Change Your Rhythm, It’s a Whole New Tune Now
“Vic?” I touch her shoulder. She turns, and the anticipation, together with the drumming in my chest, dims with disappointment. I bring a hand up, murmuring, “I’m sorry, thought you were someone else.”
The blonde who’s the spitting image of Victoria from behind, complete with the business suit, same height, lean waist, lithe build, and hairstyle, gives me a once-over that ends with an inviting smile. “Oh, that’s okay.”
I smile, nod, and walk away. I’m exasperated with myself for not being able to stop thinking about Vicky, conjuring her in the most unlikely places. Why would Victoria be at baggage claim in LAX anyway?
I can’t get her out of my mind. The contradicting thoughts are messing with me to an almost intolerable degree. Each time the idea of her with someone else pops into my mind, I want to kick something. Kick the living shit out of something. The way I left things . . . not one of my finest moments. I saw red. My heart rate was well over a hundred, and I wasn’t thinking straight.
And on top of all that, I miss her. Her smile, the way she looks at me when she doesn’t think I’m looking, the sound of her voice, the way she makes me laugh, those enchanting blue eyes, her taste. Everything. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, wishing for another whiff of the scent of her perfume.
I never thought love at first sight was a thing until the first time I saw her, and it slapped me in the face. Maybe it wasn’t love per se, but something inexplicable happened, something beyond attraction. That’s how it felt, a blow that knocks you on your ass and turns your world upside down. That night, something beyond my comprehension transpired; I swear part of me stayed in that moment.
I know she’s above my pay grade, and I know she has issues a mile long she isn’t willing to face. She also possesses the ability to drive me insane—yet . . .
“Patrick!” I turn to a waving Amanda Linden. The five-foot-something bubble of energy in the dark bob that, as of a few days ago, is also my agent . . . the chief as she puts it. The person who’s going to manage my life for the foreseeable future.
We shake hands.
“Was the flight okay?” Amanda asks, assessing me. She always does, as if trying to determine what to do with me next. How to make the most of her assets.
“Great. Thank you for the upgrade by the way.”
“Of course, get used to it.” She glances at my duffel bag. “Just one bag?”
I frown. “I’m here for two nights.”
She nods to herself as though adding something to a list in her head. “Apropos, you’ll be meeting with your stylist after the session with Tyler Lee Adams.”
No matter how many times she says it, meeting the Tyler Lee doesn’t fully register. I know it’s happening soon, as in within an hour, but I still find it hard to grasp. I just hope I don’t act like a starstruck dumbass. I’m going to record a song with my idol. Mind fucking blown.
“So, there’s the thing with Tyler Lee,” the person who’s making it all happen says. “I closed half a day for that, and we’ll work around it if you need more time. The stylist, Annette. Be forewarned she gets a little handsy with handsome men.” She laughs as an afterthought. “Or enjoy it.” She shrugs. “It might be good for your image.”
I wince at her unique ways. No sugar-coating with this one. Had the gender roles been reversed and I had said the same to her, I would probably get my ass sued for harassment or something similar.
“Oh, and I need you to meet with the PR people, the person who’ll help you with your social media presence and all that.”
“I don’t have a social media presence.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. We need to work on that. Kelly will take care of it, don’t worry. What we’ll need from you are a few selfies from time to time. Kelly will guide you on that too.” And she goes on, talking a mile a minute. Amanda is full gas, no breaks.
When we enter her sleek car, and I buckle up, she says, “Now with Tyler Lee, you’re getting quite the head start.” She turns to me with the seat belt extended in one of her hands. “Listen, Patrick, we’re going to hit this thing running. Prepare to work hard, and play harder.” She fastens the belt with a click and starts the engine.
Forty minutes later, Amanda briefly chats with the guard at the gate to Taylor Lee’s mansion, and not long after, we’re allowed access.
As the car rolls slowly down the circular gravel driveway, my palms become clammy. Amanda brings the vehicle to a stop and unbuckles her seat belt. By her side, I covertly rub my hands on my jeans, forcing myself to at least appear like I’m not about to have a meltdown.
“Amanda.” A short-cropped guy, oozing drill sergeant affability, extends his hand for a shake at the door. I know without an introduction that this is Eli Cohen, Tyler Lee Adams’ legendary manager.
Amanda reciprocates with a shake, laughs, and circles her arms around the guy. His lips twitch a fraction, his version of a wholehearted grin.
The guy makes me tense even more than I was before. He doesn’t look at you. When he has his eyes trained on you, you know it’s with an elaborated rap sheet like those robots in futuristic movies. I swear he just glanced at me, and he knows that I got my first blow job at thirteen behind the bleachers, stole a vodka bottle at fifteen and my parents’ car at eighteen, and that at twenty, I had more than a handful of under the table jobs.
He nods at me. “You must be Patrick Hart.” He shakes my hand. “Tyler is waiting for you. The studio is on the second floor, second door to the left.”
I glance at Amanda, and she nods in confirmation.
Alright then, so I just go upstairs and knock on Tyler Lee’s door, like I somehow belong here, and it’s not a dream I’m going to wake up from any second now.
At the door, I pause, take a deep breath, and knock.
“Yeah.” That must be Tyler Lee.
Je-sus, is this my life now?
I open the door and take a step in. It’s a fully equipped studio with wall-mounted screens and consoles with endless buttons. Someone is sitting in a wide office armchair with their back to me. I frown, noticing another pair of legs popping from the side, smooth and long. The person with the smooth legs jumps off the chair with a joyful laugh. “I’ll let you get to work now.” The beautiful lady with the kindest smile beams at me. “Hi, I’m Ivi. You’re Ricky, right? I loved your cover of Forever.”
I smile back; she has the most contagious smile. “Oh, thanks.”
Tyler Lee swivels in the chair and tips his chin at me in hello.
I return the gesture, doing my best to play it cool.
He tugs on Ivi’s hand, pulling her to him for a quick kiss. “Later, Kiis.” His eyes follow her till she leaves the room. He turns to me next and gestures for me to take a seat.
“I just need to make a quick call,” he says, pulling his phone out. I nod and wait while he calls someone for the briefest of conversations. Right after, another music world icon enters the room—Blake Alvin.
Madness. Is this for real? Blake Alvin is one of the best songwriters and record producers out there. Blake, the guy with the buzz cut and black stud earring, takes a seat at the bulky leather sofa opposite me with one leg crossed over the other.
Tyler hands me the lyrics to the song we’re here to record and turns to Blake. “What you got for us?”
Blake produces a tablet from his bag and plays us a couple of riffs.
I listen to the music, glancing at the lyrics even though I know them by heart. I’m sweating bullets sitting in front of my idol, afraid to say the wrong thing. Afraid they’ll realize I don’t really belong here and send me packing.
We both look at the lyrics again and listen to the melody. I don’t feel it. Something isn’t working, but I don’t say anything. Who am I to criticize while sitting with two of the industry’s legends? I frown as we listen to it a third time. When I realize what I’m transpiring, I quickly ease my features to mask my doubt.
Tyle
r shakes his head. “I’m not feeling it.” He turns to me. “What do you say?”
I need to clear my throat. “Not sure it’s working for me either.”
Tyler tips his chin at me. “How do you hear it?”
“Excuse me?” I ask, dumbfounded. Tyler Lee Adams is asking for my opinion?
“In your head, how do you hear it?” he repeats and slumps a little in his chair, steepling his palms together, holding them next to his mouth, staring at me expectantly.
Startled that my opinion matters, I search for my guitar and remember I left it in Amanda’s car. I glance at the guitar standing by Tyler Lee’s side. Swallowing hard, I gesture with my hand at his guitar. “Do you mind?”
He grabs the guitar and gives it to me, watching me as I cradle it. All the draconian stipulations Amanda put in my contract don’t matter anymore because she made this moment happen. She clearly makes things happen, so I’ll play by her rules, whatever she asks me to do.
My palms turn clammy again. I’m about to play Tyler Lee’s guitar.
Holy fuck—it’s like touching a sacred relic.
I rub my hands on my thighs.
Tyler lifts a guitar pick, gesturing if I need one.
I nod, and he flings it my way; I catch it and start strumming the instrument. Tyler and Blake exchange a look. Tyler closes his eyes and nods to the rhythm. Listening to me play, he grabs another guitar, positions it in his arms, and asks me to go back to the start.
Not long after, he joins me. “How about this?” Tyler asks, and I listen to what he’s got.
I nod and let him take the lead because he just made it much better. We jam for a while, tweaking it according to Blake’s inputs.
“Take it from the top,” Blake says half an hour later. “Let’s try it with the lyrics now.”
Sandwiches are delivered to the room a couple of hours later. Then dishes are cleared, and coffee comes a little later. The glow coming from the windows dims, and someone switches on the light. Tyler’s teenage son pops in to talk to him; Eli and Amanda join afterward. Amanda takes more than a few pictures of Tyler Lee and me working, and I already know they’ll end up everywhere.
She tells me that she’ll cancel my meetings for the rest of the day. Sometime later, when darkness peeks from the windows, we’re all pleased enough with what we’ve got.
Blake takes a seat at the control desk, and Tyler and I get into the vocal booth.
I feel much more confident and relaxed now. Both men made me feel not only welcome but as though my contribution was valued. This very long day has been a dream.
About an hour later, Eli’s voice comes through the headphones. Tyler and I turn to the control desk. “Ty, just a thought, why don’t we make a studio music video? Bring in the guys tomorrow?”
Tyler shrugs and nods, seeming to agree.
“Patrick?” Eli asks.
Honestly, I’m still baffled that my opinion even matters to anyone. “Yeah, sure.” Like I’d say no to any of their suggestions.
An hour later, I find myself alone with my idol. Getting ready to leave, I’m stopped by a question. “Do you write your own music?” Tyler asks.
I shake my head. “We usually did covers with the band with the occasional original by my friend Kayla. But now . . . ”
Tyler chuckles. “You mean B.A., before Amanda.”
I nod with a laugh. “B.A. right. Now—” I shrug. “I guess I’ll have to wait and see what Amanda says.”
“Try to write your own music. People want to hear what you have to say,” he suggests.
I nod again, a little lost for words. I tried writing songs before but never felt like anything I penned down was worth much.
I clear my throat. “Why did you choose to work with Eli? Leave the band?” Tyler’s career started in a successful boy band at a very young age, and a few years later, he decided to go solo.
Tyler fixes his eyes on me. “He believed in me and my music. He didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do. He was by my side when I took a bold move that no one wanted to take with me.” Noticing my frown, he adds, “Amanda will move mountains for you as long as you prove yourself worthy. Let her manage things at first. She knows what she’s doing, and she carries a lot of clout. A year from now, share your thoughts, and I promise you she’ll listen then if you’ve proved yourself. Gain her trust. Show her that you know what you’re doing.” He grabs his guitar, saying, “And try to write your own music. Give some substance to the image she’s creating.”
I get to the hotel after ten, drained. Though all I want to do is crawl into bed, I need to change quickly and meet someone Amanda set me up with to hit a party together. She explained that all I have to do is get a few shots of Embar, my arranged date, and me together. Maybe answer a question if anyone asks, and by anyone, she means the media. “Stay for a while at the party and then do whatever you want,” she instructed me.
I am surprised to find a few sets of clothes spread on the bed. I choose black jeans and a black top set and laugh at the absurdity of the designer underwear and socks. Shaking my head, I think, unbelievable, they even left underwear for me. I leave those where they are, grab a quick shower, then head down to the lobby where my date waits.
Embar Evans, a model/actress whose first featured film was released a week ago, is waiting for me with a radiant smile. There’s much buzz surrounding her at the moment, the main reason Amanda set us up, I bet.
Embar is as gorgeous as she’s sassy and bubbly. She hugs me when we meet and mocks the whole thing, immediately making the situation light and fun.
“How did it go with Tyler Lee Adams today? God, the guy is divine,” she says, catching me by surprise.
“Great,” I say and frown. “How did you know I met with Tyler Lee today?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s all over Twitter, TikTok, and Instagram.” She throws a hand around me, bringing her phone up, and exclaims, “Smile!” She snaps a shot and fiddles with her phone. “I tagged you on our official date night.” She laughs it off, and I join her.
This whole thing is definitely not my speed. From here on out, I let her lead and just tag along.
Embar is fun to talk to, and by the time we get to Chateau Marmont, she declares I’m her new buddy.
“Hey, Ricky, you’re my date tonight. You should at least get a little handsy.”
I chuckle, knowing she’s just poking fun at our little charade. I throw an arm around her as we near the hotel, where more than a few cameras are directed at her. Apparently, we’re hitting some handbags launch by someone extremely famous—I wouldn’t know. What I do know, though, is that the event is heavily covered.
Embar flirts with the cameras and is more than friendly and charming with the photographers. I’m surprised that some questions are directed at me—that I’m even being recognized. Some tilted microphone asks about working with Tyler Lee. Another about my relationship with Embar. Then, a gorgeous black lady with red lips asks, “Your cover of Forever was magical; what other magic will you pull out of your bag?”
Embar takes control of the situation and answers for me. “His magic isn’t packed in a bag.”
“Where then?” asks the lady behind the mic with a grin.
With a sassy smile, Embar sends her hand to hover over my crotch and repeats, “His magic isn’t packed in a bag.”
I chuckle in surprise at my firecracker “date’s” shenanigans.
When we turn to get into the venue, she cracks up at her joke. I can’t help but join, knowing Amanda will be eating this up. At the same time, I suddenly realize what kind of behavior she expects from me in front of the cameras, and my laughter fades. It doesn’t sit entirely well with me.
Once inside, Embar introduces me to a few people, and we part ways. It’s a wrap; we can drop the act. No more cameras around.
I don’t stay at the party much longer. Just as I make my way out, Amanda calls me and asks if I can stay in LA for a few more days. The way that she ask-tell
s me, I know that “no” is not an option. She explains that they decided to shoot the studio music video after all. I immediately agree. She sounds more than satisfied when she tells me she saw the photos Embar posted and laughs at Embar’s antics with the photographer. Apparently, that’s also already up for the world to enjoy. “I knew she’d deliver,” Amanda says with glee.
Ending the call, I lean on the wall, sending my eyes to the night sky, and pull a rich breath in. In a way, it feels like it’s the first time today that I breathe. This surreal day runs like a movie in my head, and I wish I could share it with someone.
I wouldn’t dare call any of my closest friends, the band, not even Kev; the last thing I want is to rub it in. There is someone I want to call, not just to talk but to simply hear her voice. If she could only be here with me. I sigh, itching to call Vicky and tell her all about this unreal day. To tell her that I fucking miss her. Instead, I find the nearest motorcycle rental service and get a Honda Rebel 500. Soon after, I take the guy’s advice and hit up Mulholland Drive.
Good Food, Good Friends, and Fabulous Wine. The Key to Life.
“You’re my favorite human on the planet, Vic,” Anna exclaims.
“Whoa, want to rethink this one?” Liam, Anna’s boyfriend, says playfully. He pulls my sister into a hug, planting a noisy kiss on her cheek.
Anna beams, melting back into his embrace. “A,” she says, “she came before you. B, she’s family. And most importantly, C, she brought cake!”
“What cake?” Liam asks, grinning at me from over Anna’s shoulder.
“It’s the one with the coconut topping,” my sister says dreamily, taking yet another whiff of the cake in my hands. Drømmekage. Anna’s favorite cake. Mom’s foolproof recipe.
Freeing Anna from his hold, Liam wraps me in an embrace instead. “You’re my favorite human on the planet then, Vic,” he mirrors my sister’s words, eyeing the baked good.
by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2 Page 8
