“Honestly?” I let out a breath. “Amazing and fucking terrified.”
I finally said something right when she smiles. A real one this time that makes her entire face turn into something else. I’ve never seen a person’s appearance change so dramatically from a single smile.
“That’s understandable. It has to be really hard to come in here and do what you just did. I don’t know if I could.”
I study her and see that she means it. Is she impressed? There has to be a but.
“So here’s the thing.”
And here we go. My heart hammers in my chest, ready to be shattered.
Here’s the thing, Mason:
You’re not good enough.
You’re not what we want.
We’ve decided to go in another direction.
“You’re better than you know.”
I stare at her, but there’s not a trace of humor in her expression. No, she’s pensive, almost sad. I can’t begin to make sense of it.
“Thank you?” Yes, the question mark is there for the both of us to enjoy because… I don’t know.
Her lips turn up slightly at my confusion, and it’s hard to recognize the awkward girl from our last encounter. Maybe wining and dining isn’t her thing, but when it comes to her band, this woman holds all the cards and knows it. I’ve just watched her run a rehearsal with the authority of a person who understands this is her game to win or lose. I’m just a player, and right now, the weakest link.
“Look, let’s just get this out right from the beginning. We chose you for you, Mason. We could have had anyone, but we wanted you because we saw something special. You did fine today, but you’re holding back, I can tell. Do you even know you’re holding back?”
I look away, studying one of the chairs in front of the stage. Am I? I felt uncomfortable, sure. Maybe a little insecure, but how could I not in this situation?
“Have you ever covered someone else’s songs?”
Surprised by the question, I focus back on her. “Of course.”
“After you rearranged it and made it your own, right?”
I shrug and nod.
“Okay, so what would you do with ‘No Friend of Mine’ if you were covering it?” She jumps up and grabs my acoustic guitar from the stand. Before I can respond, she drops the instrument in my lap, forcing me to take it.
I grip it and stare at her.
“Well, go ahead. Show me. I want to hear your cover of ‘No Friend of Mine.’”
“Are you serious?”
“One hundred percent. I want to hear the bluesy-rock, Mason West version of my song.”
“Um…”
She crosses her arms and lifts a brow in a you-don’t-have-a-choice pose. I swallow and stare down at the instrument in my hands.
“Okay, well, I wouldn’t do an acoustic cover, first of all. I love how heavy it gets in the bridge.”
“Fine. That’s a given. Just use your guitar to talk me through it.”
“Okay…” I start strumming the intro and begin to hear something that was missing from our earlier run-through. “I’d add piano here. Maybe some simple arpeggios of the triad throughout the progression. I’d make it sound almost classical over the hip-hop vibe of the drums.”
“Hip-hop?”
“Yeah. You don’t hear it?”
I hand over the guitar and move to the drums. Aaron’s sticks feel nice, and after settling into the seat, I start to play his part of the intro. After one time through, I add an extra sixteenth beat on the kick before the four and play a simpler, steadier rhythm on the snare and hi-hat. Everything else is the same, but those few tweaks have her eyes wide.
“Hear that?” I shout over. “Total hip-hop groove. You add the piano and you’ve got a pretty sweet mash-up of styles. I’d put some heavy distortion on the electric when it comes in over top, but you keep that piano going at least through chorus one.”
I stop playing when I realize she still hasn’t said anything. Does she hate it? Probably. A lot of people don’t like others messing with their songs. Especially, a nobody from Shitville, PA who couldn’t even remember the extra vamp before the chorus. Which reminds me…
“I’d also take out that vamp before the breakdown. I’d save all the drama for the build afterwards.”
Her expression hasn’t changed, and I carefully tuck the sticks back where I found them. Is she regretting this little exercise? Regretting me?
“And how would you sing it?” she says finally.
I search her face for any clue about how this game is supposed to go, but all I get is that same question.
How would you sing it? Who are you, Mason West?
I swallow the lump in my throat and take the guitar back when she hands it to me.
“You mean, in my vocal style?”
“I mean, if it were your song, how would you sing it?”
I’d add more runs. A vocal break on the stripped-down chorus. I’d go into falsetto at the end of the prechorus until the last one when I’d use full voice. I’d…
Too late to plan, I’m already singing it.
Liberty barely moves while I perform her song. She watches with a studious expression, no smile, no frown, no hint of distaste or approval. She just observes with the same rigid stoicism of those chairs out in front of us.
I let the final chord ring out, reluctant for the song to end. I’m not ready to face her critique and hear how much I’m not like Chris Lundstedt and never could be.
“If it were my song, I’d do something like that,” I say quietly through the heavy silence.
Her gaze drifts from my fingers on the strings to my face where it rests for far too long. What’s she looking for? What happens if she doesn’t find it? What if she does?
“Mason, just…” She blinks, and I swear I see tears in her eyes. “Just be you, okay? Don’t be Chris. Just be you, because you’re incredible.”
CHAPTER 10
Oh my gosh. Mason came home with the cutest unicorn lamp after their show tonight. There he was, my teenage bad-boy, still in his ripped tank and punk-rock eyeliner, holding a small white and pink unicorn against his chest. It was then that I knew we would be okay. That we were both all in on this journey and we’d make it through. He insists the baby is going to be a girl and we’ll name her Brooklyn. I asked why he’d want to name his daughter after a place that had so many bad memories for him, and he said because she’s going to erase them. We are, his fresh start family that he will love and protect. He promised he would be the father he never had, and you know what? I believe him.
LIBERTY
I can’t stop thinking about Mason. Well, his cover of my song, of course. He stripped it down and built it back up into something magical, and now I’m addicted. I want to feed him all of our music and see what his brilliant artist brain spits back. After the guys returned from their break, I made him replay his arrangement and had a blast watching them silently lose their shit. They’re as in love as I am, and the question is, what do we do with that? What do you do with possibilities you didn’t know you had? It kills me that we can’t work again today because of this stupid photoshoot.
The guys are already waiting on the set when I emerge from wardrobe. Their chatter stops as I approach, and yep, there’s the snicker from Aaron. Dumbass.
“You look like a grunge version of one of those perfume models.”
“Shut up,” I snap, shoving him. “I think your eyeliner is a little crooked.”
He gives me a look, but I can tell I’ve got him concerned. Hilarious. Guys are so vain.
I glance over in time to see Mason avert his gaze. He was staring as well. Probably because I look ridiculous. I mean, I look great, which is ridiculous. I’m a musician not a supermodel, and the less time we spend on this frilly bullshit the better. Mason, though. Damn. I sneak another look and see they did something with his hair that makes a girl want to tug it in unseemly ways, while doing other unseemly things to him…
Dude, take
it easy, hormones. It’s called rebound attraction, and it’s lame and not going to happen.
“Okay, is everyone here?” the photographer calls out.
“All here,” I say. I cast a look at Sam who hovers just off-set on her phone. That’s not like her, addressing another issue when she’s with a client. Something must be up when she slips away to take the call.
The photoshoot goes fine. Plenty of posing and even more goofing off from the guys. Although they’re hilarious, I would also rather be anywhere than here. Actually, there’s really only one place I want to be: in our studio, working with Mason. For his part, our new frontman is trying to be cooperative, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable with all of this. Of course he is. He’s been in the biz for a day.
“Great job, guys,” the photographer says. “We’re almost finished, just a few more shots. The label wants some of just Mason. That okay?”
It’s not really a question, and I catch the panic in Mason’s eyes before he nods.
“Sure,” he says.
“Great. The rest of you can take five but don’t go far. We may need you again. Oh, and you stay too, Liberty. We’ll need a few of you and Mason together.”
“What? Why?” The protest bursts out on its own, and I shrink a bit when the photographer lasers a look at me. Solo Mason shots I get, but the two of us?
Sam calms me with a hand on my arm and leads me off the set so they can work with Mason. He looks nervous standing there alone in front of the white wall backdrop, and I stiffen when they tell him to remove his shirt.
“What the hell, Sam,” I snap. She tugs me back before I can stalk toward them.
“It’s okay. It’s a good thing, Lib,” she says. I love the woman, but right now she sounds insane.
“A good thing?”
“I just got off the phone with the label and they loved the rehearsal tapes we sent. They really love Mason and are all in. They want to…” She hesitates, which can’t be good. Professional, calm, straightforward, that’s our super-manager. Hesitant? Never.
“They want to what, Sam?”
“They want to brand him right away. Right from the initial press release.” She pauses again, and my stomach drops. I swing my gaze back to Mason who’s following orders like a pro. Team player, right? He promised he was all in, and I guess becoming an overnight sex symbol is part of the contract. “He’s a very attractive man, Liberty. Of course they want to capitalize on that.”
“Yeah? So are we changing the band name too? Mason West and the Burn Card Players? Wait, do we even need to be here anymore? Maybe the rest of us should go grab lunch while they market the band.”
Sam side-eyes a look because she knows I’m fired up. Of course I’m pissed. This is exactly what I knew would happen and why I was so against it in the first place. It’s Chris all over again, except no one ever tried to sell Chris as a sex god. This is ten times worse because as soon as this goes public… That’s not really why you’re mad.
I suck in a breath and force my clenched fists against my side.
They have Mason against the wall now, bare-chested, dark jeans hanging low on his hips. With his hands shoved into the sides of his jeans, every line and angle of his perfect body is on display for public consumption. Does he even want this? No one asked him. Sure, it comes with the territory but he probably didn’t think about this part when he signed the papers. He wanted to make music like we all do. He didn’t know he had to sell his soul to do it. But I did, didn’t I. Sam did. We threw him to the wolves, and now I’m pissed because I’m one of them.
“So what’s the angle, Sam? Am I supposed to play into this sexy rock duo narrative? Is that why they want couples shots?”
“Probably,” she says matter-of-factly. It’s one of the things I love about her. There are so many smooth talkers in this business. It was a miracle to find someone who played it straight no matter how painful the truth, or how fiery the artists. “Nothing’s written in stone, Lib. They just want options.”
“Options? You really think once they see these photos of Mason they’re going to decide not to use him?”
“Promote him.”
“Use him. Look at him, Sam! Did they even listen to his cover of ‘No Friend of Mine’ like I asked? Or did they just picture him shirtless on a magazine cover and pat themselves on the back?”
“They said they watched the entire tape and were impressed.”
“With his ass, probably,” I mutter.
I cross my arms and direct my glare back to the shoot. It’s not Sam’s fault. If anything, I’m sure she fought for us as much as she could. And the truth is, they’re not wrong. From a business standpoint it’s so cut-and-dry common, I don’t even know why I’m mad.
“Liberty, we’re ready for you now,” an assistant says. I shoot Sam another glare that she shrugs off and march toward the stupid wall.
“You want me to take my shirt off too?” I quip. Sam sends me a warning look, but I catch the hint of a smile underneath her no-nonsense steel barricade. My humor fades when I reach Mason. His skin glistens with sweat or something more sinister like that fake stuff they spray on to make you look like you just played the show of your life and/or fucked someone senseless. But that’s not what stops me in my tracks. He’s shaking. From cold or something else, I don’t know. It is freezing in here.
“You okay?” I whisper.
His gaze flickers down to mine, fathomless and dark. Makes you want to dive into that pool and never come back, but he pulls it away quickly. Suddenly, I feel cold as well.
He won’t look at me, even though we’re right on top of each other. “Fine. This is just… weird.”
“Weird, yeah.” I huff a laugh to try to put us at ease. Him half-naked, me pissed beyond reason. Yep, that fake laugh is definitely going to fix this.
“Liberty, can you face him, please?”
An assistant starts posing us per the photographer’s instructions, and soon I find my body flush with Mason’s, my hand resting on his chest. Are we a rock band or taking the lamest engagement photo of all time?
“Can’t we do something less… literal?” I ask.
The photographer blisters a look at me because he’s the professional here.
“We’ll do it my way first, and then we can try some extra shots,” the man says. The way he spits extra tells me he thinks my idea is to wear paper bags on our heads as we toss spaghetti in the air.
“Don’t bother arguing with them,” Mason mutters. “It doesn’t work.”
I lift my gaze to his and shudder. His stare is fixed on something I can’t see, his jaw clenched tight. No one asked him. No one even warned him. Maybe that was my job. Maybe I’m the biggest wolf of them all. Maybe he’s just as pissed at me. “I’m sorry about this, Mason. I should have guessed—”
“Stop talking, please,” the photographer shouts.
Fine, no words, so instead we have to stare into each other’s eyes as instructed and have brutal silent conversations neither of us wants. Until they move us. And pose us. And tell us to pretend we’re having fun. This is fun, right? So fun.
By the time they finish with the two of us, I’m ready for a long, hot shower. Mason looks exhausted, and I can’t imagine what’s going through his head. So yeah, when the newly inspired photographer informs us we’re re-taking the group shots in light of the new direction, I kind of blow my lid.
“You have to be kidding me!”
“Liberty,” Sam says, rushing to my side. “You know how important this is. It’s just a few more photos.”
I glare at her, tugging my arm away. “No! What’s important is that Chris fucking left us high and dry, and now we have to waste our time on bullshit photoshoots and press releases. Who even cares if Mason has his shirt on or off? If it’s so freaking important then here.” Before I know what’s happening, I’m ripping off my jacket and slamming it on the floor. Soon my t-shirt is tearing over my head as well, while the room watches in wide-eyed horror. “Well, go on,”
I direct to my bandmates. “We’re now the shirtless sex band, so let’s get this done. Get them off. You want our pants off too? Underwear okay or should we just go full-on nude?”
I shove my shirt into Mason’s chest and storm off the set. I’m so over this bullshit. I’m so over Chris’ decision continuing to make my life hell over and over again. Not just mine, all of ours. Fucking Chris forcing us to waste our time on damage control when all we should be doing is losing ourselves in music. Damn Chris for causing a hidden gem like Mason West to sell his soul, while that asshole is probably stripping for the whole world right now in return for a fat paycheck. Heaven knows he’s probably stripping for every piece of ass throwing itself at him. Was he tapping it while we were together too?
I slam through the door to my dressing room, tears blinding my eyes. Fucking Chris.
“Ah!” I scream throwing a water bottle at the wall. But it’s not Chris in my head when I close my eyes to try to counter the storm. It’s Mason, scared and shaken by the world we created for him. Mason, willing to do whatever we asked because he gave his word, and apparently that means something to some people.
My pacing turns violent, my thoughts even worse. I thought I was recovering. I thought I was stronger. I thought so many bullshit lies about myself and my world that I can’t even sift through them anymore to find the truth.
A knock at the door interrupts my mental tirade, and I glare over at it. “Not now, Sam!”
“It’s Mason.”
I cough out a ragged breath, pressing my fists against my eyes as I drop to a chair. “What do you want?”
“Can I come in?”
No. Yes. “Whatever.”
He opens the door and moves inside, closing it quietly behind him. He pulls out another chair, and there he sits, looking strong and haunted at the same time. Confused, hurt, and so fucking kind. God, what is it with this guy? Does he practice the art of being a human puzzle?
Rising West: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 1) Page 8
