Love Song Page 10

  “You can’t do this.”

  “I have no choice,” I said. “You have a deal with Grimm. I have nothing.”

  “You’re not homeless,” she shot back.

  “My God, what is with you?” Nikki asked.

  “She’s not,” Presley said, her voice raspy at the increase in volume. “I know she’s crashing at Rafe’s. It’s not like she’s sleeping in her car.”

  “My car broke down, and I can’t afford to fix it!” I snapped at her. “I don’t have a solo deal and backup vocal gigs to put a roof over my head. All I had was school, and that was taken from me.”

  “So get a day job.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Oh, like you would get a day job.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “People like me don’t have day jobs.”

  “You hear yourself, right?” Nikki asked. “Because what you’re saying sounds seriously fucked up, even for you.”

  Presley shook out her hair, made voluminous by expensive extensions. “Jesus, Nik. She knows I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Maybe it was because I was tired.

  Maybe it was because I was hungover.

  Maybe it was because the past few days I’d had Rafe, Bobby, Nikki, and even Dion actively working to build up my confidence. Working hard to convince me I was talented. That my talent deserved nurturing. Hell, that even I deserved it too.

  A red film covered my eyes.

  “What you mean, Presley, is that you are the only one who is talented enough to earn money with our music,” I said, my voice hitching as I tried to temper my rage. “But you’re the one who’s been holding Satan’s Sisters back. It’s not my songwriting or Nik’s arrangements. It’s you.”

  She gasped.

  I ignored her and continued, “You treat us like a hobby. We were better than Rogue on that tour. The crowds freaking loved us. Rolling Stone called us one of the most exciting all-female punk bands to come from the West Coast since The Donnas. And Rolling Stone loved The Donnas.”

  Presley held up her hand to stop me. “Jett—”

  “No. This time, you listen. You are the reason I got kicked out of the house. You are the reason I can’t finish my degree—”

  “You can’t blame me for that!”

  “When you’re fucking our stepfather, I can.”

  The room went quiet. Nikki’s face twisted in shock and disbelief. Her eyes jumped from me to Presley and back to me again.

  Presley turned red, and I could see her actively fighting back tears. “I am not fucking Vince,” she said, her voice soft.

  “You were awfully cozy on tour,” I bit out, not letting it go. “Staying in the same hotels while the rest of us hacked it out on the bus.”

  “Between the recording during the day and playing at night, I needed the hotel. I needed rest.”

  I glared at her.

  “Vince is protecting me,” she said.

  I snarled at her. “Is that what they call it now?”

  “You know what, you wouldn’t understand,” she said, lifting her Prada messenger bag to her shoulder.

  I crossed my arms. “Why don’t you explain it, then?”

  “Because you don’t deserve an explanation.”

  “And neither do you,” I snapped. “If I sign with En Fuego, that’s my business. Grimm? Vince? They have nothing to do with it.”

  Her voice softened. “Jett, you’ve got this all wrong.”

  “I don’t have a sugar daddy. I have to earn a living.” I snatched up my backpack and turned to Nikki. “Can you give me a ride back to Rafe’s now?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Nikki said, climbing out from behind her drum kit. “Guess we’re still on hiatus,” she muttered.

  I opened the door and looked back at my sisters. “No hiatus. I think Satan’s Sisters is over.”

  14

  The receptionist looked at her watch and then back up at me. “You’re here early. Bobby’s not expecting you for another four hours.”

  “I don’t have much going on these days,” I said. “I thought I’d see if there was an unused office or something I could work in. Get some writing time in.”

  She glanced at the guitar case strapped to my back, and her fire-engine-red lips spread in a smile. “We have a few rehearsal studios that aren’t booked today. How about one of those?”

  I grinned back at her. “That would be perfect.”

  Grabbing a set of keys from a drawer, she stood and motioned for me to follow her.

  “What’s your name?” I asked as we moved through the labyrinthian hallways.

  “Vivienne,” she said. Her name was as glamorous as her look. “I hate to gush. I mean, if I did, I’d be fired. But I am a huge Satan’s Sisters fan.”

  “Really?” I asked, my heart sinking a little. “Thanks.”

  She stopped at a doorway and fit a key in the lock. She pushed it open and revealed the posh rehearsal room, all blond wood and sand-colored walls, with overstuffed armchairs and even a beverage station off in the corner.

  “There’s bottled water there,” Vivienne said, waving her arm toward it. “All the rehearsal rooms are soundproof, so make as much noise as you want.”

  “Thanks,” I said, shrugging the guitar case off my back. “Are you a musician?”

  “Oh God no,” she said with a laugh.

  “Sorry,” I said. “You just look like…” I looked her up and down, her small waist accented by 1950s sailor pants with a neatly tucked in striped sailor top. “Well, like everyone wants me to look.”

  “I want to be a stylist,” she admitted. “But I’m also a swing dancer and part-time pinup model. My look is my lifestyle.”

  I glanced down at my baggy boyfriend jeans and untucked Rogue Nation concert T-shirt, which had the neck and arms cut off. I had a plain pullover in my guitar case, for meeting with Bobby Gee later. But I’d found it bunched up in the bottom of my duffle, so I hoped to hang the wrinkles out of it.

  “Your look is your lifestyle too,” she said, catching me pulling at my T-shirt, which was at least clean. “It’s very rock ’n’ roll. We just need to refine it.”

  “We?”

  “Bobby will explain,” she said with a wink. “If you need anything at all, just dial zero on the house phone, and you’ll get me. There are takeout menus in one of the kitchen cabinets if you want to order lunch. We have accounts at those restaurants, so don’t worry about cash.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, relief settling into me. I had a quiet place to write, a coffeemaker, and takeout. And I didn’t need money for it. Huge fight with Presley aside, for the first time in a long time, I felt almost optimistic.

  I popped a pod into the Keurig and unpacked my guitar while the coffee brewed.

  Presley weighed heavy in the back of my mind. We fought a lot. There was oil and water, then there was Presley and me. She was bitchy and dramatic. I craved stability and serenity, things we never had until Mom married Vince. And even then, the serenity part was a mixed bag with Dion, Kyle, and Rafe under the same roof.

  I didn’t handle Presley well today.

  My older sister was drop-dead gorgeous and carried herself with the confidence of a beauty queen. But I knew better. When Presley turned from pretty kid to teenage knockout, Pamela saw her as competition. Mom had worked hard to rip Presley’s self-confidence to shreds. My pending deal with En Fuego had triggered Presley’s self-doubt. She reacted out of fear and jealousy, because that was how Mom conditioned her.

  But I didn’t think about that at all when we were going at it.

  I read the online gossip and heard the rumor mill churning about Presley and Vince, but I knew it was bullshit. It had to be. But given the history with Mom, I’d twisted that knife, and it was cruel.

  I should have handled it differently. But my entire life was so off-kilter, I had just lost it.

  I’d call her later. Apologize. Tell her I’d been upset. She had to understand that her words cut deep. Didn’t we all have our own self-e
steem issues? While I wanted to be mindful of Presley’s feelings, I was tired of it being at the expense of my own.

  Notebook out and steaming cup of coffee in hand, I kicked off my Chuck Taylors and relaxed into an overstuffed chair. I worked out some lyrics that had spent the better part of two days dancing in my head. Singing them was tricky. The cadence was off, and the words didn’t tumble off the tongue. I hoisted my guitar onto my knee and dealt with the chorus.

  While I finessed the lyrics, thoughts of Rafe triggered my own stormy mix of anger and desire. Each syllable of the song wound me closer around him, until the lyrics mirrored the confusing pull I felt toward him. Why did angst make such sublime music?

  A knock on the door pulled me out of my head and the song. I picked up the coffee and took a sip. It was ice cold. My stiff legs protested as I unfolded myself from the chair. The door opened just as my stomach rumbled, loud enough to notice.

  “Good session?” Bobby asked.

  He was in a pair of board shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, so at least I didn’t feel like a total slob.

  “What time is it?” I asked, stretching my back.

  “A little after six,” he said, helping himself to my open notebook. No wonder my neck ached. I worked nearly four hours straight through. “Oh, this one looks promising.”

  I padded over to the mini fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “You think so?”

  He nodded as he flipped through the pages. “How many songs did you get done?”

  “Two and a half,” I said. Bobby’s left eyebrow lifted. “The half one I started a few days ago, but it didn’t click until this afternoon.”

  “You write fast,” he said, eyes back on the notebook. “And they aren’t shitty either.”

  “This environment helps,” I said, amazed myself at my productivity. It was incredible what I could plow through without the distractions of other students or my sisters. Or Rafe.

  Bobby smiled, slight laugh lines forming at the edges of his eyes. “This place is special, isn’t it? I had the entire building feng shuied.”

  “Wish our tour bus was feng shuied,” I said. “It was super hard for me to write. I had all these words and ideas bouncing around in my head but didn’t have the privacy or the quiet to get them down the way I wanted.”

  “Some artists love to tour, others not so much,” he said.

  “Presley loved it,” I said. “Well, she loved being in a new city every day. She hated the bus.”

  He had a healthy laugh over that. “She strikes me as an artist who wants to fly.”

  “Nailed it,” I said, rubbing my midsection when my stomach roared again.

  “Skip lunch?” he asked. I stared at my socks and nodded. “Why don’t you let me clean up, and we’ll head to a working dinner at Big Buddha.”

  “Isn’t that Cromwell’s place?” I asked as my stomach barked its approval. Cromwell was an old-school EDM artist who made his bones in the rave culture of the ’90s. He recently traded his turntable for a chef’s jacket.

  He winked at me. “I’m a silent partner.”

  “Nice one,” I said.

  “So you’re okay with vegan?”

  “Are we in LA?” I shot back.

  “Good,” he said. “We’ll talk business over an early dinner.”

  “Wait,” I said as he turned to go. “I have a fresh shirt but—”

  “What you’re wearing is fine. It’s low-key. We’ll talk about refining your look over gnocchi. You like gnocchi? I love it. They make killer gnocchi.”

  I frowned at his “refining your look” quip, but he was out of the room before I could respond. My cotton pullover was hanging on the back of a barstool, its wrinkles somewhat tamed. I yanked it over my ratty T-shirt, hoping it was chilly enough out for the three-quarter-length sleeves. There was a knock on the door as I was nestling my guitar in its case. Vivienne poked her head into the room.

  “Heard you were hungry!” She chucked a granola bar at me. I missed the catch, and it landed on top of my guitar, twanging the strings. She screwed up her face. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, hoping my wince wasn’t too noticeable. The strings needed tuning anyway. “Thanks for this.” I ripped open the wrapper and took a bite. I was starving.

  Vivienne swayed her way into the room, a thick binder tucked under her arm. “So, the boss man’s taking you to dinner?” I nodded, my mouth full of toasted oats and nuts. “Nice,” she continued, settling herself into a chair. She fidgeted with the binder now sitting in her lap.

  “What’s up?” I asked, taking the chair across from her.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt, but when Bobby said you guys were heading out…” She paused, so I nodded. “I’d like you to look at something.”

  “Sure.” I stretched to take the binder, which she’d held out to me. “What is it?”

  “A look book,” she said. “Bobby agreed to let me try…”

  “Try what?” I asked, taking another enormous bite of the bar.

  “I asked to style you.”

  My eyebrows knitted together. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.” I handed the book back to her.

  “I guess Bobby didn’t talk to you yet. I thought he did,” she said, disappointment thick in her voice. “I told you this afternoon I’m a stylist, right? And I asked Bobby if maybe I could work with you to come up with a look.”

  I pursed my lips. Presley had talked about working with a stylist once, but it was to procure designer stuff, because she had impeccable style already. She didn’t need to hire someone to dress her. Nikki and I were… well, we weren’t fashion plates. But Nik was comfortable in her own skin, at least. Girls like me—too tall, too skinny, and all skinned up elbows and knees—didn’t exactly look great in anything. Everyone said designers love models because they are walking hangers, but with me only the last part was the truth. Clothes just hung on me, literally.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But totally call my sister Presley. You’d have fun with her.”

  “I want to style you,” she said, pulling the portfolio into her chest, her large brown eyes showing disappointment. “You were supposed to be my trial run. He said if I did a good job, he’d consider hiring a new receptionist so I could focus on building an En Fuego look.”

  I liked Vivienne and wanted to help her out. Truly. But all this glam squad nonsense was simply not me.

  “I’m just not a fashion person.”

  “You don’t have to be a fashion person,” she said. “The point is to tweak your style. So you are still you, just a little more pulled together. En Fuego doesn’t have a Lady Gaga on its roster.”

  I leaned back in the chair, letting the thick cushions envelop me. “This is all so weird. I just wanted to write some songs, play a little guitar, make my freaking tuition payment…”

  “And now you’re being groomed for a solo career,” she finished for me.

  I pressed two fingers against the bridge of my nose. “Exactly. This is so not me.”

  “So let’s dress you so you can play the part,” Vivienne said.

  “I hate clothes shopping.”

  “I bring it all to you! We can take an hour; it’ll all be here. You don’t even have to leave this studio. Please? I want to show Bobby that I can do this.”

  “What if I say no?”

  “He’ll bring in someone else,” she admitted. “You’re gonna get styled.” I grimaced. “At least I believe in making sure you still look like you.”

  I leaned my elbow on the arm of the chair and cradled my head in my hand. “What do I need to do?”

  She jumped up and clapped her hands, her look book tumbling to the floor. “Not a thing! I’ll take care of everything! Just be here at eight o’clock tomorrow night. That’ll give me plenty of time to pull some clothes for you. Bobby said I have to do this on my time.”

  “Eight tomorrow. Got it,” I said, staring at the top of her head while she bent over to pick up her portfolio. At least I now had a
n excuse to get out of that dinner with Mike.

  She stood, her gigantic smile outlined with fire-engine-red lips. “You won’t regret it. I promise!”

  Before I could change my mind, she flew out of the room, nearly crashing into Bobby. She planted an enthusiastic kiss on him, her lips staining his freshly shaved cheek red.

  “Guess you talked to Vivienne, then?” he asked, looking impeccable in a pair of selvage jeans and an untucked loose white linen shirt. Even his Birkenstocks looked bespoke.

  I forced a smile. “We agreed.”

  “Good,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Bring the notebook with you. We’ll take my car.”

  I shoved my sock-covered feet into my Converse, relieved they were the low tops, since Bobby was already down the hallway and turning the corner. I snapped my guitar case shut, slung it over my shoulder, grabbed my notebook, and raced down the hall to catch up.

  15

  “These are extraordinary, Jett,” Bobby said between sips of an organic sauvignon blanc. I pushed my glass around with my fingertips, wary of drinking with my boss on an empty stomach. “You’ve captured the essence of heartache and loneliness. And I can almost hear the guitar riff right here.” He pointed to a lyric midway through the song.

  “Yup,” I said, eyeing the people next to us as they tucked into their food. It looked good. “That’s exactly where I placed it.” I hummed the chords out for him, and his smile broke into a broad grin.

  “Yes, yes, YES! That is perfect!”

  “Sorry, I know you wanted just lyrics,” I said, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m open to changing the music.”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” he said with a grin. “I’m open to you doing music too. If the inspiration hits, follow it. I’m sure Jamie will feel the same way.”

  “Jamie?” I asked, butterflies taking flight in my stomach. It was hard enough to show my song to Bobby, and now he was sharing it with some Jamie person.

  “Jamie Sage,” he said, looking up at me from over his black-framed reading glasses. “You know him?”