Love Song Page 7

  “And he liked my songs?” I asked, settling into the far corner of the couch, tucking my feet under me.

  “Yup,” Rafe said. “That’s why he wants to meet you. So bring a few with you.”

  “Crap,” I muttered. “Like, which ones do you think he’d like?”

  “Think about his artist roster,” Rafe said. “Kind of Top 40 pop chart. Earworms, you know?”

  My enthusiasm waned. Top 40 pop charts were not my scene. At all.

  “But I write rock,” I said.

  “You write lyrics,” Rafe corrected. “He’ll find a music writer to work with what you give him.”

  “But that’s not how I write with Nik and Presley.”

  “You’re not writing with Nik and Presley,” he pointed out, and that made me scowl. “Look, you can suggest keys and chords and shit like that, but once you hand those words over, you’re done.”

  “Done,” I repeated.

  “Like, see ya,” he said, giving me a pageant queen wave. “Kind of like the waitress from the other day.”

  He ducked the throw pillow I chucked at him. “That’s super shitty,” I said, placing my lips on the rim of my glass to hide my grin.

  Rafe cocked an eyebrow. “Then why are you laughing?”

  “I am not,” I said, tipping my head down to hide my face with my hair, still damp from the shower.

  “You are totally laughing,” he teased. “Come on, let’s see.”

  He pushed a length of hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear. His palm lingered on my cheek, and my breath caught as he slipped his hand around to the back of my neck. Relaxed from the wine, I leaned into him, and my skin prickled with anticipation. His eyes looked like bourbon, and they bore into me, leaving me nearly breathless. I licked my lips, waiting for him to edge closer, for his mouth to find mine.

  A buzz from the doorman yanked us out of the moment.

  “Pizza,” Rafe whispered, breaking the spell, his lanky six-foot frame rising from the couch. I pressed into the corner, my body cold and my mind suddenly sober.

  I’d almost kissed Rafe. And it nearly broke me that we didn’t.

  10

  I squinted behind my sunglasses and wrestled with the childproof top on the small bottle of aspirin I’d bought from the drugstore across the street. My hangover made the LA afternoon sun stronger, penetrating the black lenses shielding my sensitive eyes. The cap finally popped open, and I poured out three pills and shoved them in my mouth. Caught without water, I swallowed them dry and prayed that the label didn’t lie—that these were rapid relief.

  The imposing glass and steel entryway of En Fuego Records loomed in front of me. Fifteen minutes away from meeting Bobby Gee, and my head was still screaming about last night’s two bottles of wine. Hitching my bag farther up my shoulder, I pushed open the door and stumbled into the climate-controlled lobby. The indoor lighting felt soothing, at least. I took a deep breath of the eucalyptus-infused air. So totally LA, and for once, I was grateful.

  “May I help you?” The pitch of the receptionist’s voice made me cringe.

  “I have a three o’clock appointment with Bobby Gee,” I said, shuffling forward. “I’m Jett Benson.”

  “I’ll let him know you’ve arrived. Please make yourself comfortable. Can I get you an espresso? A bottle of water?”

  “Water would be lovely, thank you,” I said, before seeking a comfortable-looking chair to park my ass. After calling up to his office, the receptionist brought over a frosty bottle of Lauquen mineral water, pouring it into a cut crystal glass before handing it to me.

  The expensive bottled water, the soothing grays of the room, the smell of eucalyptus, and the soft harp music that was playing low in the background all had a calming effect. My headache receded, and I didn’t even mind that I had to wait the requisite extra twenty minutes because he was Bobby Gee and this was Los Angeles.

  “Miss Benson?” I blinked my eyes open. “Mr. Gee will see you now.”

  “Yes, sorry,” I said, forcing my legs to lift me out of the overstuffed comfort of the chair. “How do you not fall asleep working here?”

  She giggled. “I put the espresso maker to excellent use. Please follow me.”

  I followed her swaying hips down a narrow hallway. She’d styled her raven hair in a 1940s rockabilly fashion, which matched her black pencil skirt and polka-dot top. Given her retro edge, she had to be an aspiring singer.

  She pushed open an extra-large wooden door with considerable force, then nodded at me to go in. The sounds of trickling water greeted me as I crossed the threshold, triggering an urge to pee. An enormous rock garden was on my right, and scattered throughout were soothing water features that spilled over the river stones. A large, clean desk was straight in front of me, the paneling behind it a snowscape wilderness scene. It was like the long hallway had taken me from West Hollywood straight to Mount Fuji.

  The man behind the unusually empty desk rose to greet me. He was around Vince’s age, maybe a little older. Tall, tanned, and lean, he had the chiseled features of a male model, along with a shock of thick white hair, overgrown just enough. In his loose-fitting linen drawstring pants and Pima cotton T-shirt, not to mention bare feet, he looked more like a yoga instructor than a music impresario.

  “Jett, come in, come in,” he said, opening his arms wide, and for a minute, I worried he would give me a hug.

  “Mr. Gee,” I said, taking a few tentative steps forward at an awkward gait. He wasn’t what I had expected.

  “Call me Bobby, please,” he said. “Come, sit, we have so much to talk about.”

  He motioned toward a set of black leather chaises. I took a prim seat on the edge of one while he stretched his six-foot-plus body onto the other.

  “More water?” he asked, as I placed my empty glass on the table between the two loungers.

  “No, thank you,” I said. With that waterfall trickling in the background, more hydration was the last thing I needed.

  “So, tell me all about the divorce,” he said, raising his eyebrows in excitement.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, adjusting my biker jacket to hide the old Anthem concert tee that I wore under it. Presley had cut it up and resewed it to be formfitting with a plunging neckline. She’d made one for each sister when we formed our band. It was the most rock star thing I owned, but now, sitting across from Mr. Yoga Guru Man, I was regretting my choice.

  “Rafe told me that Vince and your mother were getting a divorce,” he said, nodding at me like I understood what he meant. When I blinked my response, he continued, “Which is why you aren’t signing with Vince’s label?”

  I held my breath for a moment, digesting the lie that Rafe had told, while silently cursing him for not letting me in on it. Bobby thought Grimm Records wanted to sign me. Rafe was massaging a bidding war. “So, I’m here because you’re raiding the Grimm label?”

  His laugh was resonant. “My dear Jett, you are here because you are talented. That I can steal you out from under Gary Grimm is just a nice perk.” I forced myself to laugh along with him. “So, Rafe played me that song you wrote for that little band of yours.”

  My back stiffened at the “little” implication. “Satan’s Sisters. We charted. Without a label behind us.”

  “I’m sorry. Now I recall that you did,” he said. “The song that hit the charts, those were your lyrics, correct?”

  “Yes, I wrote the lyrics and share a music credit with my sisters.”

  “Lovely, lovely,” he said, distracted as he scrolled through his phone. I chewed on my lower lip and waited. “Yes, there it is.” The song sounded tinny as it came out of the phone’s lone speaker. He nodded his head along to the beat. “Good lyrics. A little hard-edged with the music, no?”

  I shrugged. “We’re a rock band.”

  “But you can write ballads? Love songs?” he asked. My lips tipped down in a frown. “I love it. I really do. The edge, I mean. But it needs to resonate with the girls.”

  �
�We have a huge female following—”

  “Not females. Girls,” he said. He looked at me, waiting for a response. I shrugged. “Girls. Like Tay’s fans.”

  “Tay?”

  “Taylor,” he said.

  My headache seeped back in. “Taylor Swift?”

  “Yes, exactly! She got ’em young and now they are fans for life, growing up with her and her music. Your songs need to resonate with the girls,” he said, his watchful eyes on my face. “But you can keep a little edge. I mean, you look edgy. All Anthem T-shirt and leather… is that vegan leather?” I nodded, and he plowed on. “There are edgy girls out there, right? Of course. Taylor has the sweet ones. We’ll go after the edgy. But still romantic. Yes, edgy romantics. They’ll love you. Excellent compromise.”

  Edgy romantics? What the hell was he going on about? My head was spinning at the speed of his words. “But I’m not a singer.”

  He sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the chaise, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He reached out a hand and cupped my chin, tilting my head from side to side. “No, no, you’ve got the look. You should sing. Kids these days like it when the artists write their own lyrics.”

  “But I’m not a singer,” I repeated, desperation rising. “Presley’s the singer. She’s an excellent front woman. Nik even sings from time to time. She’s fabulous too, but totally different. She prefers to sing behind her kit… But Presley, she’s the singer you want…” I babbled through my panic.

  “And she’s owned by Grimm,” he said.

  “She is not,” I argued, although I knew it was true. Grimm’s label owned her. But in the middle of a freak-out, I questioned how ironclad her contract was.

  “My dear Jett,” he said, shaking his head. “All the artists she sings backup with are Grimm’s. She has a contract. He’s grooming her for stardom. So, let’s groom you.”

  A sigh pushed through my lips, and my posture went slack. “Mr. Gee, I just need to sell some songs to pay for school.”

  “And I love that,” he said. “Brainy girls are sexy as hell. So, what’s your backstory?”

  “My backstory?” I asked, doing my best to ignore the exploding headache inside my skull.

  “Yes, your backstory. Something to share with the fans, make all those edgy girls relate. Give me some emo.”

  “You can’t make up my backstory. Everyone already knows it,” I deadpanned.

  He gave my knee a squeeze. “I think you’re talented. You’ve got a great look—”

  I snorted at that one, and my eyes rolled to the ceiling before I could stop myself. These freaking music executives were all full of the same bullshit.

  “What? You don’t think you’ve got a great look?”

  “I don’t have a look,” I said.

  “It just needs a little finesse, that’s all,” he continued.

  My back straightened. And there it was. Under the guise of “finesse,” they would try to sculpt and mold my square peg into a round hole.

  “Look, Mr. Gee—” I started.

  “Call me Bobby,” he reminded me.

  “Right, Bobby,” I said, even though it sounded weird. “I don’t sing.”

  “Don’t sing or can’t sing?” he asked, eyebrow cocked. “There’s always Auto-Tune.”

  I recoiled. “I don’t need Auto-Tune.”

  Jesus! I didn’t even want to sing. Why was I getting insulted?

  He chuckled. “I kid, I kid! We’ll work with a vocal coach to strengthen your voice, if you need it. Look, Swift taught us the audience wants authenticity. The days of lyric writers hiding out in the Brill Building are long gone. The poets need their voices heard.”

  “The poets?”

  “It’s poetry, is it not? Lyric writing.”

  I tried to keep my poker face, but my lips twitched up. This meant that Bobby—if he wasn’t being a bullshit artist—appreciated, maybe even revered, songwriters. Maybe I was in the right place.

  “I’ve never heard a label guy call it poetry. Even Vince is mercenary about songwriting.”

  This time, the smile reached his eyes, his faint crow’s-feet crinkling appealingly. “Jett, my dear, you’ll come to see that I am not like any other ‘label guy.’”

  “I’m seeing that,” I said, adding, “but what about my look?”

  Yeah, I was wary still.

  “Jett, I promise, I don’t want to change anything about you,” he said. “But we must do publicity photos, stuff for all that social media crap that’s eating the kids’ brains these days.”

  “But—”

  “I know you know how this works, so I don’t have to explain it,” he plowed on. “So, make an EP, get a fan base, and the artists will flock to you for your songs. It’s how you gotta do it now.”

  “Not the only way,” I muttered.

  “No, but it’s the better way,” he said. “Unless you’re a YouTube star.”

  My shoulders slumped under the truth of his words. I could write a few songs and hope they made it onto an album that had a quick release. Or I could control my own music, on my own timeline, gain a fan base, and ultimately command more for my songs.

  “One EP, four songs, plus a five-song commitment to write for other En Fuego artists,” he said.

  I lifted my eyes. “That’s it?”

  “Well, I reserve the right to drop the five-song commitment if your EP tanks,” he said. “I’m not that benevolent.”

  Right. There it was. But still… as far as deals went, it was kind of sweet. Four songs weren’t a lot, and the studio time would be quick. Then I could dust off the Satan’s Sisters rejects, retool them for his artist roster, and boom. Five-song commitment done.

  “What about the money?” I asked, reminding myself that money was the entire point of this.

  He smiled. “You’ll get an advance songwriter’s fee.”

  My mouth swung open. “You can’t be serious.”

  Only super-famous songwriters swung those.

  “Look, I’m not a serious guy about a lot of things, but money isn’t one of them.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked.

  The sound of a Japanese wind chime interrupted us. “I’m sorry to cut this short,” Bobby said, launching himself to his feet. “I have to get out to Topanga Beach. I have a standing surf appointment.”

  “Right,” I said, my legs leaden as I hoisted myself up from the couch.

  “So, do we have a deal, then?”

  “I think… I don’t…” I sighed. “I will be honest, I wasn’t expecting this. I thought I’d sell a song or two, but this…”

  “One EP, that’s all I ask,” he said. “Test out the waters.”

  “But what about Satan’s Sisters?”

  “What about them?” he asked. “Our contract won’t bind them, and it won’t prevent you from working with them on your own time.”

  I hesitated. “I don’t know. Vince is going to be pissed.”

  Bobby cocked his head. “You’re worried about Vince?”

  I gave him a half-hearted shrug. “He’s spent his entire career with Grimm.”

  “Lucky for me, Grimm and your soon to be ex-stepfather are fools,” Bobby said. “He should have had Grimm put all three of you on contract the minute Satan’s Sisters hit the charts. That they didn’t was just shortsighted.” He caught hold of my hands. “You shouldn’t need me to tell you, but you are mighty talented, Jett. Vince and Gary Grimm should have sat up and taken notice right away. Vince always had an eye for flash—maybe being a front man himself, that’s all he sees. But I’m in it for the long game. And you, my dear, are the long game.”

  My heart nearly stopped at that. Was someone calling me talented enough to have a lengthy career in this fickle business?

  He dropped one of my hands to motion toward the hallway. “Look at all the platinum albums that line the walls of our office. My artists are no one-hit wonders. They are artists with decades-long careers behind them. Decades. That’s you, Jett. That
I believe.”

  He pressed his palms together as if in prayer and bowed to me, then he slipped into a pair of flip-flops and motioned for me to follow him out of the office.

  “Sorry I have to cut out,” he said as I kept pace with him down the long hallway. “You will come back Monday, won’t you? Bring your lyric book. I want to pick out your first hit.”

  “Sure, I guess,” I said, breathless more from the shock of his offer than keeping up with him. “But what about—”

  “Contracts? Negotiations? Let’s leave that to the lawyers,” he said, stopping short. “You have a lawyer, don’t you?”

  I swallowed.

  He pressed his hand to my shoulder. “No matter. You’ll find one, I’m sure. Let’s get right to the business of making hits.”

  He leaned toward me and gave me a kiss on one cheek, then the other, before going back to the original one. He opened the closet behind reception and pulled out a surfboard. With a wave, he bounced toward the glass doors, leaving me standing in the middle of the waiting area.

  “Later, Bobby,” the receptionist called out to his back. He lifted an arm and gave her a thumbs-up without breaking stride.

  “What just happened?” I asked, turning to her after the door swooshed closed behind him.

  “You were Bobby Gee’d,” she said, her eyes never leaving her computer as she point-and-clicked around with the mouse. “End of day okay for you? He’s tied up in the studio for most of Monday.”

  I took a deep breath and nodded. My life was about to change. Why wasn’t I totally convinced it was for the better?

  11

  “It’s absolutely for the better,” Nikki said, keeping her voice so low I could barely hear her even in the clubby confines of Pacific Dining Car. Our visit to the old-school LA throwback that was open twenty-four hours a day was a celebration of sorts. Nikki said it was for nailing my job interview, if that’s even what it was.