Starting From Zero (Starting From Series Book 1)

by Lane Hayes

  I barked a quick laugh and shook my head. “He wouldn’t do it.”

  “Of course he would. He’s a struggling artist. He’d make fucking bank and get the chance of a lifetime to work with a Grammy-winning composer and songwriter. What’s the downside?” He furrowed his brow and then pointed his finger at me. “Don’t even think about flicking water at me. I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes.”

  “Then you better get going.”

  “Not until you tell me you’ll talk to him.”

  “Seb, there are a lot of talented singers, songwriters, and composers who would happily jump through all the Hollywood hoops for you. Why are you fixating on these two?”

  “ ’Cause they’re real and fresh and new. And their story complements the movie very nicely. Check this out.” He splayed his hands wide and went into Hollywood dream spinner mode. “Baxter’s busting up a drug ring in LA, meets a gorgeous punk chick whose brother runs the cartel. He suspects her ex might be involved too and guess what?”

  “The ex just happens to be the guitarist in her band,” I replied, flicking water at him. I chuckled when he hopped backward like he’d been stung, then turned off the faucet and reached for my towel. “Really?”

  “That’s the story. I shit you not. How crazy perfect would these two fit in? Not as actors, but as a side note that draws in the curious crowd that likes to wait till the movie comes to Netflix.”

  “So this is a publicity scheme.”

  Seb shot a wounded look at me. “It sounds so dirty when you put it like that. I prefer the term ‘interest-added incentive,’ ” he said with a wide grin. “Everybody wins. Two nobodies get a chance of a lifetime to launch their careers, my movie crushes the box office, and you get musical creative license and make a fuckton of money for your effort.”

  “I’m not messing with their private lives. Neither of us can guarantee them fame or fortune. And I don’t know about Xena, but Justin didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d get excited about a Hollywood movie. He’s an indie artist, a nonconformist. He wants to make his mark his own way.”

  “Oh brother,” he scoffed. “Trust me on this one, Gray. Hippy virtuosos change their tunes when a recording contract falls out of the sky. Ask him.”

  “No.”

  We engaged in an intense standoff, sizing each other up in a heated way that once upon a time had led to hot, angry sex. Wrestling for dominance, careening against walls before tumbling into bed and fucking like mad. Those days were long gone, but Seb still had an uncanny ability to get under my skin.

  “Fine. I’ll ask him myself,” he huffed.

  “Fine. You do that. But leave me out of it.” I gave him a sharp look before drying myself off and wrapping the towel around my waist. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “You really like him.” Seb cocked his head thoughtfully. “You always push people away when you like them. Odd habit and not a good one. If someone is special, you gotta let them know how you feel so—”

  “So you can use them for your own gain,” I finished.

  Seb glared. “What about for their gain? Xena and Justin are nobodies. Their band…what the fuck was it called?”

  “Gypsy Coma.”

  “It was a glorified LA garage band. They weren’t special, but their blow up was epic…lies, deceit, and a gay lover. The public devours this sort of thing. You know it as well as I do.”

  “Nature of the beast.” I sighed irritably before heading back to my bedroom with Seb close behind.

  He sat on the edge of my mattress, observing me like a bug under a microscope as I stepped into a pair of black boxer briefs. I might have seemed unfazed, but I was on high alert. A pensive Seb usually meant trouble for me.

  Seb’s drive and boundless enthusiasm were instrumental in his success. He was the well-respected and sought-after producer responsible for the wildly popular Baxter franchise and a string of mainstream blockbusters. I’d seen him in action, alternately browbeating and cajoling to get his way…just like every other big-time Hollywood exec. He had a gift for seeing what others couldn’t and the skill to communicate his ideas on a global scale. But I knew his quiet, introspective side was infinitely more dangerous.

  “I need you to write the song,” he said softly. “You’re the best there is. I’ll look for other singers, but Xena is my first choice.”

  “And Justin?”

  “I want him too, but you’re right. He may not want to write for his ex. I should be cautious when I approach him.”

  I groaned. “I did not say that.”

  “Close enough. If he agreed, would you work with him?”

  “He doesn’t know who I am.”

  “You didn’t tell him?”

  “No. He didn’t want to know anyway.”

  Seb chuckled. “He’s going to think he won the fuckin’ lottery!”

  “But I don’t want that.”

  “Why? Are you afraid he’ll fall for your money instead of you?” Seb rested his elbows on his knees and shot a rye lopsided smile at me. “I hate to break it to you, but it’s always about the Benjamins, baby. Don’t go looking for love in a bar or—”

  “Fuck you. I’m not in love with the guy.”

  “Then give him a chance.” He stood abruptly and moved to my side. He nudged my arm. “Fine. I’ll ask him.”

  “You already told me you were going to, and I told you he’ll say no,” I replied.

  “A challenge! All right. We shall see. I’ll find a way. And if he says yes…which he will or he’s a fucking moron…you’ll do it, right?”

  “He won’t.”

  Seb furrowed his brow. “I want to wring your neck. I hate when you don’t blindly agree with me.”

  I chuckled at his comedic delivery, though we both knew he wasn’t really kidding. “You should be used to that by now. Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Give me a minute. Did I tell you I’m going to Toronto next week? We’re filming a—”

  “Ask his band to do it,” I blurted. “They’re new and they’re looking for a break. He might be interested then.”

  Seb looked at me like I’d grown a pineapple from my head. “I don’t want a band. I want two star-crossed lovers. The only thing loosely resembling a band last night was Xena and her guitarist, Declan. He was hot and…you know, a love triangle song could work. Xena and two guitarists. I like that. I think the actual story involves the drummer, but I loved that guy’s looks. Great idea, Gray.”

  “No, it’s a bad idea. Forget it. When are you going to Toronto?”

  I pulled a pair of jeans from my drawer and listened with half an ear as Seb droned on about a location visit for another film. I was grateful for the topic switch. I grunted occasionally in acknowledgment as I dressed and silently mulled over the series of landmines Seb had planted.

  Writing another song or two for the movie wasn’t a big deal. Seb knew I could do it in my sleep. But writing a song with Justin for his ex to sing felt…cheap. Like I was willfully feeding him into the Hollywood machine, exploiting his weaknesses for gain. And though he hadn’t shared what happened with Xena’s guitarist, I had a feeling that adding him to the mix would be even worse for him. I knew how the business worked. It was cruel and callous, and no one did anything out of the goodness of their heart. There was always a bottom line at stake.

  3

  JUSTIN

  My dreams were very fucking weird lately. I was on a sailboat, leaning against the railing, staring at the horizon where blue skies met turquoise water with a seductive sense of calm…no worries, no responsibilities. And I wasn’t alone. The sexy stranger was by my side. The gentle, rocking motion seemed indicative of smooth sailing and an aura of peace. It didn’t last long. The boat teetered precariously, the sky darkened…and then my phone rang.

  I blinked rapidly and glanced around. Light streamed through the dirty window, reflecting in a rainbow prism off the ancient glass coffee table. I squinted at the Pink Floyd poster above a
cast-off forest-green recliner and swiped my hand across my face before glancing up at my roommate, aware that his lips were moving.

  “Jus, wake up!”

  “Wha-what the fuck?”

  Tegan tossed my cell on my chest. “It’s your mom.”

  I rubbed my eyes as I scrambled to sit up. When the fog cleared and reality seeped in, I let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and defeat. Fuck me. The good news was that I wasn’t in the middle of the ocean, bopping around in a tin can. The bad news was, I lay sprawled on Tegan’s sofa. And yeah, my mom was on the line.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said in a groggy voice.

  “Hi. I’m just leaving for work, but I had the strangest dream about you last night.”

  “I just had a weird dream too. What was yours?”

  “You were at the Y after school. I think I was home, and I got a call to pick you up because you were running around like a chicken with its head cut off, and no one could stop you. Not even your brother.”

  I bristled when she didn’t call Rory by name. It was on the tip of my tongue to supply it when she continued, “I woke up in a sweat, worrying about your medication. Have you been taking it? I read a terrible report linking the one they prescribed when you were a kid to depression. You know you can’t mess with depression, Justin. It’s serious.”

  “I know, Ma. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Worrying is my job. What medication are you taking? I think my dream was a sign we should do some research on it and make sure it’s safe. Studies were done recently showing…”

  I closed my eyes and buried my head in my free hand. Fuck. These were the days I wished Rory was still part of our original circle of three. My mother was a lot for me to handle on my own. Especially pre-caffeine.

  “Mom, I’m fine.”

  “Well, I’m glad about that, but I still need to research. So which one is it?” she asked before listing a few names that easily had twenty consonants apiece.

  I named the medication I’d been prescribed and added, “But I’m weaning myself off of it and going for a holistic approach.”

  Silence.

  “Does that mean you’re smoking the devil’s lettuce?”

  If I’d been drinking anything, I’d have spit it out for sure. I threw my head back and laughed like a loon. I couldn’t stop. There was something really fucking funny about my formerly-hip-turned-religious-fanatic mother primly reciting a slang name for marijuana. When she said my full name three times in a row, I sobered. “Oh man, that was hilarious. No, Mom, I wasn’t referring to weed. I do breathing exercises and I try to eat right. I cut brussels sprouts out entirely.”

  “Vegetables are good for you. How does cutting out brussels sprouts help?”

  “They make me gassy and fart jokes make me laugh. And once I start laughing, my brain kicks into third or fourth gear. I want to laugh more, do more, talk more. Honestly, I exhaust myself. So there you have it…no more brussels sprouts. And you probably should never say devil’s lettuce again.” I chuckled.

  “Hmph. Do you enjoy making sport of me?”

  “Yeah, sometimes I do,” I teased. “C’mon, Ma. I’m twenty-six. I’ve been living with a spacey brain my whole life. I got this.”

  “You don’t have a spacey brain. You have a condition.”

  “Millions of people have ADHD, Mom. I’m not special. And I’m doing just fine.”

  “Are you? The band, the part-time jobs…you sleep on a sofa, for goodness sake. That’s terrible for your brain. You should move back to Long Beach, Justin. You can stay here until you get a real job.”

  I pulled my cell from my ear and gave Tegan my best “Help!” look. He chuckled softly, then made a drink gesture I hoped meant he’d made coffee before he headed toward the galley-style kitchen. “Thanks for the offer. But if it makes you feel any better, I have a job interview this morning. It’s for something clerical. It sounds boring as fu—fudge, but I think it pays well.”

  “Oh, that’s great news! Good luck, honey,” she gushed.

  “Thanks. I should get going. Bye, Mom. Oh, hey…you should know Rory’s doing well too.”

  The line went quiet for a second before she said a curt, “Good-bye, Justin.”

  I sighed and was about to toss my phone aside and search for coffee when a new message lit up my cell. From Declan. I thought I’d deleted him from my contact list for good. What the fuck was happening in the universe?

  We need to talk. Xena’s signing a contract you might be interested in.

  “Good times with Mom?” Tegan snarked, setting a mug on the coffee table.

  “The usual.” I thanked him for the coffee, then tossed my phone at him. “Read that text.”

  “Whoa. What do you think that’s all about?” he asked, dropping my phone into my lap.

  “No idea.”

  “You can’t trust him.”

  “No one knows that better than me,” I huffed. When Tegan narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, I added, “And you.”

  I wanted to chuckle because he didn’t look nearly as fierce as he thought. Then again, I was probably the only person on the planet who wasn’t intimidated by him. Further proof, if needed, that I might not be dealing with a full deck, ’cause Tegan was anyone’s idea of a badass. He was also a good friend who got a little more than he bargained for when he offered me his sofa for the night…a few months ago. I was currently renting the right to be there until I could afford a place of my own, which I hoped would be soon. I sighed when a fresh wave of despair hit me out of the blue.

  I’d been in a serious funk during the two weeks since my set at Carmine’s. I hadn’t expected much from the gig. The invitation to play in the first place was cool, but everything that happened after I stepped outside was even better. Well, after my run-in with Declan. That part sucked. But meeting a hot stranger, talking under a starlit sky on a fancy rooftop overlooking the city before having incredibly hot bathroom sex…had been worth the flood of doubt and misgivings that set in when I returned to my real world.

  So yeah, I wasn’t sure what to think when I received an email offering a job interview for clerical work out of the fucking blue and now a cryptic message from Declan. I’d add the conversation with my mom to the mix, but her worried calls were a biweekly occurrence, if not more.

  I was tempted to call the newest addition to my contact list if only to hear a friendly voice. I’d stared at his number more often than I’d ever admit, but I didn’t call. I studied the word “Boyfriend” and conjured his face before turning my cell facedown on the coffee table. What the hell was wrong with me?

  Tegan perched on the corner of the sofa and sipped his coffee. “Did you text him back?”

  “No. I’ll do it later. Maybe. I need to get through this interview first.”

  “You’ll be awesome. Just wear something nice-ish. At least something that’s not a T-shirt. Take deep breaths when you need to and try to relax. And after you nail it, text Declan and see what the fuck he’s up to.”

  I raised my coffee mug in a toast with what I hoped passed for enthusiasm. I didn’t feel particularly hopeful or enthusiastic though. I felt restless and weary, and a little concerned for my own sanity. Obsessing over a stranger wasn’t healthy. I had to either call him or delete his number. Neutrality didn’t suit me. I had too many worries and too much going on in my brain. It was time to get my life on track. Or try anyway.

  After this interview.

  FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, I parked my crappy old Toyota behind a sleek Range Rover at the end of a long driveway, then pulled out my cell to confirm the Hollywood Hills address. While I was at it, I decided to read the initial email one more time to make sure I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself.

  Dear Justin Cuevas,

  I have a unique job opportunity to offer you. It involves the organization of a large collection of. You were highly recommended by a mutual friend. Please let me know if you’re interested.

  Sincerly,

 
Charles Robertson

  Right off the bat, I noted a couple of weird things. First of all, he addressed the letter “Dear Justin Cuevas.” “Dear” was reserved for family members and close friends. And then there were a few missing words…a collection of what? Highly recommended by whom? And he spelled “sincerely” wrong. For some reason, that last one really bugged me. Everyone had spellcheck on their fuckin’ computer.

  I’d replied, thinking whoever was behind this would give himself up and admit the whole thing was a hoax.

  Hello Mr. Robertson,

  Thank you for your offer. I have a few questions regarding your collection. I’m interested in learning more about the scope of the job, the compensation scale, and how soon you’d need me to start. Also, I’m curious about who might have recommended me for the position.

  I look forward to meeting with you soon.

  Sincerely,

  Justin Cuevas

  Mr. Robertson replied immediately and suggested meeting at his home to work out the details. We went back and forth before agreeing to this date and time. Nothing seemed overly suspicious and yet, something didn’t compute. Like who in their right mind would recommend me to organize anything?

  I squinted against the glare of the late morning sun, then pulled my Ray Bans from my shirt pocket and checked the number marked on the modern style mailbox at the curb with the one I’d been given one more time. Five four three zero. Yep. This was it. The forest of palm trees hid the actual house from view, but even I could tell we were in the high-rent district. This was a quiet, respectable neighborhood. The kind where residents avoided eye contact in an effort to discourage unnecessary conversation with neighbors whose names they couldn’t remember to save their lives before parking their zero-emission vehicle in their garages next to a gas-guzzling Cadillac Escalade. Pretentious pricks.

  Not like I knew what I was talking about. I’d never lived in an actual house or a real neighborhood. Ever. I was from the other side of the tracks, where you heard more than you ever wanted to know about your neighbors through paper-thin walls in an ancient apartment building adorned with graffiti.