by Reiss, CD
“I brought Larry in,” he said proudly. “He still owes me a favor.”
“I’m sure he’s in a position to pay you back now.”
“Do you have a business plan?”
“It’s in the front pocket. I’m really looking for help with a first proto run, then for production I can get a letter of credit against orders.”
“Let’s see what you have here.” He opened my portfolio and skipped the business plan, going right to the sketches I’d cleaned up in the days since Justin had seen them.
“This is nice.” He indicated a fringe detail. “So your résumé says you worked at Josef Signorile?”
“Yeah.”
“How was that?”
“I learned a lot.” I shoved past all the things I’d learned about people. “How a denim business runs from concept to delivery, mostly. Putting out production fires.”
“Inevitable, right?”
“Oh, absolutely!” I sounded like a cheerleader, so I took it down a notch. “There was this one time we had shade bands—”
“Do you have contacts in New York you could have hit up?”
Why were my nerves and hopes sitting in my throat? I could barely talk around it.
“LA is about denim,” I said.
“This is a fantastic detail.” He tapped the pointed cuff and closed the portfolio before getting to the section of things I’d done at past employers. “You seem really talented.”
“Thank you.”
“There’s . . . uh.” He cleared his throat as if he had something sitting there too. “I made some calls, and . . . maybe this isn’t true, but there are people saying you were the one who made allegations against Josef Signorile?”
The sweat glands in my palms opened like spigots, and the lump in my throat expanded into a sticky balloon.
“Are you allowed to ask me that?”
“You’re not seeking employment, so . . .” He shrugged. “Yes.”
Was I supposed to lie? Was I supposed to explain the entire story? I didn’t owe him anything, but I wanted to get in to see Ralph so that I could find a way into his debt.
If I was telling the truth, I was going to hold my head high and say what I needed to.
“It was me,” I said, ready to tell him all the reasons and excuses for why it went down like it did. But he spoke first.
“That’s fine,” he said, poking a slow leak in my voice balloon. “They’re so uptight in New York, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” I laughed nervously.
“It’s different here. It’s not all about money and business. There aren’t a bunch of finance guys in three-piece suits telling us what to do. We don’t work for the banks, we work for the customer.” He put his elbows on the desk and folded his hands together. “Los Angeles is about entertainment. Influence. Our currency is access.”
I was trying to figure out if that was any better than being run by the banks, because I lacked both credit and connections, when it hit me why he was staring right at me as if he was waiting for me to offer what he couldn’t ask for.
I had access to something they wanted. Someone they wanted. In exchange, they’d overlook all the reasons I left New York. Maybe. None of this would be stated explicitly.
“If marketing wants Justin Beckett’s ass in your jeans, why am I meeting the creative director?”
He smirked.
“This is how it works. I mean, why did you stay anonymous? Sometimes there’s not a straight line between your job and what the company needs. Right?”
“I . . .” Some functioning filter in my head stopped the rest of the sentence, because there was an apology inside it. I’d already made an apology to the one person who deserved it. “I’ll think about it.”
“Excellent.” He took a business card from his pocket and gave it to me. “Give me a call, and we’ll set up a meeting with Ralph.”
“Sure.” I hugged the portfolio to my chest.
“I look forward to working with you.” Dale stuck his hand out. I shook it.
When I got back to the theater, I threw my portfolio on the floor and kicked it so hard it slid the length of the space until it tapped the far wall.
Access.
Talent was fine, but it was access to Justin that made me valuable.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. In one way or another, this happened all the time. So-and-so’s parents mortgaged their house to get him started, or they were big in the club scene, or they were an actor’s kid. It would all be played off as an advantage the universe gave only the most talented. Twenty years down the line it would play differently. Putting Justin Beckett in Butter Birds jeans would be a cute genesis story.
It wouldn’t be a big deal.
That wasn’t going to happen.
Maybe I could mention it to him.
He probably got requests like that all the time.
Which didn’t mean he liked them.
I went back and forth, swinging between doing what it seemed everyone else did and the moral high ground. In between those two states, as the pendulum swung low, I remembered Signorile was a part of the equation. It made me feel as if Dale had the right to ask. If he hadn’t shifted my mask of anonymity, he would have just taken the meeting, but asking for a favor would have given me too much of an upper hand.
I couldn’t go anywhere. I just sat on the couch, mesmerized by the pendulum and the regular intervals where Signorile laughed.
A text from Justin snapped me out of it.
—You coming to the studio tomorrow?—
I’d told him I would, but I couldn’t imagine it would make a difference if I didn’t.
—I’ll be in the way—
—Nah—
Not exactly enthusiastic. Did I want him to beg? That was childish, and nah was nah. If I wanted to wiggle out of it, all I had to do was say I didn’t want to go.
And I kind of wanted to. He’d be behind glass with a microphone in front of his face, but as I thought about it, sitting around and sulking seemed less appealing.
—Do you want me to bring you something?—
—Yeah. Your sweet ass—
Gross and so the opposite of gross at the same time. Context was everything.
—I’ll see you at around six—
—Cool—
He sent the address, parking, and how to get through security. Then a kiss-face emoji next to a fist-bump.
Maybe I could bring it up with him.
The studio was in the Valley. Justin had sent a password.
Literally, a password. I had to say “tangerine” to get through security.
I rolled my eyes, but when I saw the crowd outside the building and the scrum of paparazzi, I understood the necessity. Once I got out of the van and handed the valet my keys, a woman in a pantsuit approached.
“Kayla Montgomery.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Coralee. Nice to meet you. This way, please.”
Beside me, her heels clicked on the parking lot pavement. She nodded to a guard, who opened the door to an empty waiting area.
“Snacks in here,” Coralee said. “Bathrooms here. Also restrooms on every floor. Justin’s on six. I’ll take you up.”
Another guard at the elevator let us in. The doors closed, and it rose to six with a flash of numbered lights.
“Is there always this much security?” I asked.
“For Justin Beckett? Yes.” She smiled, not unkindly or without a trace of sincerity. “He rented out the entire facility since last time.”
“Last time?”
“A very disturbed man was convinced Justin was the reason his girlfriend left him. He rented out the studio just below and caused some problems.”
“What kind of—”
“We’re here!” she said right before the elevator dinged. “Which is where I’ll leave you. Just to the left.”
“Thank you.” With a smile and a wave, she was gone.
The hallway was carpeted, with rows of doo
rs. Two set close, one with a red light, then ten feet and another pair. It looked like a horror movie. Carter stood in front of a door with an illuminated red light.
“Hello, Kayla.”
“Hi. How’s it going?”
“I have no idea,” he said, opening the door without the light.
The engineering room had a glass wall, couches, a table of food, and a soundboard with a hundred little knobs being adjusted by a skinny guy with long fingers and headphones. A man I didn’t recognize had his leg slung over the arm of the couch, his phone in his face, and a doughnut in his mouth. A balding executive with a sports jacket leaned into the mic. I was studiously ignored, catching the balding guy midsentence.
“—need to rework the bridge.”
Justin was alone in the sound booth with his back to me, erasing from a sheet of paper that rested on the grand piano. The room was huge, with racks of guitars and a drum kit. When he turned, my heart tightened as if he’d unintentionally grabbed it.
That hand tightened. It wasn’t love. It was what he was wearing. White jeans with a pink-and-yellow argyle sweater that was a size too small. It had been a cardigan that—when your sailboat got midday hot—could be worn over the shoulders with the sleeves tied in a knot. I should know—I’d designed it for Josef Signorile.
Justin had turned the sweater into a vest by cutting the sleeves off. He’d fastened the wrong buttons to the wrong holes as if he’d run out the door without looking in the mirror, making the hem end at a point on one side. It should have been atrocious, but it was perfect. He’d turned basic preppy wear into douchecore excellence.
Looking down, he brushed eraser nuggets away with the side of his hand.
“Nah. It’s not the bridge.” His voice came from everywhere. “I got it.”
Balding turned to me, looking me up and down.
“And you are?”
“Uh, Kayla . . . I’m—”
“She’s with me,” Justin said.
“We had an agreement,” Balding said into the mic.
“Yeah. No fans or entourage. She’s neither.” Through the glass, he directed his attention to me, and I melted like a groupie. “Kayla, this is Trevor from Slashdot. He’s not an asshole, no matter what everyone says.”
Trevor held out his hand, and I shook it.
“Gotta keep this guy in line,” he said.
“Good luck.”
“Have a seat, Kayla.” He said my name with deep appreciation, as if he knew something I didn’t. “We’re five minutes to break.”
I sat next to doughnut-face, who nodded at me before moving his feet.
“All right,” Trevor said into the mic. “Let me hear it from ‘breakneck.’”
“I’m changing keys.”
“It’s not a show tune,” the bald guy said.
Instead of answering, Justin started singing. There were no instruments, just the voice everyone could recognize behind layers of production. With nothing to back him, he had a casual, jazzy cool that was still infused with rough emotion. He sang about speed, the wind in his ears, the changing landscape, the high of forward motion. Then he stopped.
“Blah blah, chorus,” he sang.
“And you want strings with this one?”
“Full string section,” Justin replied, writing something down. “Badass. It’s the single.”
“We’ll pitch that to marketing.”
“You do that.” He slid the earphones off. “We’ll be on the roof.”
Trevor winked at me. “Have him back here by seven.”
He put his arm around me as we followed Carter down the hall and into the elevator. The bodyguard stood silently between us and the doors, over six feet and built like an inverted triangle in a tailored suit.
“Strong silent type,” I whispered to Justin.
He nuzzled my ear and spoke in breaths. “I’m not supposed to tell you who he’s dating.”
“Why not?”
“I can hear you,” Carter said as the elevator bounced to a stop.
Busted like a kid talking in class, I elbowed Justin away. He wrapped his arm around my neck and tightened it until my temple was close enough to kiss.
The doors opened. Carter kept his finger on the “Door Open” button, leaned out to check the hall, looking left, then right, and stepped out to let us through. When the doors closed, he led us down the hall to a short flight of steps. Justin kept his arm around me, and I put mine around his waist. Ours wasn’t a casual arm-in-arm stroll, but a purposeful walk forward while we held each other tightly to feel the movement of our bodies against each other.
“When did the novelty wear off?” I said while Carter opened the door at the top of the stairs and checked around. “Of the security detail?”
“I hate it,” he said. “You hear that, Kincaid?”
“Yep,” Carter said, indicating we could move forward. “I’m not here to be liked.”
“This bunch of Beckettes literally rented the house down the street from mine. Carter rang their doorbell and laid down the law. They hate him.”
The rooftop patio had an awning draped with strings of white lights. The sky was dark blue in the east, and the wind was cooling by the minute.
“As I said,” Carter added. “Not here to be liked. Knock when you’re ready to go back down.”
He closed the door behind him. As soon as the lock clicked, we were on each other, connected at the mouth, my hands in his hair, his fingers clutching my ass.
“Fucking missed you,” he said as he caught his breath, pushing me against the brick wall.
“Mi—” I couldn’t tell him I felt the same with his tongue in my mouth. We were crawling all over each other, pushing and grinding like high schoolers in the back seat of a car, all breath and fingers. The only sounds were our gasps and grunts, the traffic and the crowd of Beckettes on the street below; the rumble of a bus fading in the distance, creating a sonic gap for the rumble of Justin’s stomach.
“You’re hungry,” I said.
“For you.” His face was buried in my neck. I gently pushed him away, but not too far to lean my elbows on his shoulders.
“I’m on a no-cliché diet, player.”
His stomach replied for him, and we laughed as we walked to the table hand in hand, then he picked me up in his arms. I squealed, then let him drop me on the bench.
A table of a dinner of grilled chicken and vegetables had been set up.
“I gotta eat light when I’m working.” He sat opposite, manspreading as if he owned the joint. “That’s okay?”
“I like chicken.” I laid the paper napkin across my lap.
“Big meals slow me down. Shane, though . . .” He laughed to himself. “Slab of raw beef and a potato the size of a football.” He stabbed a piece of chicken and a carrot. “Light or dark meat?”
“Dark.”
“Attagirl.” He filled my plate, then his own.
“Do you miss them?” I asked. He ripped meat from the bone, lips pressed together in silence. “Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t ask that.”
“Nah,” he said, stabbing meat and a carrot. “It’s cool. If you get just the right size carrot with a piece of chicken, it’s perfect in your mouth. Try it.”
He leaned over the table to feed me.
“Is this a habit?” I asked.
“One of my better ones.”
I opened up and let him give me just the right size carrot with the chicken.
“It’s good.”
“Charlotte puts brown sugar on the carrots.”
“Your voice sounded really good,” I said. “Not that I know anything.”
He made a verbal shrug that came out as a tsk. “It’s out of shape.”
“How late will you go?” I asked.
“Until I dry up. I start tearing shit up after midnight, but I’ve never . . .” He stopped talking to jab at his food. “The guys are usually working with me. So whatever. I don’t know how long I’ll go. Yeah. I miss them. A lot. Being
in the studio without those assholes is . . . I don’t know. Like invitations went out but I’m the only one who showed up to the party.”
“Did you really send invitations out?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Do they know you miss them?”
Another shrug. Another pause as he chewed, staring at his plate like an adolescent.
“Nah.” His leg bounced under the table. “Once they started believing our own PR, that was it. It was a long time coming. I’m not saying I’ve never done drugs when it was fun. But Chad’s problem is a problem, and they blame me. Maybe they’re right. But then Gordon got his claws out whenever I said two words to Heidi like . . .” He dropped his fork. “Like I’d ever. And Shane had a bug up his ass from day one about the music. It was my fault, my voice that made us a pop band, which . . . hello . . . he doesn’t have enough hours left in his life to spend the money our pop band made.” He glanced up at me. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Here.” I held up a forkful of chicken with a crescent of squash on top. “Open up.”
He let me feed him, then he fed me. We ate dinner for each other, which probably looked ridiculous from the outside. From inside we were making a promise to show up for each other; to give of ourselves what the other needed; to allow ourselves to be tenderly cared for. I’d never experienced something so intimate with a man, and that was probably as good an explanation as any for what happened next.
I’d forgotten about the Signorile sweater until he stood, and I could see all three argyle diamonds from the top to the bottom rib. I was reminded of the fitting room. My boss’s hands on me and the hundreds of humiliations that followed.
Stop.
I wouldn’t let it ruin the night. I looked at the sky instead, smiling at the moon.
We were walking back to the door with our pinkies hooked when a little nagging voice reminded me that I’d had a meeting that afternoon, and it had been an unpleasant negotiation over both my value and my values.
I didn’t want to break what we’d made over dinner.
We’d shared without being transactional.
If I could just ask him without asking . . .
“I like what you did with my sweater,” I said.
“Your sweater?”