I was doubly annoyed. She had a new number. Again. I’d already blocked the last two. I was probably going to have to change my number since blocking hers wasn’t making any fucking difference.
I deleted the picture, irritated, and decided to go to the gym.
I didn’t have anything on my schedule. I’d actually been looking forward to today, when I’d be free to bother Sloan as I saw fit. It hadn’t occurred to me she’d maybe not be available for that—or interested in it.
Between this, the Lola text, and the call with Ernie, my morning was a wash. I hadn’t realized how much I looked forward to sparring with Sloan every day until it looked like she might stop accepting my challenges. She was funny. I enjoyed talking to her. I also liked hearing what Tucker was doing, though it occurred to me I’d be checking in on him a hell of a lot less if he were still with Monique.
I was tying my running shoes when my cell phone pinged. I tipped the screen toward me and smiled.
Sloan: Don’t think you’re getting two questions just because you missed yesterday.
I kicked off my shoes and got back onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard with a grin.
Jason: Do you have time for a phone call?
The dots started to bounce. Damn, I loved those dots.
Sloan: Sure.
I hit the phone icon and pressed my cell to my ear. “So you’re going to rob me of a question because I was a gentleman and didn’t call you at one in the morning to ask it?” I teased when she picked up.
“Seems to me that a gentleman who really wanted to get to know me better would have found time for a text with his question during reasonable hours.”
“I was very busy yesterday.”
“Sounds like you just weren’t properly motivated yesterday. A text only takes a second. Now I have no choice but to penalize you.”
Her tone was playful, but she wasn’t going to cut me any slack. And was she maybe, just possibly, a little mad at me for not being more attentive yesterday? The thought made me smile to myself. “What can I do to make it up to you? Give m
e your address and I’ll send you flowers. What’s your favorite kind?”
“Sunflowers. And not a chance.”
“I guessed you might say that.”
“You knew I would say that. So what’s your question?”
I didn’t even have to think about it. “What did you tell your friend Kristen about me?”
She groaned. “I think I’d prefer to send you a picture.”
“That bad, huh?”
“If I give you back your forfeited question, will you change this one?”
“Definitely not.”
She let out a sigh and I snickered. Then I threw her a lifeline. “I’ll tell you what, if you agree that our hike with Tucker is going to be a date, I’ll ask you something else. Or you could keep calling it an appointment, and then you can tell me all about what you two ladies talked about yesterday. Or you could send me a picture. It’s all a win for me. I can’t actually decide which option I like best, they’re all so great.”
She laughed. “You are not going to give this up, are you?”
“Nope.”
“You know what? I think I will tell you what I said. Because I said very little, actually. I showed her your picture. I said we’d been texting and talking. And I said you were taking Tucker back. That’s it. You asked the wrong question. You should have asked what Kristen said in response to what I said. That was the juicy stuff.”
“You showed her my picture?” I asked, grinning.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She’s my best friend and we were talking about you,” she said.
“So you agree that having a picture of someone is helpful?”
“I see where you’re taking this, and it won’t work.”
“I have a best friend too, you know. Cooper, the bartender downstairs, would also like to see a picture to accompany my stories about you.”
“Well, Cooper is going to have to help you to think up much better questions, then, isn’t he?”
I put my arm behind my head and grinned. “Make my picture your wallpaper.”
“What? No!”
“Do it, I dare you.”
“No. Tucker is my wallpaper. I like having Tucker as my wallpaper. Unlike his dad, Tucker is well behaved.”
“Well, in all fairness, Tucker’s got a date and not an appointment.”
She laughed.
Housekeeping knocked, and I slid off the mattress to open the door and wave them off, slipping the Do not disturb sign onto the knob. I grabbed a bottled water from the minibar and climbed back onto the bed.
“So what did you do yesterday that had you so busy that you missed your daily question?” she asked.
“I had sound check and rehearsal. Then I had dinner with the group,” I said, taking the cap off my water.
“Oh, you’re in a group?”
“No, I’m a lone wolf. I had dinner with the group that I’m working with tomorrow night.”
“And who’s that?”
I was opening for The Black Keys on Sunday, but for Sloan that was embargoed information. I had officially decided not to tell her who I was or what I really did for a living. I didn’t want it to distract her from getting to know me as a person. I’d learned a few lessons from my time with Monique. I wasn’t going to lie, per se, I just wasn’t going to volunteer things whenever possible.
“You’ve probably never heard of them,” I said. Then I changed the subject. “So my mom’s pretty excited I know The Huntsman’s Wife.”
“Really? Does she use my website?”
“Yes, religiously. I’ve eaten a lot of your food. Where did you learn how to cook?”
“My mom has a catering company. She has a food truck on the Warner Bros. lot. I grew up helping her.”
“And does she serve a lot of wild game?”
I could almost imagine the smirk I heard on her lips. Almost. I really did wish I had a picture.
“No, but once you know how the meat tastes, it’s not hard to work with it,” she said.
I shook my head. “Yes, it is. That’s why your page is so popular.”
“Is it?”
“You’re kidding, right? Everyone I know uses it. Why don’t you update it anymore?”
She paused for a moment. “I cooked the meat that Brandon, my fiancé, used to bring home. He died in a motorcycle accident two years ago. Hit by a drunk driver. So I stopped blogging.”
I could hear the tightness at the edges of her voice, and something protective in me twitched—which was weird. I barely knew her. But I didn’t like that she’d gone through this. Why do all the bad things always seem to happen to good people?
“Do you still cook other things?” I asked, getting us off the topic.
“Not really. It kind of lost its allure for me.”
“So if you don’t cook, what have you eaten today?”
“Hmmm. Well, I’m still blowing through the gift cards I got for Christmas, so I went to Starbucks and got my coffee,” she said. “Then I went to Kristen’s house to go swimming. She has a toddler. We had watermelon and macaroni and cheese for lunch. Kristen made it, so the mac and cheese was very soggy.”
“And where was Tucker? Did you leave him alone at home, heartbroken in a small closet?”
“Oh, you mean did I leave him in a crate?”
I smirked at the jab.
“No, he came with me and he went swimming too. And he got a puppuccino at Starbucks.”
I wrinkled my forehead. “A what?”
“A puppuccino. A cup of whipped cream for dogs.”
“That’s a thing?”
“It is. There’s all kinds of things you can get for dogs at restaurants. You can get ice cream at most places as long as it doesn’t have vanilla beans in it. And there’s a cupcake shop called Nadia Cakes that I take him to that has doggy cupcakes they make from scratch.”
I arched my eyebrows. “Wow, he really is on vacation.”
“There’s a reason why you’re paying me the big bucks for my dog-sitting services.”
“I’d have paid more.”
“I’d have done it for less.”
I smiled and jammed another pillow behind my back.
“I’m going to put you on speaker. Hold on,” she said. “I have to get some work done and I need my hands.”
I heard shuffling.
“What are you painting?”
“Want to see it?” she asked, sounding slightly farther away than before.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Hold on, I’ll send you a picture. It’s really lame. You’re gonna laugh. There.”
I put my cell phone on speaker and clicked on the picture message she sent. “Is that…an astronaut cat?”
“I told you it was lame.”
I zoomed in. “It’s well done. It’s just…a cat’s head on an astronaut’s body?”
“Yeah. I do freelance work for a company that takes your pet’s face and photoshops it onto different templates. Then they send it out to an artist to paint it. They’re not all cat astronauts. Sometimes they’re dogs playing poker.” She laughed.
I tilted my head to study the picture. “It’s pretty impressive that you can paint that, though. I’d love to see what you did on your own. You’re obviously talented.” I wasn’t bullshitting her. It really was good.
“It got easier to paint something I was given than to find inspiration. I have an Etsy store too. It’s all kind of mindless.”
“You should paint Tucker. Paint him duck hunting in the boat,” I suggested, grabbing the room service menu from the nightstand and starting to look over the breakfast options.
“Kristen said the same thing. You have an accent, you know that?”
I looked up. “I do?”
“Yeah, I can hear it when you say ‘boat.’ It’s kind of nice. I like it.”
She’d never said anything complimentary to me before. I’d lay on my Minnesota accent extra thick from now on.
“So what do you do wh
ile you paint? Do you listen to music?” I asked.
“I watch the ID channel. Real-life crime shows.”
“Ahhhh, that’s why you’re so convinced I’m a murderer.”
“How many acres of hunting land did you say you have?”
“My family owns two hundred acres in northern Minnesota,” I said. “Why?”
“There you go. The perfect place to hide a body. I bet you have a hunting lodge that locks from the outside and everything.”
I chuckled and crossed my legs at the ankle. “Do I look like a psychopath to you?”
“Ted Bundy was a good-looking guy. Charismatic too.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment since it sounds like you’re saying I’m good-looking and charismatic. But aren’t most psycho killers cruel to animals? I think Tucker would tell you that I’ve never raised my hand to him in anger.”
“Hmmm,” she hummed. “Well, that does go against the typical serial killer profile. Unless you use Tucker to lure your victims.”
I smiled. “He is kind of a chick magnet, isn’t he?”
“I bet the two of you make a killing.”
“No, so far he’s only brought home one girl, and he’s been keeping her to himself.”
There had to be an eye roll in the ensuing pause.
“Are you ready for my question of the day?” she asked, a smile in her voice.
“Shoot.”
“What’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for a stranger?”
She had good questions, and this one was easy. “I donated my bone marrow.”
“Wow. You did? That’s a pretty big deal. How did that happen?”
Tucker walked around in the background, making a familiar clicking sound on the floor with his nails.
“I can hear Tucker,” I said.
“Oh yeah, his nails are pretty long. I’m going to take him into PetSmart tomorrow and have them cut, actually. He’s almost out of food too.”
“Save your receipts so I can reimburse you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “So bone marrow, tell me.”