by T L Dasha
I shook my head. Mark didn’t need to know how much money I spent before I started making any. He just needed to see the end result. I had plenty of time.
I tried not to think too much on it as I returned to my desk, but the whole exchange wouldn’t stop nagging at me. Even if all of this was some kind of nepotistic favor, I knew would silence any doubts with my skill. I wasn’t going to go down as the privileged intern who rode his daddy’s coat tails.
I pulled up Brad Ainsworth-Garza’s audition again and clamped on my headphones.
He’ll see. Everyone will.
###
“Garza con Gandules, this is Josie. How can I make your day muy delicioso?” A gentle, feminine voice answered my call. My expression flattened. A restaurant? Did I dial wrong? She did say Garza… Maybe it’s a family thing? I guess there’s only one way to find out.
“I’m looking for a Bradley Ainsworth-Garza. Is he available?”
“Oh! Of course! One moment!” The sound of a hand covering the receiver followed, along with some muffled ‘sweeties.’ Heh. “Here he is!” I could hear the wink in her voice.
“Hello? Brad speaking.” Even his hellos were in tune.
“Was that your mom?”
“Y-yeah, sorry about her. She’s the original fangirl.” Brad chuckled nervously.
“No need to apologize. That’s what moms are supposed to do.” My mom was like that too. I ran a hand through my hair to push the loose brown strands from my eyes, then I took a slow, deep breath to assure my composure. “If she doesn’t believe in you, who will, right?”
“Well, I’m still hoping you might.” His words were far more confident than the shaking in his voice implied.
“Yeah, about that... “ I tried to hide the smile from my tone. “I talked to acquisitions. I even pitched your case to the CEO.”
“And… they were excited? Maybe? Hopefully?”
“Do you want the good news first or the bad news?”
“Good news. Then can you phrase the bad news so it sounds positive?”
I found myself laughing without my permission. This had to be the least professional recruitment call of all time, but talking to Brad like this just seemed so natural. I wasn’t sure he was capable of being more serious than this. “Sure. So the good news is… they’re going to give you another chance.”
“HOLY SHIT. Sorry- I mean, holy shoot. Or, uh… Wow, that’s great news!”
God he’s so awkward. What am I getting myself into. “On one condition.” I interrupted before he could celebrate too vigorously.
“I would literally offer the whole office daily blow jobs if it gets me another shot.”
“Good to know.” And that might be necessary. “Considering your current skillset, we’re taking a big chance on you. But the reality is that… you’re going to be a lot of work. As such, our offer is going to be a bit lower than you might expect.” Which is still horrifyingly in the six figures, for the record. It’ll be fine... It’ll ALL be fine… “You’ll be working exclusively with me through the process, as resources are limited. I’ll double as both your manager and your writer.”
“I see.” The voice on the other side of the line sounded somehow disappointed. “How many other artists have you worked with?”
“You’ll be my first.” I suppose I can’t really blame him for asking, but if he had any idea what I was risking to get him, he could have offered a touch more excitement and confidence. Beggars can’t be choosers and all. That goes for me, too, right now. “But I assure you I have great mentors and I’ll definitely do everything in my power to get your voice out into the world.”
“Alright, I’ll trust you.” His words sent a light tingle up my spine. “Just show me the dotted line, and you can have my soul.”
“I look forward to working with you.” I wasn’t looking to own his soul at the time, but I couldn’t shake this odd feeling that it would cost us both much more than that.
Chapter 4
Jay McClintock
Contacts or glasses? Is my tie straight? Why is my hair always so messy?
I don’t know why I was stressing so much. It’s just a simple meeting with Brad. All we’re going to do is talk about some basic strategy and work in the studio a bit. But this is my first ever client. This is a big deal. I have to make this work, or Baek’s going to own my ass until I’m fifty.
Right. My nerves had nothing to do with who I was meeting with and everything to do with the stakes. I verified my appearance in the bathroom mirror one more time, grabbed my bag, and headed to the lobby.
Brad was waiting patiently. He was dressed casually, his black t-shirt perfectly fitted around his lean muscles, and his jeans relaxed all the way down to a slightly hidden pair of cowboy boots. We exchanged the usual greetings, and he followed me to the studio on the twentieth floor. The room was small, largely taken up by the mix panel and various recording equipment, and one wall dedicated to a large window to the sound proof studio.
I pulled a stack of papers from my messenger bag, and sat down in the seat beside the recording equipment. Brad sat down beside me. I had had a long talk with Jonathan the day before to give me some idea of what I was supposed to do here. I had all of the bullet points hand scrawled on the page in front of me. Now if only my nerves would quiet down and let me talk.
I shook my head and stood up again, so I could look down at Brad. I felt more in control with him below me. One more deep breath. Eye contact.
“So, here’s the plan.” Good. I sound like I know what I’m doing already. “Before you even get on stage for the first time, before anyone so much as hears you sing, you need to be an appealing and easy to digest package.”
He cocked his head to the side, pursing his lips. “What does that mean exactly?”
A good question. Such a good question, I didn’t actually have an answer. I casually glanced at my notes again, hoping Jonathan had said something that explained it, then returned my attention to Brad. Right. That. “A couple things. Like, your physical image is already spot on. You’re a great looking guy. You look young and fun. Maybe ditch the cowboy boots and buy yourself some real shoes though…”
“But these are my dad’s.”
“No one wants to listen to a song that arouses them while reminding them of their dad.”
Brad wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know if that’s true. I mean, I’ve had quite a few ladies call me-“
“ANYWAYS.” Not here to hear about your conquests, dude. “My point being is that we want you to look modern and sexy. Not campy and southern. Even if you were birthed in a horse stall of your dad’s barn-“
“Hey now.” His expression flattened.
“I just mean we’re not here to sell a country singer.”
“Okay, fair enough.” Brad nodded. “I’ll get a new pair of shoes. What else?”
“Your name.”
“What’s wrong with my name?” His mouth fell open, as though he couldn’t believe I’d even suggest that.
“It’s too long. Too many syllables. No one has time to say ‘Bradley Ainsworth-Garza every single time they want to talk about you. On the off chance you make it into casual internet conversations, everyone is going to start abbreviating you to ‘BAG.’ Then bag will turn into ‘old bag’ or ‘bag of crap’ or-”
“POINT TAKEN.” Brad rolled his eyes. “So what then? Am I going to drop my last name completely, and just be ‘Brad’? Maybe jazz it up and call me ‘Simply Brad.’”
I snorted involuntarily. “What. No. You’re not starting an old-fashioned jam factory. I was going to suggest something more along the lines of just dropping one of your last names. We’ll call you ‘Brad Garza.’ Hot Latin men sell. People will love it.”
“I don’t know if my mom will love the idea of dropping her maiden name.”
“But she’ll love the idea of her little boy being massively successful.”
Brad contemplated for a few moments, made a few idle nods, then r
econnected eye contact. He inhaled long and deep. “Fine. Anything else?”
“Well… those are the simple fixes. Tell me about your audition. What happened exactly?”
“Ah, that.” Recalling the memory alone was enough to fluster him. “That was...”
“Performance anxiety?”
“I mean, I guess technically… But can you never use that phrase to describe me again?”
“I’ll stop using it when you start performing.”
His cheeks flushed. Subsequently so did mine. No, that’s not what I meant at all. I glanced away and cleared my throat. “How did it feel when you were up there?”
“Like the world was about to end if I missed a single note. So I decided to say to hell with it and just missed all of them.”
I frowned outwardly. “Maybe we need to start with something easier then.”
“Like what?”
“Have you ever done a photo shoot?”
--
Brad Garza
“This is weird. What am I supposed to do with my hands?” I smiled wide for the camera, then awkwardly put my hands on my hips, trying to figure out what a competent model might do. The lights seemed to be directly angled at my eyes, while the white flooring and backdrop wasn’t offering much more relief. The camera flashed a few more times. Jay just shook his head in the background.
I’d taken headshots before, so this should have been easy, but it was more of a “My buddy borrowed a nice camera” kind of deal. Being put on the spot like this felt so unnatural.
Once the shoot was done, I found myself in the passenger’s seat of Jay’s Mercedes. It was a pretty nice car for an intern. His family must be loaded.
We drove across town to a small local stage, where I’d be singing in front of a test audience. Unlike judges or potential fans, I’m told a test audience would allow me to make as many mistakes as I needed to get it out of my system. They seemed engaged when I started. But by the fourth mid-song freeze up, even the test audience started leaving. I couldn’t help my mood from visibly dropping, and every disgruntled face only had me making more mistakes. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a star after all.
We drove back to the office in silence, my head hanging low. I followed Jay back into the recording area. Every ounce of his frustration was being very clearly communicated by the aggressive way he took off his coat.
I searched my brain for an adequate apology, but “sorry.” Was the only word I managed to come up with.
“How exactly do you plan to be a musician if you can only sing behind closed doors?” Jay’s exasperation filled every word.
“Can we just record it in studio and I’ll lip sync?” I laughed sheepishly. Jay shot me a look. My subtle attempt at humor did not seem to be terribly appreciated.
“What, exactly is your issue? Your voice is incredible. Your words are solid. You’re hotter than all of fucking hell, and anyone would be putty in your hands if you could just stop choking.” The angry way he said it didn’t take away any of the impact of that string of compliments. I particularly liked the part about being ‘hotter than fucking hell.’
“Maybe I can practice on you, then. Just one person.” I didn’t have any better ideas. My anxiety was overwhelming at this point.
“Just on me? How will that help?” He scoffed.
“It’s starting small. You’re the person I need to impress the most right now, so if I can perform in front of you, everyone else should be easy by comparison.”
“Fine. Impress me.” Jay sat down across from me and crossed his arms. He looked pissed. Somehow, this wasn’t helping my anxiety. “Go on. Start singing.”
I swallowed then quickly shook my head to throw off my trepidation. With one last clearing of my throat, I took a deep breath and gave it a shot.
~I keep dreaming.
Keep believing.
I’m who I’m supposed to be.~
Low and slow. It had been a while since I had sung acapella. My voice sounded so strange in my ears without the harmonizing of my guitar. My heartbeat picked up speed with every word. Any more, and I’d be having a panic attack again. No- not now.
I locked my eyes on Jay’s hoping to find some comfort inside his expression. My heartrate started to even out again. Still beating quickly, but… in a different way.
~I slide my love into your body, but still you shut me out.~
The harshness was gone from his expression, replaced only with curiosity. Intrigue. This is working. Looking at him is actually making me want to keep going. Maybe all along, I just needed a muse.
~You beg me to give it to you harder~
I wish he would beg me to give it to him. He would look spectacular wrapped up in my bed sheets. I ran my hand down my chest as the music crawled up my body. His eyes widened, following every movement.
~Until my name’s filling your mouth.~
He was radiating heat. It was intoxicating to see my words have this much power. I wonder is Jay isn’t entirely straight. If he is, maybe I can convince him otherwise. I slid a finger into my mouth, sucked lightly, then let it slip down my lower lip. Then down my neck, over my collar bone. Lower. I could keep going. See how he reacts.
God. Ugh. I can’t be thinking this way right now.
~You’ll swallow back my passion, then leave as quickly as you came.~
My own words reflecting through his soul were about to get me hard. I still needed that blood in my other head, dammit. I forced my focus into to finishing off the song and slowing down my imagination, but that look on his face didn’t make it easier.
“Good.” Jay cleared his throat. “That was good. If you can just do that on a stage, you’ll be unstoppable.” He stood up and took a few steps toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me, we can talk more in a moment.”
I nodded and let him go, hoping I could get a handle on my hormones while he was off doing whatever he needed to do.
Jay is… certainly attractive. Not just his physical appearance, but his reactions. I hated myself for focusing on all the wrong things.
But then again…
When I was caught up in Jay, I wasn’t panicking. I wasn’t thinking about all the eyes on me. I was just thinking about my eyes locking into his.
And my body locking into his.
And the way that tight expression would break with every movement of my tongue. And what he might sound like as he cries out my name…
I fidgeted uncomfortably in my otherwise very comfortable chair. It’s probably a good thing that I know these rooms always have cameras, because otherwise I might be doing something that would compromise my employment right now.
Think unsexy thoughts. Think unsexy thoughts.
Chapter 5
Jay McClintock
Why do his songs do this to me?
Ever since we started our one-on-one sessions in the studio, Brad’s slowly been able to work his way up to bigger and bigger audiences. So long as I was there in the audience to give his anxiety refuge, he managed to haul himself over every hurdle and keep performing. This should be a good thing. We were making progress. And surely one day, he’d be so used to the attention that he wouldn’t need me there anymore.
But until that happened, I had to sit there through all of his songs. I had to take in every single ounce of his sultry voice, laced with lust and desire, and remind my body that, despite the hot and heavy eye contact, it wasn’t aimed at me. If this continued, I might have to give up writing music and switch to Brad Garza fanfiction.
Not that it was his fault in any way. These were my emotions, not his. He’s just doing his job. Although, the worst part of all was I didn’t know why it kept hitting me like this. I didn’t think I was gay. I was just unreasonably attracted to… this one, single guy. No, not attracted to him, per say. If he was a woman, I’m sure I’d feel the same. If not stronger. It’s just that his lyrics are extremely sexually charged, and I haven’t gotten any in a while, so… he’s having a really strong effect on me.
&n
bsp; Right. That’s it. I just needed to get laid, and this would all clear up. Easy. Let’s call that today’s top priority.
As soon as I got off work, I took the elevator down to the parking garage, and headed home for a change of clothes. I’m twenty-one. I work in the music industry. I’m a good looking guy. I should be out partying and clubbing every night anyway. I guess.
I can at least try it this one night.
I wore a casual suit with a partially unbuttoned shirt. A tie would probably be too weird. It’s not like I didn’t know what was cool and what was in fashion right now. It was my job to know these things. But it was different when I was dressing myself up. Styling Brad felt natural. Styling myself felt… weird.
I traded my glasses for contacts, gave myself one last once over in the mirror, then I called a cab. Rage Cage was one of the most popular clubs in Hollywood, so I figured I’d start with the best. I flashed my credentials at the door, and the bouncer let me cut the line. Industry perks.
It was so fucking loud. They were playing some low grade techno. No lyrics. Just throbbing bass and distortion. I wasn’t sure if this was supposed to make me want to dance or go to war with the robots of the future.
Maybe I should have tried a dive bar.
I took a deep enough breath to allow for an adequately heavy sigh, then I walked over to the bar counter for a drink.
“What can I get you, love?” The bartender had a fake sweetness to her voice. She was a generic Hollywood blonde. Fake eyelashes that were long enough to poke your eyes out, and massive breasts pushed up to her chin. She was barely contained in her bikini top, over a build that was built more by lipo than fitness. She leaned over the counter, squeezing her breasts between her biceps, to give me an eyeful as she waited on my order. Maybe I was gay, because this whole scene wasn’t appealing to me in the slightest.
I hadn’t drank much in my life, so I wasn’t sure what to even order. My adoptive father occasionally had whiskey after work, but he was very strict on me giving it a try. ‘Alcohol is a killer of dreams,’ he told me. But I wasn’t here to live out any dreams. I certainly wasn’t here out of self-respect. This was a means to an end.