by L. V. Lewis
I breathe a sigh of relief. Malik’s information actually mirrors what Brody has told me. Since when did regular background checks include looking into personal finances? Curious, I fold my arms. “Why would you need to know how much he has in his bank account?”
Malik shrugs. “Funny money could indicate someone’s willingness to resort to blackmail. My guys are thorough.”
I buy that. They’d have to be if they were any good in this business. I stand and pace. “It all makes perfect sense, given what he’s told me. Sort of.”
“How’s that?”
“He ran away from home when he was fifteen because he started a rock band, which his grandparents didn’t approve of. They were religious fanatics. His band apparently had some level of success, so it would stand to reason that he would have financial means.”
“But I can’t find a band that anyone by the name of Brody Kent was a part of.”
I shrug, but I’m inwardly annoyed with myself for not having asked Brody more questions. “He had to have used a stage name.”
“Mm-hmm.” I hear the skepticism in Malik’s tone. “You want him to be clean because you like him.”
I raise my chin. “How do you know that?”
“Girl, please. We’ve all seen you making puppy dog eyes at him all week.”
I groan. “Was I that obvious?”
“Do birds fly?”
“Not even a teensy bit subtle?”
“Depends on your definition of subtle. Listen, Sky. I’d suggest you hold off on messing around with this guy until we know more about him.”
“I just fixed all your holes. What more is there to know?” Tons, but I don’t want to alienate Brody without just cause.
The doorbell rings.
“There may not be any more to know,” he says, “but your mother is gonna want some answers right the fuck now.”
“Is that her at the door?”
He nods.
“Damn. Did you call her?”
“Well, yeah.” It sounds as if he’s saying, ‘well duh.’
“Why?”
“She has a standing directive for me to call her anytime anything goes amiss concerning you.”
“So, she’s just pretending to give me space.” I’m a bit hurt that my mother hasn’t really given me the reins to my career like she promised, and that Malik still feels the need to run everything by my mother first. “Who do you work for, again?”
“Well, you, but remember—Mrs. Samuelson actually hired me,” he says with an apologetic frown.
I sigh. Not only am I being denied the space I asked for in business, I can’t even attempt to get a little bit without my meddlesome mother and overprotective bodyguard butting in.
THREE
BRODY
DAY FIVE
“Yo Kent,” Malik calls.
I suppose I should be flattered he’s calling me by my last name as if we’re on a goddamn football team together or something.
He’s not grinning when I look up, though, like he was the other day when we were discussing the finer points of Mixed Martial Arts. He looks pissed.
I analyze him as I would an MMA opponent. He’s got me by an inch or so, and by more pounds than I care to assess. I think I’m fast enough to elude his punches and kicks with some moves of my own if it comes down to it.
“Yeah?” I ignore his hard glare, and answer as if he isn’t attempting to kill me with his eyes.
“Mrs. Samuelson and Sky want to see you in the living room.”
I put my iPad to sleep. “Any idea what this is about?”
“Come with me and you just might find out.” He sneers.
I purse my lips with annoyance. “Okay.”
The guy is acting like I’ve done something wrong.
I join him at the door, but I let him go first. I’m not going to give him an opportunity for a sneak attack. Pound for pound I’m strong for my weight class, but if Malik gets me in a wrestling move, he could knock me out cold. It’s best I keep my wits about me and see what the fuck is up.
Malik turns his back and I follow him to the living room.
Surreptitiously, I wipe the sweat from my upper lip and forehead before Malik steals a disappointing look at me as he turns the doorknobs.
We enter the French doors and the women’s heated conversation stops cold. Two almost identical sets of feminine green eyes fix on me when Malik steps aside.
Mrs. Samuelson forces on that fake smile she’s so good at conjuring and addresses me first. “Please come in and talk to us, Mr. Kent.”
Sky looks as if she might hurl at any moment. “Brody, you don’t have to tell them anything you don’t feel comfortable sharing,” she says, her words sounding suspiciously like an apology.
Why do I all of a sudden feel like I’ve walked into the Spanish Fucking Inquisition or the damn Salem witch trials?
I stride over to the sofa next to Sky and sit after she takes a seat. Ironically we end up sitting in the same places we were before Malik showed up.
Her mother takes a seat on an armchair near the fireplace.
Always at the ready, Malik remains standing.
“What’s this about?” I ask. I’m not necessarily feigning ignorance, but I don’t believe in showing my hand when the deck could be stacked against me either.
“Mr. Kent, It seems your background check has raised some questions. Considering how Mr. Rickards sang your praises when we met on Monday, we’d like some clarification.”
“On?” I adopt a literal pretense of incomprehension. Not volunteering any other goddamn information.
“Mr. Rickards led us to believe you had a graduate degree in music, yet your educational background indicates you barely have a General Education Development certificate.”
“That was David’s play on words, not mine.”
I breathe a slight sigh of relief, knowing that they’re working on the limited information they could glean from my real name and not my stage moniker.
“Why would Mr. Rickards say such a thing if it weren’t true?”
“I can’t read Mr. Rickards’s mind, Mrs. Samuelson. Maybe he was thinking the eight years I have under my belt as a musician are equivalent to a graduate degree. I understand many colleges and universities award credits for certain kinds of work and life experience.”
“And that’s another thing,” Malik says. “We’ve found no band of any significance for which you might have played five years ago. Hell, we don’t even know if you can play, sing, or whatever the fuck it is you claim you can do.”
“The name I sang under and my real name are not one and the same,” I say. “But you can rest assured Brody Kent is my given name.”
Mrs. Samuelson huffs impatiently. “So, we’re just supposed to believe you?”
“Mother!” Sky snaps. She pins me with her eyes and with such utter conviction, and says, “I believe you, Brody.”
I am slain by her. It’s not until this moment that I realize just how much I want Sky to believe in me. There is definitely a pull to her that I’ve been denying, so I’ve only shown her the reformed bad boy version of me. The Brody before rock music entitlement ruined him.
My attraction for Skylar, though stifled out of necessity, is all at once exhilarating and scary as hell, but a small part of me believes she could be the real deal. It humbles me that she has the faith to stand up for me even though she doesn’t know my full history. Her mother is another story.
“I’m not a liar, Mrs. Samuelson,” I say, but in my mind, I’m cursing her seven ways from hell.
“What assurances can you offer us that you’re not some two-bit huckster trying to get dirt on Skylar to sell to the highest bidder?”
“I despise paparazzi and the news media in all its forms. I know what it is to be hounded because you have a rare gift, and because of it, everyone wants a piece of you. I wouldn’t do that to Sky.”
“Those are pretty words,” Mrs. Samuelson says, “but trust has to be earned.”
>
“As far as I’m concerned, Mother,” Skylar says through gritted teeth, “he’s earned mine.”
Mrs. Samuelson scoffs. “My darling daughter, you’re talking with your libido. Let me sort this out before we have to hire a bunch of overpriced lawyers to fix what a young man much prettier than your precious Connor is bound to muck up.” This woman is patronizing the fuck out of her grown daughter, and if I’m not mistaken she’s offending me, too.
Sky springs up off the couch like a jack-in-the-box. Her fists are tight and her eyes are pooling with tears. She’s so angry that she’s trembling, and although we’ve only known each other a week, I’m angry on her behalf. Her teeth chatter as she speaks. “You didn’t have to go there, Mother.”
“Why not? We’re among friends, right? One you’ve grown to trust in just one week. Did you even tell him about Connor?”
Sky loses the battle with the tears threatening to fall, and runs out of the room.
“Sky doesn’t owe me any explanations,” I say with an equanimity that belies just how pissed I am with this meddling bitty right now. “I’m her employee and we’ve only had one dinner tonight that could even be construed as a date. Most people don’t talk about exes on first dates.”
“You could be a raving imposter for all we know, and it will be over my dead body to allow you to come in here with your sketchy background and ruin my daughter’s career.”
I don’t hold back anymore, because no one questions my hard fought for and partly-won integrity. “Right, because your gravy train would be gone.”
“My gravy train?” she shrieks. “I’ve poured my life into my daughter’s career. I’m her manager and I have all the credentials to back that up. You say you’re a musician. Can you even play a musical instrument? Can you sing?”
“You want proof?”
“Yes.”
I stand and glare down at the pompous Mrs. Samuelson. “Meet me in Sky’s studio in five minutes.”
I prefer playing my own guitar, but Sky’s Gibson will have to do. I remove it from its stand and plug it into an amp. I flip a few switches on the soundboard and plug in the microphone on the stand in front of me.
Mrs. Samuelson sits not even six feet from me, pretending that her nails are so damned interesting she has to study them like a college course textbook.
Malik is holding up the wall by the exit. Ever the bodyguard. Not sure why he’s at the door, because he damn sure couldn’t keep me here if I didn’t want to be here unless he pulls a weapon. I’m confident in my fighting skills, but even I would think twice before going up against a gun.
I tune the guitar by ear and strum a few bars to see how it sounds. Perfect. I don’t dare play one of my own songs, because then the jig would be up.
It’s inconceivable that Mrs. Samuelson, despite having a gigantic stick up her ass, wouldn’t know a little something about rock.
While sitting in with Sky at her practice sessions this week, there was a song she sang that really spoke to me. It’s called “Masquerade” and the lyrics are perfect descriptions of the two of us. I’m going to put my own spin on it, of course, but it should convince Mama Samuelson and Malik that I know my shit. If push comes to shove, I’ll play one of my unpublished songs that no one has heard.
I take a hair elastic out of my pocket and pull my hair back. I play the first bar and Malik grins like a Cheshire cat, bobbing his head to the beat.
I finish the second bar, and he runs out of the room like his ass is on fire. Not sure where he’s going, but I continue playing for my audience of one. I finish the elaborate intro with a few chords that shake the room and bring the volume down as I begin to sing.
Mrs. Samuelson’s eyes widen, my only clue that she’s listening to the lyrics of Sky’s song.
No one knows who I am.
They think they know me
but they don’t really give a damn.
Mrs. Samuelson begins to tap her foot as I continue playing and singing Sky’s lyrics as if they’re my own.
I grin inwardly because I know I’ve proven the old bird wrong. Not many guitarists play as well as I do, even on their best days, and I’m sure she knows her own daughter’s song and lyrics like they’re her own. Any good manager would.
I continue singing Sky’s words, adding little riffs where her regular guitarist had been lazy, making the melody even richer.
I entertain them with my songs,
though distraction lives in a beat of my own making.
They say they love me
but in reality, it’s too much of an undertaking.
The music of my life
is just a Masquerade
but I won’t give up until the final chord is played.
Malik re-enters the room with Sky on his heels at the chorus.
She looks confounded. Listening more, she smiles as she recognizes the song.
Malik pushes her toward me, encouraging her to join me at the mic.
Sky seems reluctant, but I can see it in her hungry eyes that the music calls to her. After a brief hesitation, she joins me at the mic. Her harmony blends with my melody. Our voices intertwine effortlessly.
At the bridge, I can’t help myself. I get lost in an elaborate guitar solo. It feels so fucking good to have an axe in my hands again, bringing music to life in the way only Savage Saban can. My nerves thrum as my body absorbs the energy that always surrounds me when I play. Audiences ate that shit up, and I fed off their energy, creating a vicious cycle—one that literally almost swallowed me whole.
Thoughts of how the very thing I love killed Kim and almost killed me, is the cold dash of water that awakens me from the musical zone that threatens to overtake me.
As I strum the final chord, I open my eyes, and survey the faces of my audience of three. All staring at me, eyes wide, mouths slack. Sky’s face is flushed in awe. Malik has the widest smile to accompany eyes big with incredulity. Mrs. Samuelson manages to look slightly offended and surprised.
I’ve either impressed the hell out of them or scared the ever-loving fuck out of everyone in the room. I’m not sure which I’d prefer.
FOUR
SKYLAR
DAY SEVEN
It’s my birthday, and I’m having brunch with my close staff. Brody sits on my right and Amber on my left.
Despite my explicit instructions of “no gifts,” there is a table in the corner laden with presents.
I’ve not had an opportunity to speak to Brody alone since Friday night. After the fiasco with my mother, we mutually decided to call it a night and all opponents went to their respective corners of the octagon. Just as well. When my mother showed up with her accusations, she’d effectively killed the mood.
I still can’t get over Brody’s chops. I have no idea who he was when he was in the biz, but I can’t help but to feel like I should bow down to him and chant “We’re not worthy!”
Malik offered to do some more digging because he’s as curious as I am to find out which rock band Brody had been with. I told him to drop it because I want Brody to share his past with me of his own accord—when he’s ready.
I’ve been stealing glances at Brody all morning, my awe renewing each time I remember how spectacular he’d made my song sound.
He’s talking now to my drummer, Snare, who sits next to him on the opposite side. For a few rapturous seconds, I get caught up in admiring his beauty above and beyond his talent. Full lips making way for high, defined cheekbones, and severe clean-shaven jawlines meeting at a neatly dimpled chin. Brody must feel my eyes on him because he turns back to me.
“You need anything?” he asks, concern lacing his gorgeous brow.
I shake my head. “No, nothing. Nothing at all.”
He smiles. “You aren’t nervous about tonight, are you?” His voice is low and soft.
I return his smile. “No. I was just wondering…”
He rolls his eyes heavenward, then slowly shakes his head. “Oh no. Friday night was a one-off.”
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“That, ‘Brody can you play with me tonight on just that one song,’ look.”
He says this in a falsetto that sounds ridiculous, but I forego the opportunity to tease him about it.
“Can you fault me for trying?”
“No, I can’t. This isn’t conceit talking, but if I were still in a band, I’d want me, too.”
I chuckle at his candor. “No, you didn’t just say that.”
“I was half-kidding, but believe me, I’m as serious as a heart attack when I say I won’t play tonight.”
“Will you think about it?”
“Not in this current lifetime.”
“That’s a long time.”
“I know.”
“But I’m going to wear you down.”
“No you won’t.” His voice is even lower and bears an ominous, regretful tone. “Sky, please don’t ask me to go on stage with you. I almost didn’t take this gig for I.Y.M. because you were a musician.”
“Really?” My voice cracks with incredulity.
“Yes.”
His definitive tone tells me he is unlikely to budge, and I have to tread carefully here. His pain must go way deeper than I first imagined. Something or someone had put him off the gift that had clearly been his passion once upon a time. What had done this to him, or who had he lost and how?
“Okay, okay, I won’t pressure you to go on stage with me.”
I say it exactly the way he phrased it for a reason. He may not want to go on stage live with me, but I might eventually coax him into working with me in the studio. Perhaps his issue was more some type of performance anxiety rather than a sincere desire not to play anymore. The man who covered my song Friday night sounded as if he were born to rock.
My mother makes her fashionably late entrance.
Her place setting is on the other side of Amber next to Malik, and she greets members of my team on her way to it discarding her purse in her seat. She approaches me, beaming. Spotting Brody, she sighs and rolls her eyes.