Chapter Sixteen
Jeremy stands like a sentry outside the door to Gnarled Sunrise Studios, one floor below Glass Slipper. His beefy arms are bare as usual and crossed in front of his chest. The underbelly of the blue dragon tattoo on his forearm has started to fade over the years. “Another day at the office,” he says, then gives me a burly sort of a hug and a clap on the back.
“Rough life as a cubicle dweller, is it?”
He holds the door. We walk into the studio, where Owen is already parked in his regular swivel chair, massive earphones resting around his neck. His feet, swathed in lace-up, scuffed-up, beat-up black boots are perched on the soundboard.
“So let’s review the plan,” Jeremy says, laying out the dates he needs—mixing and mastering, then pressing the album, then shipping it to stores, and online. I gulp as he rattles off details. I have less than two months to write an album I’ve only just begun. An album I should have finished before I even went into the studio.
“You have three solid songs now. So get another six or more and we’ll be good to go. Maybe even revisit those earlier ones you were working on. See if you can make them good. We have a major marketing campaign for this one. We’re placing ads in Beat, Rolling Stone, Spin, Interview, People, Entertainment Weekly before the release. I also talked to my Apple guy this morning—these California dudes are up at five thirty in the morning. Can you believe he called me while riding his bike up Redwood Gulch or something? And he wasn’t even winded. Anyway, we’re gonna release a single on iTunes two months before.”
My head is suddenly spinning. Everything is so serious. I was a middling little indie singer a year ago.
Jeremy gives me a light punch on the shoulder. “Jane, I know you can do this. I know you will do this,” he adds in a firm voice. “Besides, would I ask you to do this if you couldn’t do this?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He shakes his head, answering his own question. “The Beatles released Please, Please Me and With the Beatles in sixty-three, A Hard Day’s Night and Beatles for Sale in sixty-four, Help! and Rubber Soul in sixty-five, Revolver in sixty-six, Sgt. Pepper’s and Magical Mystery Tour in sixty-seven,” he says, clearly impressed with that feat from the band from Liverpool. “The White Album in sixty-eight, Yellow Submarine and Abbey Road in sixty-nine, and Let it Be in seventy.”
He stands up, cocking his head to the side and running a hand through his spiky, gray hair. “You know, I haven’t listened to Rubber Soul in a while. I’m going to put that on when I get to my office.” He lumbers to the door. “Besides, that British journalist is coming in ten minutes. Bet he likes The Beatles. I’ll send him down when I’m done.”
I fiddle with a bracelet, so he doesn’t see me grin in excitement over seeing that British journalist.
Jeremy leaves. I make eye contact with Owen for the first time and he’s staring hard at me, a knowing look in his eyes.
“What?”
“Why do you have a stupid smile on your face?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” I bluff.
“Yeah, right. You’re excited to see Matthew.”
I roll my eyes as if that’s the most ludicrous idea.
He shakes his head, proud that he busted me. “Jeremy gave us an insane deadline and you’re all googly-eyed over your boyfriend,” Owen zings back at me.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
“Why would you even say that?” I counter, since I haven’t mentioned any of my extracurricular activities with Matthew to anyone, and certainly not to my brother.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not into guys, but it’s not like you invited some ugly reporter into the studio with us. Besides, Natalie told me you were into him and to keep an eye on you,” he says, hanging his head as he admits the truth.
I huff. “She is such a know-it-all.”
“I believe that’s the official definition of big sister. Anyway, let’s make a plan for this insane schedule. You came up with three good songs in two weeks, ‘Don’t Ask’ and ‘Mixed Messages’ plus your cover tune. We have two months to do this, so that’s a song a week or so.”
“Don’t know if you noticed this, but I didn’t write ‘Physical.’”
Owen shrugs it off. “So you wrote two songs in two weeks. I know a guy who can get you a continuous caffeine drip for just a couple grand. Come to a dark back alley in Brooklyn and we’ll take care of you.”
“I need something bad. Send me inspiration from somewhere.”
“You knocked out that song the other day in the studio. We’ll get you there.” Owen reaches for his maroon-and-white mesh ball cap, pulling it down low so his light brown curls poke out the sides. He points to his shirt. “I have the magic shirt. You have the magic pipes. Let’s make a magic album.”
He extends his fist, affecting a pseudo-secret handshake. I bang his fist a few times with mine, then wiggle my thumbs, making up an impromptu handshake. “Tell you what. Let’s make a deal. You finish your novel in the next two months and I finish this album.”
“Ouch. You’re driving a stake through my heart, JB.”
I stare him down.
“What are we betting for?” he asks.
“Bragging rights. Obviously.”
He nods his head, relenting. “It’s a deal.”
…
“So I hear Jeremy is comparing you to The Beatles now,” Matthew says when he joins me later in the day while Owen is out grabbing a sandwich. I look him up and down, and this time I don’t hide the wicked smirk that’s forming on my face as I recall the last time I saw him. What I did to him. How he tasted and moved and moaned. He gives nothing away, though, as he sits down on the couch, the same beige, cracked leather couch where Jeremy gave me his The-Beatles-Did-It-So-Can-You pep talk. Matthew wears a faded orange T-shirt, bearing two bearded gnomes with peaked red hats and the words Chillin’ with My Gnomies in a funky font underneath. I wonder if he’s checking me out too, and I’m glad that I’ve stripped off my long-sleeve shirt, since it’s hot in the studio, and I’m down to a blue tank top, jeans and my black boots with three-inch heels. I love boots because they seem like what a rock star should wear.
“Did he give you the complete rundown too on the release dates of all their albums?”
“Chapter and verse.” Matthew slaps his notebook against his thigh. “You know, it was pretty bloody impressive, don’t you think?”
“Was it a good interview?” I ask, because I love hearing him talking about his work and his passion for reporting.
“Great. Really great. We talk about you, the Beatles, and our shared predilection for cheesy eighties tunes.”
My eyes brighten. “I love cheesy eighties tunes too. How have we never discussed cheesy eighties tunes before?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I have no idea. But I do know why we didn’t discuss them last time I saw you. Because you rendered me unable to do anything else all day but fantasize about returning the favor, so that may be why Duran Duran slipped my mind,” he says with a glint in his eye, and I’m about ready to slide into his arms and kiss him hard when my brother walks in.
…
We spend the rest of the day in the studio working on “Don’t Ask.” Owen offers several suggestions on how to make the song better. He adds a riff here, trims a line there, and suddenly turns it into a stronger tune. Matthew takes notes furiously all the while, recording Owen’s suggestions, his ideas, the back and forth between the musician and her producer.
Ethan is with Aidan tonight, so we work into the early evening.
At six o’clock, Owen announces he wants to run through the songs one more time before we call it a night. But he needs to feed his monkey first. “It’s been rattling around in here all afternoon,” he says, pointing to his head as he stands up and grabs his wallet. “When you don’t feed him enough, he bangs on the cage doors. The monkey can be vicious if he hasn’t been fed, if you withhold caffeine. You know what he does?”
“What does he do, Owen?” I’ve heard the caffeine-monkey line countless times. But it’s like “Hey Jude.” You can always listen to it again.
“He grabs your hair and pulls on the back of your head, yanking it until you’ll do anything to please him, including taking two Excedrin because they come with caffeine, too. I keep them in my back pocket,” he says, patting his jeans.
“It’s not pretty, that monkey.”
“You’re telling me, JB. Back in fifteen.” He’s out the door.
“You two have a great rapport. Has it always been like that?”
“Always, since the beginning of time, forevermore and on and on and on.” I grab his reporter’s notebook and fling it down on the floor. “No more notes!” I declare with a flourish and royal wave of my arm. “I’m ready to be off-the-record.”
“Okay, but you don’t mind it I just tuck that notebook into my backpack?” He reaches for the notebook, stowing it safely away.
“If my calculations are correct, we’re both far too young to have enjoyed eighties music when it first released, but yet, I’m willing to bet the music geek in you knows all about their times on the charts.”
“Ah, you’ve ferreted out my dirty little secret that I tracked Depeche Mode, Prince, Madonna, Van Halen, as well as A-Ha and numerous other one-hit wonders too.”
“Okay then, Billboard boy. Think back to your green highlighter, your white printouts, the start of your musical geekdom. I want you to name your favorite cheesy eighties song.” I reach for his hand and lead him out of Owen’s land and into the live studio, my turf. The door slams shut and I grab the microphone.
His answer is swift and immediate. “Thompson Twins. ‘Hold Me Now.’ Peaked at number three.”
I turn on the microphone. “Sing with me,” I command.
“Sing with you?”
“Sing with me.”
“But you’re a singer, and I’m a writer.”
“I’ll sing louder if that’ll make you feel better.”
“Loads better.”
I hold the microphone and launch into the song. I begin the opening lines singing about a picture, while Matthew adds where it’s pinned. We join together for the next few lines and I like that he’s playing along, that he’s not shy, that he’s spontaneous.
We butcher our way through the next verse and then I demand another song. “‘Centerfold,’” he calls out instantly. “Six weeks at number one.” We murder a few lines from The J Geils Band tune, then tackle Survivor’s chart-topping “Eye of the Tiger,” only we can barely remember most of the words.
I’m ready for another when Matthew backs away. “Do you take requests, Jane? It’s payback time.”
“Hit me with your best shot.”
“Oh, you’re quite good. But that’s not the song I’m going to request.” He leans against the padded wall, his long legs stretching in front of him as he tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, those freakish gnomes staring at me. “‘Rio.’ Hit number two in the UK in 1982. I want Duran Duran at full volume, full blast, give it everything you have.”
I take the mike off its stand, clear my throat, and then begin the first lines, about a girl and how she moves, singing as if I were onstage. Then onto a smile like cherry ice cream as I give him a knowing glance. I take a step to my right, then to his right. With the words, I make my way closer and move my free hand toward his face, trailing my fingertips along his cheek, as I sing more lines to him, pretending I’m that girl onstage singing to that one guy.
Then Matthew does more than play along. He reaches a hand up and takes a hold of my wrist. He meets my eyes with a darkly serious look I haven’t seen from him before. The atmosphere in the room changes instantly.
He clears his throat. “I told my boss.”
I nearly drop the mike. “What did you tell your boss?”
“That I was involved with you.”
Past tense. A new worry courses through me that he’s ending this before we’ve even started. “Was?”
The writer in him picks up on my question immediately. “Am,” he corrects. “Am involved.”
“And?” My mouth feels dry. My stomach is jittery. I don’t know where this is going, or even how to handle the next bend in the road.
“I told him because I wouldn’t feel right about my work if I didn’t disclose it. I wouldn’t feel as if any of this is okay.”
“So what does this all mean?”
“He said I wouldn’t be the first reporter to fall for a musician,” he says with a roll of the eyes, poking fun at himself. “I asked if he wanted me off the story.”
“You did?”
“I did. And he said I could see it through, but that he’d assign a second editor to fact check everything, and that he’d include a note at the end of the article disclosing our involvement.”
My need for certainty consumes me, so I ask, “Our involvement? Are we involved now?”
He nods. “I hope so. I want to be. I hope you do too. But even if you don’t, I needed to be upfront about it with my boss. My job is too important to me.”
I nod, as if I can somehow figure out if this conversation is about work, or about more. “Right. Of course.”
He tightens the hold on my wrist. “I want to be with you,” he says, and he sounds nervous. “I don’t want to keep this at arm’s length any longer. Please tell me you’ve written songs. I will beg you if I have to.”
I place my palm on his chest, as much to touch him as to hold him back until I know what’s next. “Why do you want me to write so badly? Answer me honestly. Tell me the truth,” I say, enunciating each word.
“Because holding out is my new definition of hell.” He slides his hand under mine, laces his fingers through mine, and tugs me closer. “I want you to be able to write again for you. But I’ve decided holding out is absolutely not the answer. In fact, I have a feeling you might find inspiration in not holding out,” he says, while brushing his lips against my neck. “What do you say to that? Want to give it a try? See if it might do the trick in unlocking all sorts of notes and melodies.” He runs his other hand down my neck, across my chest, and then to the top of my breasts. “Let me break down your resistance now.”
Then he kisses me, that same soft, delirious way he kissed me for the first time, and I melt into him. Wanting more. Wanting him. He takes his time kissing me, running his tongue against the soft underside of my bottom lip, then against the top, then slowly, exquisitely pressing his lips to mine, and I moan against his mouth, then break the kiss.
“You think sex can cure my writer’s block?”
He nods several times. “Yes, and I’m willing to be your guinea pig.”
“Let’s see if you can cure it,” I say, and in seconds he’s grabbed his backpack, I reach for my bag, and we let the soundproof studio fall shut for the night. Owen’s not dumb. When he returns with his monkey juice, he’ll know exactly where we are. Alone together.