by Lane Hayes
“An invitation to Carmine’s. Just Zero,” Tegan replied.
I shook my head. “No. Bigger…the Troubadour.”
Johnny and Tegan grinned and raised their glasses to mine. “To Zero.”
“To Zero.” We clinked our glass and then exchanged bro-style handshakes and fist bumps that felt like ink on contract. And a new beginning.
AROMATIQUE WAS a hipster coffee shop within walking distance of Tegan’s apartment and Vibes in West Hollywood. The tiny shop married a French bohemian ambience with European class. Soft blue-and-gray walls contrasted nicely with the black-and-white tile flooring while tasteful photographs of well-known landmarks like the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre hung beside rock gods like Jimi Hendrix and Queen. The sophisticated yet bohemian atmosphere appealed to the chic-meets-cool clientele who enjoyed sipping lattes while listening to live music.
Every afternoon aspiring musicians were invited to play to a small but enthusiastic audience. Guitarists, violinists, keyboard players…any instrument that fit was welcome. The space near the window served as a mini stage. It was a little cozy, but it worked okay. I played a few times myself before I mustered the courage to ask the owner for a job. My confidence was gutter-level low after my breakup with Xena and the demise of Gypsy Coma, so I was pitifully grateful Michel hired me on the spot. I needed every dime I earned serving lattes, and I was willing to wake up early after a long night bartending at Vibes. But I was more excited about the additional perk of performing for customers on a regular basis. I didn’t want to lose my edge.
I’d learned a few humbling things about myself from those initial solo gigs. First of all, playing electric guitar behind a diva indie rock goddess with a dramatic side was completely different than going solo with an acoustic guitar. Secondly, I was a better singer than guitarist. I had a ton of energy, and I could be theatrical when I got swept away by the music, but I’d never wanted to be a front man. I’d grown more as a performer in the past few months than I had in the two years I’d been with Gypsy Coma. My songwriting was better too. And late morning after my shift was the perfect time to unwind in a quiet corner to write.
I hefted my backpack over my shoulder, then tugged at my apron string and glanced around the mostly empty shop. A young couple sat at a table for two under an artsy black-and-white photograph of Freddy Mercury, and three middle-aged women chatted quietly as they perused the Parisian treats in the corner display. My timing was good. The early morning rush was over, and the pre-lunch crowd hadn’t descended yet. I sidled behind the counter and swatted Johnny’s ass as I headed for the commercial-grade coffeemaker.
“What time are you off?” I asked casually.
“Two o’clock. Who’s that for?” Johnny asked, gestured toward my latte.
“Me. I need more caffeine.”
He held up the steamed milk and fluttered his eyelashes. “Would you like a leaf on your latte?”
I snickered. “Tempting, but I’ll pass on jizz in my mug today, man.”
Johnny chuckled. “You’re nasty. How about a heart? I made one for the hot guy in the gray Hugo Boss suit this morning. ’Member him?”
“Barely.”
“I was testing the waters to see if I got a glimmer of interest.”
“And?”
“I think he likes me. Or he liked my jizz art anyway,” he assured me. “I can’t decide if I should try to learn how to make something cute like a panda or a fat cat, or if I should go straight to dick. Thoughts?”
“Why hold back?” I cradled the mug in both hands and leaned against the marble counter.
“Good advice,” he agreed with a laugh before gesturing toward the far end of the coffee shop by the window. “Better grab your table before the yoga moms arrive and ask you to move your stuff.”
I made a peace sign and headed for the corner table for two near the window. I set my backpack on the free chair and pulled out my notebook. I tuned out the background noise with practiced ease while I sipped my latte and jotted song lyrics down. It was an odd habit that morphed into a lifeline of sorts.
When everything around me fell to pieces, writing kept me sane. I’d filled dozens of notebooks over the past decade. Some days, when the words wouldn’t come, I wrote a line or two about the color of the sky or the smell of baked bread. Silly things to remind me that even on days when nothing was going my way, there were still puppies and cupcakes and good things in the world. Other days, words poured out of me faster than I could get them on paper.
Yesterday, I wrote about fear and frustration.
You told me we’d be fine
You told me that we’d make it through the fire
Okay, that kinda sucked. Thankfully, I felt more hopeful today. I pulled my guitar from my case and mulled over what I’d written until I could hear the music. I bent the notes to fit a melody that could work for a rock ballad or even a country song. I stared into space and let it play out in my head like I was listening to a tune on the radio. Halfway through the song, my mind wandered and the song became part of a daydream. I was on the road with my band, touring the US to support our hit album. We were on a tricked-out bus, and then onstage in a huge arena…in Texas. I didn’t stop to wonder why; I just let the story unfold. Screaming fans, lights, cowboy hats and fancy boots. I raised my shiny black Gibson in the air before settling on a stool to do a solo rendition of our recent hit. I strummed the first few chords, scanned the audience, and the only face I recognized was Gray’s.
He stood out in his beach bum chic…swim trunks and an unbuttoned plaid shirt, but no one else seemed to notice. They swayed to the music while I stared at Gray. He gave me a knowing look before unfastening the fly on his trunks and freeing his cock. He crooked his finger and next thing I knew, I was on my knees, fumbling with my belt buckle with my mouth wide open and—
What the hell? I flattened my hand over the strings and cast a wary glance around the now-bustling café before reading over what I’d written.
I want you over me, inside of me, hands in my hair, mouth everywhere
The words jumped from the page and immediately suggested a beat. Something sultry and bluesy. As the music built inside me, the imagery sharpened. And it was all Gray. I could practically feel his hands and his lips. I didn’t stop to wonder why I was so obsessed with him. I learned not to question the process when the words flowed and the song practically wrote itself.
I don’t want you to take your time
I don’t want to make you mine
Take it harder, take it faster, take it—
“Sounds sexy.”
I started in surprise and frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“Coffee.” Gray lifted his to-go cup as proof. “Mind if I join you?”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to talk to you,” he replied patiently.
“Uh…” I held his stare as I tried to get my heart rate under control.
This was weird. It was like I had a magic pen that somehow conjured what I’d written. Or maybe I was still dreaming. If I blinked and found myself on a giant stage in a noisy arena with a raging hard-on, I might just drift back to sleep and—
“Are you okay?” Gray cocked his head and gave me a concerned look.
I nodded before dropping my backpack on the floor. “Be my guest.”
Fuck, he was hot. He looked like a construction worker in his plaid shirt and Levis. His dark hair was mussed like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his beard was thicker, like he hadn’t bothered shaving. It didn’t cover his dimple, though. And nothing could hide the obvious humor in his twinkling eyes. I wondered what the hell he was smiling about. We hadn’t exactly parted on friendly terms. And in spite of what I’d told Tegan, I hadn’t called Gray. My pride kept getting in the way. Ugh. I was such an idiot sometimes.
I cradled my guitar and reached for my lukewarm latte as Gray pulled out the chair next to mine. And then presented me with a bouquet of mini red roses. “These are for you.”
“Yeah.” He gave me a bashful shrug and looked away. “I’m sorry about last week. I was wrong and I apologize for offending you.”
“You didn’t offend me,” I bluffed, brushing my thumb over the tiny petals. “Okay, fine. You did, but you didn’t have to buy me flowers. Ice cream would have worked.”
Gray chuckled. “Believe it or not, I brought a pint of Häagen-Dazs chocolate chip for you yesterday and the day before. You weren’t here, so I had to eat it myself. I was on track to gain ten pounds if I kept missing you, so I switched to roses. The florist was very specific about the type and the color. She said red is for lovers, and since we don’t know each other well, she suggested the miniature ones. Don’t let this freak you out, though. They’re just flowers.”
“No one’s ever bought me flowers in my life,” I assured him with wide-eyed wonder. “I’m totally freaked out. But in a good way.”
“So, you forgive me?”
“Yeah. I might have overreacted. I’m a hothead sometimes. I get anxious and lash out when I don’t know what’s going on and…you know, I had no fucking idea you were famous.”
“I’m not famous, Justin. I’m just a writer.”
“I googled you, dude. You’re famous. You’ve written tons of songs. Good ones too. I heard the one they’re using for the Apple commercial the other day. It usually pisses me off to see a good song ruined by the corporate machine, but it was pretty well done. So don’t tell me you’re not famous. You are. Christ, you even have a Wikipedia entry. Why didn’t you tell me your name at Carmine’s?”
“ ’Cause you didn’t want to know it,” he reminded me. “You wanted anonymity, remember?”
“I was having a bad night. But it got better.”
“Mine too. You know, I didn’t want to go to Carmine’s that night. Seb’s always trying to drag me out of the house. I love live music, but I don’t like going places where someone wants a piece of my time to further their career. I didn’t know why he wanted me there until the next day. He mentioned Xena, but I didn’t know about the contract. And once I did, I figured I’d wait to see if you called me. But you didn’t.”
I frowned as I tried to unravel his logic. “But if I called, you’d have assumed I wanted something from you. So I really couldn’t win.”
“I suppose I wanted to keep that night in a box too, Justin. I didn’t want to ruin it.” Gray brushed his hand across his stubbled chin and pursed his lips. “I’ve been thinking about you every day for weeks now. When you showed up at the house, I knew Seb was up to something, but I didn’t have time to process it. Or maybe I didn’t want to. I was just happy to see you. At the risk of sounding romantic…” He smiled when I rolled my eyes and then continued. “I’d give anything to relive that night. To be on a rooftop with the city beneath us and feel free for a while…and yet connected. It was magic.”
“Yeah. It was,” I said in a low voice.
“It seems unfair to let anyone else in. I don’t want anyone to take that away from us.”
I nodded but didn’t speak. We sat quietly, letting the café noises fill the empty space between us. Edith Piaf played through the speaker system under the din of conversation, clinking silverware and the occasional hum of the espresso machine. After a long moment, I set my instrument in the case before clicking it shut and shifting to face Gray.
“So, who’s Seb?”
“He’s my best friend, Charlie’s dad…and yes, he’s a successful producer. He’s one of those hands-on, über-innovative types. He’s always thinking of a new twist to keep his projects fresh and relevant with younger audiences. I won’t delve into his résumé, but it’s impressive.”
“The Baxter Chronicles.”
“Exactly. The most recent one will be released this summer.”
“And you’re working on the soundtrack.” I tried to mentally connect the dots, but I still couldn’t figure out what this had to do with me.
“It’s finished, or nearly there. But nothing’s ever really finished with Seb. He decided he wanted to add a couple of songs. In Seb’s mind, these unwritten songs are already smash hits. He can hear them on the radio, see them climb the music charts and hang around for weeks on end. Hell, he can hear the cellular ringtones and commercial ads ginormous companies will purchase the rights for later. And while he knows the lyrics and music are crucial, he’s a movie guy. He wants a backstory that loosely complements the scripts. So one night at dinner, Charlie tells his dad about a band that just blew up. It’s a compelling story…bisexual love triangle, beautiful singer catches her boyfriend fucking the drummer and goes ballistic and…”
“Oh, my God.” I swiped my hand over my jaw, then slouched in my chair and crossed my arms. “So he asked Carmine to invite her and her idiot ex to perform. Wow. And Xena knew about the producer and the movie stuff all along. No wonder Declan was pissed.”
“No. Not exactly,” Gray hedged, biting his bottom lip. “She knew Seb would be there but to be fair, she didn’t know what he wanted.”
“They must have struck an agreement of some kind, ’cause I haven’t heard a thing from her since,” I snarked. Because I was kind of an asshole, I made a tongue-against-cheek gesture, complete with a hand motion.
“Not that kind of agreement. He wants her to sing the song.”
“The hit ringtone song?”
A ghost of a smile flitted at the corner of his full lips. He nodded slowly, then said, “And he wants you to write it.”
I gaped. “Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re a good songwriter. The material you played was strong. Seb was impressed.”
“I don’t know how to write a song for a movie. Geez, I’m just trying to get my band off the ground,” I replied in a bewildered tone.
“You wouldn’t be doing it alone. We’d cowrite. He wants two or three songs, but the big one is a ballad. A love song.”
“A love song?” I repeated, making a “yuck” face.
Gray chuckled lightly. “Yes.”
I propped my elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Let me get this straight. Your friend wants you and me to write a love song for his movie…for my ex-girlfriend to sing.”
“That’s correct.”
I cautioned myself not to make any hasty decisions. I glanced over at Johnny helping a customer behind the counter, and I could practically hear Tegan begging me to think before I said anything stupid. This could be the break we were talking about. People made bank writing songs for movies. I could fund Zero and hire a manager. I could pay back the ridiculous amount of debt I inherited when Gypsy Coma imploded. Geez, I could get my own apartment and maybe a car too. I could be set. And working with a well-respected songwriter for a big Hollywood movie was the chance of a lifetime. Even if it sucked, I’d probably learn something in the process and network with smart people who knew other aspects of the business. It was a no-brainer. An automatic “Fuck yeah. Where do I sign my name?”
But something stopped me.
“No, thanks.”
“No?” Gray repeated incredulously. “Just like that? Don’t you want to think about it?”
“What’s the point? I don’t know how to write a love song. I don’t want to learn how to fake it for a buck. I want to write music I can be proud of, not homogenized crap some Hollywood prick I don’t know will use against me to further my ex-girlfriend’s career. I’m not being spiteful here. I sincerely wish Xena the best. But I didn’t fuck her over. It was the other way around. I don’t see how this works in my favor.”
“It’s good money.”
“Well, that house on the hill and your sweet ride are nice, but I’d rather have my integrity,” I blurted unthinking.
Gray glared at me for a long moment. “Don’t be a fool, Justin. And don’t for one second think you know anything about me. I’ve worked my ass off for years. I’ve paid my dues and done my time and no one…I repeat, no one offered me any cushy gigs to make
my life a little easier.”
“I don’t want your fucking charity.”
“It’s not charity. It’s work. Hard work.” He glanced away, then fixed me with an intense stare. “I told Seb you’d say no. I’ve known you for a handful of hours, and somehow I knew your pride would get in the way. I’m not saying I blame you. I told him about you the morning after…you know.”
“We fucked,” I supplied belligerently. “I thought we agreed—no names and no blabbing.”
Gray huffed irritably. “He knows me, and he figured it out on his own. I told him I wouldn’t ask you, so he enlisted Charlie. I was as shocked as you were. And I was pissed. Then I said all the wrong things because I was also very distracted.”
“By what?”
“You! Jesus, I don’t do that kind of thing. Ever. I don’t talk to strangers. I don’t memorize the cadence of their voice and write down everything I can to keep it fresh and alive. You mentioned that Joni Mitchell song, and I swear I listened to it on repeat for days. And it might sound crazy, but I would have given anything to do it over again with a new set of rules.”
I gulped. “What kind of rules?”
“No anonymity. I would have demanded to know everything about you before I took you home with me. And I wouldn’t have let you go.”
“Because you fell madly in love with me?” I asked sarcastically.
“No.” He smirked. “Because I’m madly infatuated with your insanely hot body. Better?”
“Much.”
Gray flattened his hand over my notebook and gave me an intense look. “You’re talented and you’re smart. If you thought about it, you’d realize there’s a way to write a song so beautiful, it turns the table on everyone…your ex or anyone else who thought they had you figured out. Use the element of surprise in your favor. Create something that surpasses anything you thought you were capable of. That’s how you win.”
“So you want to do this?”
Gray shrugged. “I’d be willing to give it a try. What about you?”
I took a deep breath and slowly released it. “Honestly, I don’t know. This is a weird curveball. I want to concentrate on getting Zero up and running. We need to get in the studio more often and—”
