Instead, I deflected away from myself.
“What’s with the mask?”
She scoffed and lifted an eyebrow. Reaching up, she slowly removed the black leather covering the left side of her face.
I schooled my features to hide any change of emotion, yet my eyes still widened in surprise. The left side of her face was extensively scarred. With her hair pushed to the other side, I could see the marbled skin down her neck. I blew out a whistle and shook my head.
“Car accident. I was fourteen. My mother didn’t make it. I did, but was left with this.” She swooped her hand from top to bottom, indicating there were more scars under her clothes.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” When I first saw the mask, I thought it was some millennial gag to discredit the industry. But she was genuine; she was what she was, and she saw nothing wrong with that. “You’re okay, though? It doesn’t hurt anymore?”
“No. It stopped hurting two years after the accident. There were a lot of surgeries.” Her left hand began tapping the marble countertop, each finger touching the surface one at a time.
“Why didn’t you want me to see them?” I felt bad she needed to hide from me, especially in her own home.
“I never know how people are going to react. Plus, I work with a lot of younger musicians and they can be asshats.” She sighed. “Thanks for not freaking out.”
“Scars happen. If it were me I’d make up some crazy story—diving into a burning building to save orphans or saving animals from a house about to go down. I’d tell a different story each time. Man, the ways I would fuck with people! Ha!”
Sing a Song for Me
Skyler
Elsie opened the fridge and grabbed extra water bottles.
“Now, the fun begins! Follow me.” She jumped a little on her toes in excitement. That’s a good sign, right?
“Lead the way, boss.” I saluted, falling into step behind her.
My mind was racing. I couldn’t keep up with it. How is she so prolific at such a young age? If she’s so talented, why isn’t she performing? If she isn’t performing, how did she create the music her reputation implied?
As she walked ahead of me down a hallway to another part of the building, I watched her voluptuous ass wiggle back and forth. God, I’m a dirty old man lusting after a girl fourteen years my junior. Benny would laugh his ass off if he saw me right now. Usually it was him ogling the roadies. It’s like her ass cheeks had me in a tractor beam.
I was still wary of her, unsure if we were a fit. Professionally, that is. Trust was earned. As much as they’d forced me to work with her, if the album started going downhill, I’d have to consider other options. Not that I had any.
The room she led me to was gigantic. A small closed-off studio with see-through glass was to the left and an open practice room lay to the right. The ceiling vaulted like a cathedral. The recording room was covered in bass traps, acoustic panels, and diffusers. It was a grade-A setup.
Instruments were everywhere. There’s a baby grand in one corner, guitars lining an entire wall, and a drum set sat in the back, out of the way. Dozens of other instruments scattered around the room, some he didn’t recognize, a fact that surprised him considering his background.
“You play all these?”
“I’m proficient in eighteen instruments.” She listed them off. I whistled, impressed. “I can sorta play a few others, though I’ve been known to stumble on the bagpipes. They’re just weird.”
“I’m pretty sure we’re not going to be using bagpipes.” I laughed. That’ll be the day.
“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it. Who knows what kind of sound we can sneak in.”
I looked around further. Books, CDs, LPs, and even cassette tapes lined the walls. I wasn’t convinced she’d been alive long enough to listen to all of it.
Framed photos of ZZ Top, Metallica, Yoyo Ma, Boston, and Tupac Shakur, to name a few, all with private notes and signatures made out to Ellis Clarke, randomly hung on the walls. Her family knew people.
When I turned, she was staring at me with a knowing smile.
“Remember, my father owned a label and my mother was a singer. Dad is always buying me something or giving me swag, and I inherited my mother’s music and memorabilia after she died.”
Elsie’s mother was Hannah Clarke; she was huge in the seventies and had a sultry, soulful sound. When I was a kid my mother would play her music as we made pancakes after church. I had a lot of good memories against a soundtrack of her songs.
“Wow, all I got from my father was my good looks and my old guitar.”
“And look how far you’ve made it.” She gave me a genuine smile, and it made my chest tight.
“What kind of music do you listen to?” Elsie sat down at the piano.
“A bit of everything.”
“Wow, that’s narrowing it down.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
Honestly, I didn’t know what to say. I listened to everything. Growing up, I listened to gospel and Elvis Presley with mom and when my dad was around it was all country music all day long. Benny was the one who turned me onto rock; after so many years of performing it, I felt the most comfortable in the genre.
Sidling up to the piano, I took off my leather jacket and leaned on the closed lid.
“What kind of music did you grow up with? Name some artists.”
Images of my mother listening to music after church on Sunday swam in my mind. I remembered playing guitar so she could sing. The memories choked me up; I coughed to hide my discomfort.
“When I was in middle school, I started singing in the church choir with Mom. I was surrounded by gospel. At home, Mom loved her Elvis and Buddy Holly.”
Suddenly Elsie’s hands hit the piano keys with fervor. I immediately recognized the song. Maybe Baby by Buddy Holly came pouring from the piano in a crazy upbeat.
Then, her hands slowed, bringing a more soulful take to the song. A simple change in tempo and she’d completely changed the song. The words tore at me. More memories of my mom dancing around the living room surfaced.
Elsie’s body swayed back and forth as she maneuvered the piano. Her voice, perfectly pitched, tingled with joy. In the next stanza, I started singing with her, inspired by the feelings she was portraying. I wanted to feel that way, too.
She hit the last note, and we finished together with a flourish. For the first time in a long time, I genuinely smiled. Who knew rocking away to Buddy Holly would make everything around me disappear? I wasn’t thinking about pressure from the label, about my mother, or Benny. Nothing.
Elsie smiled right back at me. Her eyes lit up like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. The joy emanating from her changed her appearance completely; before, I noticed the scars on her face but her smile made them impossible to see. The breath caught in my throat by her beauty.
“What else ya got?” She clapped her hands excitedly.
For the next two hours, we sang and played music from my childhood and adolescence. I couldn’t remember a time I’d enjoyed music for the sake of music. I wasn’t only playing MD songs, or trying to create something to connect with my fans. I was connecting to the music for myself.
Damn, Elsie can play! Every song I remembered, every artist I mentioned, she rocked out that piano knowing all the chords. I even brought in some obscure shit, trying to trip her up. She caught on quickly to my game, smirking when I chose Remember by Free.
She’s a goddamn music dictionary.
Camille mentioned she was a prodigy. My experience with music was hard-earned from practice and obsession, but she made it look easy. Natural.
Jamming with Elsie put my mind at ease, helping me look forward to this process. I didn’t want to acknowledge it, but it wasn’t just for the music, either. I looked forward to working with her. Seeing her smile every day. Watching her exude confidence, taking everything I gave her and giving it back threefold.
I was feeling things. Good things that weren’t created by drug
s or conjured in my mind. If I wasn’t careful, I could easily switch my obsession from music to her.
Going to Plaid
Elsie
After our jamming session, I returned to my bedroom to decompress. I flopped down on the window seat and took a deep breath, enjoying the good vibes from rockin’ out with Skyler. We’d spent two hours playing whatever song he wanted. When he realized I had an eidetic memory for music, he began trying to trip me up. It was the most fun I’d had working with a new client in…well, forever.
He was so talented and his music tastes were eclectic. Finding a new sound for him shouldn’t be too hard. His voice would sound good in most genres. As long as I could get him to try each one to see where his heart really landed.
Mechanical Disturbance had a great sound, no one would argue that, but it was their sound. It was their tone. When Skyler produced his solo album, it sounded like he was trying to continue on the same track without his other band members, without Benny.
I’d seen it happen before. Artists get into a comfort zone, get lazy, and it leads them straight into a rut. They get hooked on experiencing the same feelings and gravitate toward the same sound to do it.
Not that I was saying Skyler is lazy. Ten albums and six world tours would hardly suggest that. I suspected the loss of his best friend, and not having the other guys at his back, sent him into a tailspin, forcing him to rely solely on what was familiar.
Reaching for my phone, I dialed Amelia’s number. I promised a first-day update and I admit, I needed to talk to her too. I didn’t make a lot of friends keeping myself this far from the city. As a result, Amelia was my person, my rock, and my confidant.
“Hey lady! Has he ravished you on top of the piano yet?” Amelia giggled, making my cheeks flush.
“No! God, no!”
“Methinks she doth protest too much! Just remember, there isn’t a ‘no fraternization’ clause at Clarke, so you’ve got the green light. Git ‘er done, girl!”
I rolled my eyes. For all that I was shy, Amelia compensated with her free love mantra. It made the few times I ventured out with her easy because she stole the limelight. For her it was natural, she was beautiful and men flocked to her. Like our mother, she was drop-dead gorgeous.
Amelia knew I was a virgin. As a twenty-four-year-old hermit, I didn’t see that changing soon. Despite the walking, talking sex-Popsicle downstairs rifling through my music collection.
“You know, you’re not getting any younger, El. If any man has the experience to properly open your palace gates, this is the one. You’ve been obsessed with him for years! This is a golden opportunity that flopped on your front door.”
Pacing across the light green carpet in my room, I looked at my room. I loved my room; it was too easy to stay there for days at a time. I kept a piano here for those middle-of-the-night inspirations. My bed made me feel like a princess with its four posts and privacy drapes. It was the perfect place to hide, and I wasn’t afraid of being overheard talking to my raunchy sister.
“Are you suggesting I seduce our client?” I squeaked.
“El, I’m suggesting you give him enough of an opening that you won’t have to. Just give him a green light and let him do the driving. It might give you some inspiration for the album!” Leave it to Amelia to turn sex into a driving metaphor.
“I don’t think handing over my virginity to a man who’s had more lovers than the population of Twentynine Palms is a safe or sanitary idea.” Not that I begrudged Skyler his lovers. I could even admit the aura of experience he emitted was incredibly attractive. My jealousy was rooted in insecurity. I don’t think he’s ever dated a normal woman—models, actresses, even Olympic champions were more his style.
I’ve fantasized about being one of his lovers several times. Not that I’d tell Amelia, I didn’t need to add more fuel to her fire. Having a cardboard cutout of his sexy-as-hell body made fantasizing easy to do.
“Besides, he almost didn’t get through the door. He took one look at me and stomped off to call his manager.” The recent memory stung despite the time we’d spent jamming and getting along.
“What happened? Did you wear your mask?” I could hear Amelia’s contempt for my prosthesis in her voice.
“Of course, I did. I don’t think it was the mask, though. He said I looked like a sixteen-year-old kid. When he figured out how old I was he still didn’t think I had enough experience.”
“I could see someone having that reaction. Keep in mind the people you typically work with are much younger and you radiate an air of innocence.” I scoffed at Amelia’s defense of Skyler.
“Just remember, not everyone can play a song after hearing it once, let alone recall it six months later, verbatim. Not everyone can write a song in two hours and they sure as hell don’t rock the way you do, hon. You are the expert here. You have what he needs.” This was Amelia’s secret weapon—pumping up my ego to soften the blow.
“He asked about my face.”
Amelia was silent for a moment. “Wow, gotta give it to him, he’s got balls. What did you tell him?”
“Not much. I took off my mask and gave him the short answer. Nobody needs to know the gritty details.” I didn’t enjoy talking about the accident with my father or Amelia, let alone people I didn’t know.
I laid down on the bed and grabbed one of my mother’s old pillows, holding it to my chest. Touching her stuff comforted me.
“At least you don’t have to wear that stupid mask around him now. How did he react? Did he go to Plaid?”
“Pity. Light pity, though. He seemed embarrassed to ask, at least.” Pity was the worst reaction for me. It came in degrees. I’d developed a scale for pity based on the light speed scale in Spaceballs. Light pity comprised a small look of ‘that sucks’ and maybe a question or two. Ridiculous pity involved a gasp. Ludicrous pity comprised closing the eyes and dramatically stifling a gasp with their hand. Lastly, Plaid pity involved tears of some form. My stepmother went to Plaid the first time we met. It was not a pleasant experience.
“So he’s only a partial dick. That’s good.”
“I took him to the music room, and we jammed.” Thinking about our little music session made me smile. Jamming was my favorite part of working on a new album—getting to know the artist and assessing their talent. It formed a working relationship and helped us become comfortable with each other.
“And he didn’t give you the ‘ol piano-gasm? I’m still disappointed. What good is a reputation unless they live up to it?” I shook my head at her persistence. She was such a sex pest. “What’s your diagnosis?”
“There’s plenty to work with. I’m leaning toward rock and blues. Maybe some soul. God, that man’s voice when he puts down some Eddie Cochran…” A shiver went down my spine just thinking about it.
“Really? He doesn’t give me that classic vibe.” I could hear the surprise in her voice.
“That’s what’s going to make it so good. He needs something different, and that’s different. Plus, he can connect to it.”
“Do you think he can create it on his own?” I knew what she was asking.
“I haven’t had him sing it yet. That’s on the agenda for tomorrow.”
It may be unconventional but I was the definition of unconventional. I made every one of my artists sing their own version of Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen’s classic. Every musician had an original approach, and it helped me pinpoint their voice. Plus, it’s an amazing song.
“I want you to put it together and record it. We’re gonna put it up on YouTube to generate some excitement for him. It’ll give him a lift. The man can’t be feeling too great about the last album and we can monetize it.”
“Oh joy, YouTube. My favorite.”
“We gotta use what we got, sis.”
I took a deep breath and reminded myself Skyler was being recorded, not me. There was no way they could trace this back to me, and I didn’t have to look at the comments people would leave. Amelia would take care of it.
I’d just do my job and let them do the rest.
Leaning back on my headboard, I ran the song through my head, thinking about what instruments would complement Skyler’s voice and the steps they’d have to take to record it.
I hated YouTube. With a passion. Before the car accident, I uploaded a lot of my music and videos of me performing. It was fun and well-received. I was a kid, so they weren’t anything special though more sophisticated than songs about Barbie. It was early days. My father encouraged it and I trusted him.
After the accident, when my hands and legs had healed, after multiple skin grafts and a lot of physical therapy, I was excited to perform again.
The first video I posted was an emotional song about losing my mother, baring my soul. I put it right out there without hesitation, thinking it was my best yet.
I received a lot of comments about the song, some on my voice, mostly positive. What I hadn’t expected was the reaction people would have to my scars. This was before my ear reconstruction and my hair was short, exposing the whole mess. I got the scars from the car accident where my mother died, but not from the impact. A fire in the engine came into the cabin. My mother died on impact, but I was knocked unconscious at first, giving the fire time to find me. I woke up to the flames licking my skin, turning to my mother for help, finding her pinned to the seat by the steering wheel. The entire right side of my face was deformed, including my ear; I was grateful my eyes weren’t affected.
Like a fool, I genuinely thought my new appearance would be irrelevant to the music. I was wrong. I read every single comment left on my video. Every jab, every insult. I lost more than half of my channel subscribers and wrote nothing for six months.
Before the accident, I wanted to be a singer like my mother. I wanted to perform in front of crowds and feel the energy I’d seen when she went on stage. I would only play for my father and sister after the YouTube incident. It took a lot of convincing to go to college, and that only lasted a year before I insisted on coming home. To my credit, I wasn’t learning anything new, which made it easier to convince my father. Leaving was a relief.
Scarred Melody: A Rockstar Romance: Bold Melodies Book One Page 4
