“Nah, drummers are the worst. Each guy has his own kit. The best ones refuse to work on anything but their own.”
Oak lets me poke at a few of the instruments before opening the door to another room—this one with a ton of machines with dials and levers, three huge computer screens and more sofas. It’s littered with empty beer bottles and reeks of cigarette smoke.
“Stinks, doesn’t it? This is Ren Jacobs’s mixing room. He’s a genius with the computer, but smokes like a chimney. If he wasn’t so talented, they’d have kicked his ass out a long time ago.”
“You don’t record here?”
“Nope. Thankfully, these pipes don’t need Auto-Tuning.” He taps his throat.
“What is that exactly?”
“It’s a computer software program that allows a sound guy to nudge a note up or down the scale, making sure everything’s in tune. I prefer to sing until it’s perfect and my engineer splices the recordings together. More time-consuming, but at least I know it’s all me. Okay, so here we have the different mixers—analog and digital for the multitracks—”
I watch his arm as he points, his muscles flexing. I guess I’d be proud of my arms, too, if I had “guns” like his. They really are impressive.
Oak catches me looking and gives me a knowing wink. “Every piece of equipment in here is state-of-the-art.”
So I was staring. Sue me. “Why are you so...”
“What? Good-looking?”
“No, built. Like, why do you have muscles? Is it because you like looking that way or for the image or what?”
He tucks his hands into the tops of his pockets. “Playing tours is hard work. You gotta be fit. And yeah, looking like this sells records. Not gonna lie. Plus, the ladies love it.”
It’s a good thing he doesn’t wink again, because I would’ve hit him, but he’s not wrong. He is lovely to look at.
“Why are you so eager to work with Donovan King?” I ask when we reach the hall again.
“You’re full of questions today, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “You seem full of answers.”
He stops and leans against the wall. I take up a position opposite him. “King’s a genius. He can pull music out of you that you didn’t even know existed. I’ve been trying to make a new record for two years. I’ve been through four different producers. I’ve collaborated with a dozen different songwriters. I’ve invited in all kinds of artists to jam with me. Pop stars, rock bands, reggae, rap. I even did a session with an acapella group. Every time I’ve cued up one of the recordings, they’ve all sounded exactly like my previous three albums. I don’t need to record a new album. I’ll just mix up the previous three and shit that out.” He drags a frustrated hand through his hair. “But I don’t want that. I don’t think my fans want that. At the very least, I can’t go on tour and sing this same crap over and over. The idea of going on a multicity tour all over the world in a replay makes me want to drown myself in the ocean.” He gives his hair one last scrub, tips his head and looks at me.
“When you were at the club singing, every person in there thought you sang to them. It doesn’t matter what your sound is. People are always going to want to hear you.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“I’m never nice to you.” We both snicker. “It’s the truth. I wish I was half as passionate about something in my life as you are about your music.”
He cocks his head to the side. “What about your art?”
I wave a dismissive hand. “That’s just a hobby. I’m not interested in being an artist.” I pause. “I’m going to get my teaching degree.”
“But if you’re not passionate about that, why do it?”
“My parents were teachers,” I explain, trying to articulate something out loud that’s not entirely clear in my head. “My father was a middle school science teacher and my mom taught fourth grade.”
“So before the kids become little shits.”
“Basically. They were—We were happy.”
“Hmmm.” He slowly nods. His face shows that he understands without me having to say another word. How my dreams of the future are tied with my loss of the past.
But teaching makes sense to me, or at least it used to make sense. I mean, I have to pick something. I can’t exactly go my entire life without any direction. I’ll need a career, and following in my parents’ footsteps seems like the logical thing to do.
Right?
Troubled by my uncertain thoughts, I hastily change the subject. “Were you a little shit?” I ask him.
“Absolutely, but I’ve been privately tutored since I cut my first album. No high school hijinks for me.” He sounds wistful. “If teaching is what you want to do, then that’s awesome. You’d make a great teacher.”
“I would?”
“Of course. But...”
“But what?” I ask warily.
Oak goes thoughtful for a moment. “You said your dad was spontaneous, right?”
“Right.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this.
“I’d bet you my entire music catalog that he’d want you to do something you loved.”
I hesitate. “I...don’t know what that is.”
Oak doesn’t even blink at my uncertainty. “Then you look until you find it. You don’t settle until you find it.” He pushes away from the wall. “You’d be good doing anything.” As he ambles down the hall, he says over his shoulder, “But you should do something you love.”
Easy for him to say.
Inside this last studio are a number of musicians. Oak introduces me around. There’s Luke, who I met before, along with Rocco, Oak’s drummer, and Mallik, his keyboardist. There are two other guitarists who look faintly familiar. I try to hold my shock in when they’re introduced as Con and Dalton from Saints and Sinners, one of the hottest bands of the moment. I watched them on MTV last year.
“My girl, Vaughn.”
I can’t keep the smile from my face. “Nice to meet you.”
There are a number of smirks around, but I don’t care. Much.
“Can I get you something to drink? Eat?”
“I wouldn’t mind a Coke.”
“On it.” He drags an upholstered chair next to a stool. “Sit here. I’ll be back in a second.”
I settle into the chair, feeling like I don’t belong. That sensation is intensified when Luke leans over.
“So you’re still around.” He smiles, and it isn’t a nice one. “They paying you a lot?”
I beat back a blush. “I don’t think anyone needs to be paid to date Oakley.”
“Yeah? Because I’m pretty sure no chick would choose to celebrate Valentine’s Day at the studio unless she was banking some green for it.”
“We’re going out for dinner later,” I lie.
“Uh-huh. Where?”