In Harmony

by JN Welsh

  “Oscar speaks about you all the time. Boombox this and Boombox that. He must be thrilled that you’re here.”

  “He’s a supportive guy,” Tommy said. “Are you playing tonight?”

  The woman’s face twisted. “Not tonight but hopefully soon.” He didn’t get a chance to decipher if her last statement was happy about that or not before she continued. “You here to see Queen Roe?”

  Tommy shrugged, his curiosity kindled. “I’m here to check out the lineup for tonight. Why?”

  “Because everyone is here to see her.”

  “Yeah? She any good?”

  Trinket looked almost offended by his question. “If you’re hanging out in the clubs, then you know Queen Roe.”

  Tommy prided himself on having his finger on the pulse. Had he lost touch with what was popping on the scene? “Then I guess I came on a good night.”

  “The best night,” Trinket said. “I’m trying to get a read on who’s here for her, because she’s getting too popular.”

  Was there such a thing as too popular? “That’s a thing?” Tommy asked.

  “For Ny—the Queen, it is.”

  The MC announced Queen Roe and the first thing Tommy saw were two large puffs of hair. The shimmer of the club lights reflected off her glasses and traces of gold glittered on her light brown skin. The rumbling of her first song grew in volume and intensity, and the club goers cheered as they aimed their phones at the stage. The fairly dark club made it hard to make out her figure, but Tommy could tell by the ratio of her exposed torso to the top of the DJ table that she had height. She clapped her hands above her head and pointed out to the audience, her body swaying to the music. He could feel the energy building and his skin prickled.

  Queen Roe picked up the mic. “How’s the kingdom tonight?”

  The people roared in response as the music continued to build. Her small side-to-side bounces to the beat grew wider and higher as she tapped the knobs on the dials as if her fingers touched hot iron. Tommy sat up straighter on his stool. The music rumbled and an explosion of sound came through the speakers. The beat dropped and the fans busted loose, dancing and jumping as if freed from the excruciating buildup. The already thudding venue shook from the impact of agitated bodies heating up fast and feet rattling the foundation.

  The rhythms swirling through the heated air were unexpected and the sounds were unique. Were those string instruments he heard enveloped in harmony with a Tribe Called Quest sample? The sound reminded him of dubstep but had a more epic feel to it. But those instruments... They came through so clear, as if they were played live onstage with her. Tommy’s mind worked to make the connections and as his head bobbed, he wanted to hear more. All the while his gaze transfixed on the colorful figure expending max energy. The light shined on her now, and the air she caught vaulting upward showed she enjoyed her own music. Each time she jumped, it provided him a full view of the sequined orange and purple pum pum shorts that matched her bra top.

  No way can she keep that energy up for an entire set.

  Wrong. By the last song, this woman continued giving everything she had to the audience and they were wild with fever. Through the sporadic LED lights and the flashes from professional cameras and smartphones, she continued her focus on the dials. He thought the festivals deafened, but in the enclosed space of Rebel, bass pierced his eardrum and the vibrations of the melody fluttered over the hair on his arm. He wondered if he’d ever get 100 percent of his hearing back.

  Nonetheless a smile crept on his face. He saw this woman in the open field of the Sunburst Festival with her beats and unique sound rippling over the crowd. He couldn’t believe the type of performer she was and wondered why she was still locked up in Rebel. Could he really be this lucky? To go to his cousin’s club and end up with an artist that would help him gain access to Sunburst?

  Queen Roe tried to get off the stage, but the fans hollered her back on for two additional songs, one of which had the fans crawling the walls, which Tommy assumed had to be an old favorite. She finally closed out her set and descended from the throne where her kingdom had crowned her queen, and her followers gathered to greet her. She posed for some pictures and signed whatever they wanted. Club security did their best to manage the mayhem but the normal handlers were nowhere in sight. She was as exposed as an artist could be. He watched her pull out her phone and take selfies with her fans like they were the ones who’d been up onstage. She hugged them and complimented their style while handing out small postcards and told them to DM her so they could exchange makeup tips and music tastes. After listening and normalizing herself with her fans, she maneuvered her way to the bar through a sea of people, chatting and high-fiving anyone who engaged with her. He had to meet her.

  She shrugged into a snug black hoodie, draped the hood just behind her Afro puffs, and moseyed over to the bar where the bartender had two highballs ready for her, one filled with lightly iced water and the other the color of blood oranges. He placed a clear shot glass before her and filled it to the brim with vodka.

  “Thanks, Nicky.” The hoarse melody of her voice made him want to hear more. Devices and electronics of all kinds continued to snap photos. With no VIP area to escape to, she kept her back to the crowd as she downed the shot and then focused on her cold beverages. Her fans hovered but left her alone. Tommy had never seen anything like it. Either she had some magical superpower or she’d trained her fans to leave her be once she’d given them every ounce of her energy.

  Unfortunately, Tommy had no time to lose, so he scooted his stool closer to her, penetrating her Zen bubble. The perfume and sweat coming off her intensified the closer he got, and he had to drag his eyes away from the spread of her ass against the hard wood of her seat.

  She offered him a huge helping of side eye in response to his presence as she sucked on a white straw, draining her water glass.

  “What’re you drinking?” He could have slapped himself for that question.

  “Uh, water?” She turned her head fully to him.

  He cleared his throat. “You were great up there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You really had the crowd eating out of your hands tonight.”

  “It’s mutual.” She stirred her red drink.

  “Paloma?” he asked, pointing to her glass.

  She followed his point of reference. “Blood orange mojito.”

  They were at a stalemate. He’d run out of aimless questions and she wasn’t offering much by way of conversation.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m—”

  “I know who you are, Tommy Boombox. You’re Oscar’s cousin. I also know that the only reason you’re probably here, since you don’t come through often, is that you’re looking for new talent. Tell me which part is incorrect.”

  He choked on what to say next for several reasons. One, she was right. He’d always been proud of his cousin and his club but he’d come into New York often and had only been to the club maybe once in two years. Two, yes, he was searching for new talent. However, what surprised him most was that her voice rang familiar and the visceral reaction of his body made him certain. He knew this girl.

  “All true, but it’s not the only reason. I wanted to see the improvements Oscar made to the club.” Before shit blew up with Herman, Tommy had been determined to share a little family time with his parents and cousin. Oscar had carved out a little piece of downtown Manhattan for himself and kept Rebel open and profitable for the past six years. Not bad for Tommy’s investment.

  “Rebel is one of the best underground clubs in the metro area,” she responded, her tongue finding the short brown stirrer and sucking. She placed the glass on the bar and mixed her drink with the same plastic stick.

  “No doubt because you’re here. Your performance should be on main stages worldwide.”

  She bristled, faced him fully, and when her full
lips smirked at him, he wanted to know all the thoughts that went through her head. Sweat dripped down her neck and the already curly hair at her temples coiled further. Despite the business he conducted, he wanted to know what the skin there felt like.

  “The main stage? You mean the likes of Bon Bon, Immortal, and Temptation?” she asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “Not interested.” She hadn’t yet removed her heart-shaped sunglasses and he wished she’d take them off so he could see the confidence in her eyes when she rebuffed him.

  “Not interested?” That was bullshit if he ever heard it. What popular artist playing the clubs didn’t want a bigger career?

  Her glasses were now well fogged over from her body heat and she slid them off her face. That’s when he saw the resemblance. Her narrow, upturned eyes, the continuation of her strong nose up to the bridge, and subtly dimpled cheeks was a combination that he’d only seen on one other face. Pete Monroe.

  The last time he’d seen her, she’d jutted a prideful chin out like she had something to prove and snubbed him when her father had suggested he agent her, as two young people starting out. Nyah, on the other hand, had wanted to go with her dad’s agent/manager and Tommy hadn’t wanted a spoiled brat who thought she was owed something because of her famous father. Now that chin seemed softer, humbled, and he wondered what had happened.

  Music flooded their surroundings and though no one would have heard him even if he yelled, he adjusted his tone to her ears alone. “You’re Pete’s daughter?”

  She gave him one of those nods that didn’t quite say yes but, rather, acknowledged his sleuth skills. “It took you long enough.”

  He eased back on his seat before settling upright again. “I haven’t seen you since Pete’s birthday party years ago. Do people know who you are?”

  She rested an elbow on the edge of the bar, her shoulders moving with her breath. “A trusted few but mostly, no. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “So you’re incognito?” He may not have meant it but he delivered his question more like a know-it-all statement.

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Your father is a DJ icon. Surely, it would make all this, I don’t know, easier? Better? More?” She obviously wanted something from playing music. If not fame and money, then what?

  “That’s exactly why no one needs to know.” She patted the sweat on her neck. “That fact didn’t get me very far the last time.”

  He’d heard some rumblings about her leaving the scene after a couple of bad performances, but it was obvious from the brilliance she’d just delivered on the stage that she’d reinvented herself. Yet he tasted the unmistakable bitterness in her words.

  Photographers and guests of the club had snapped photos of her as she performed and smothered her when she descended the stage. He would bet money that if he searched her name on the internet that her celebrity would rival the likes of those already headlining global stages. “How long do you think you’ll be able to keep your identity unknown?”

  “Why is that your concern?”

  “Because I think this club is too small for you. I think you can reach more people with your music.”

  “Land your plane, Tommy.” Her tone was exasperated and abrupt.

  “Come again?” he asked.

  “What do you want?” She twisted her elegant and slim upper body toward him. “Spit it out already?”

  He thought about laying on more compliments but he saw her future—their future—clearly. He’d deliver her as an artist with a new and fresh sound to Sunburst and the media frenzy would erupt when he eventually revealed her as a descendant of Monroe, clawing her way the top on her own. “I want you as my client. We can do great things together and—”

  “No.” She played with the straw on her drink.

  “You didn’t even hear the rest of my pitch.”

  “We don’t want the same things.” Nyah shook her head. “You want an artist you can build and I want to stay in this—what was it you called it?—a fishbowl?”

  “Touché.”

  “You want something bigger.” Even after hours of performing, she still commanded his full attention.

  “And what do you want?” He wanted an answer to what felt like the million-dollar question.

  “To manage the expectation, stay underground, and not be on the cover of every magazine or on every stage, nationally or worldwide,” she answered without hesitation. “So how much?”

  “How much?” He frowned. Their conversation had taken a dark turn.

  “Yeah. How much to buy your silence and act like you never saw me?” She sipped her mojito like she’d asked him to pass her a napkin.

  He reset before responding. “Is that what you think I want?”

  “Well, you won’t take no for an answer, so...” As if her insult wasn’t enough, she spooned on a healthy dose of sarcasm.

  “I don’t want money. I have plenty. I don’t want anything other than to work with you.”

  “Then we’re done, right?” She turned back to fully face the bar.

  “You’re kidding. You really don’t want to take your career to the next level?”

  “No, but...”

  “But?” He tamped down the hope in his voice. No need for her to sense his desperation.

  “If you are looking for an artist then you should take Trinket on as a client.”

  Tommy raised a brow. “The girl with the dreads?”

  She nodded. “Not only is she cool as shit, but she’s probably...no...she is the best DJ in this place.”

  “Really?” Tommy had met Trinket earlier and though the woman chatted with him she didn’t come across as interested in having an agent when she acknowledged who he was. He still had his target set on signing Queen Roe but he’d entertain her suggestion. Maybe he’d missed something when he’d met Trinket. “I’ll take a listen. When does she come on?”

  “Oh, Trinket doesn’t play in public, but take my word for it.”

  His jaw didn’t quite drop but his tongue cooled from his mouth resting slightly ajar. “You’re fucking with me.”

  “No, really. She’s great. She...um...has a bit of stage fright, but she really has the talent to be a star. We’re working on it.”

  He waited for the punch line to her joke but it never came. Instead she stood up and prepared to leave.

  “Okay, I see where this is going. Look.” He pulled out his wallet. “Here’s my card.” He handed it to her.

  She stared long and hard at the card before taking it and tucking it into her bag. She swirled the liquid left in her glass.

  “Call me when you want to talk seriously or when you grow up, whichever comes first.”

  Her mouth hovered over the straw. “Grow up?”

  “Not a lot, just a little.” Had she tossed the rest of her cocktail in his face he would have deserved it.

  She drained the rest of her drink and gave him a mock salute. “It’s been real.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  Chapter Five

  Zombified and trashed from her night at the club, Nyah dragged herself out of bed. The brewing aroma of Jamaican Blue Mountain Peaberry roast, from the coffee machine she’d timed the night before, filled her apartment. She’d probably need to follow it up with a 5-hour Energy drink and a power nap in between the hours of practice she’d do in her apartment. For her performance tonight, she had to be present, alert, and perfect for the stage. Fucking up in rehearsal under Martin’s watchful eye earlier that week had been one thing. Fucking up during her performance was just completely unacceptable.

  Just one more performance.

  She prepared her instrument and organized her sheet music. After she’d showered and put on her robe, she prepared a cup of coffee with a splash of coconut caramel creamer, the scented steam as welcoming as a warm tropic
al breeze. She peeled open a Korean sheet face mask to refresh her skin and prepare it for the full face of makeup she’d plaster on later, so as not to look like she’d had a wild night.

  A wild night indeed. Tommy and his offer trundled through her head like a vehicle in need of an alternator. The part where she told him to stuff that offer stuck on replay. He hadn’t been the first agent or manger coming through, painting a picture of stardom for her to revel in. He did, however, know her from before she’d finished college, and also knew her father. Talk to me when you grow up. “Pshh...grow up yourself.” If his big dick energy hadn’t disarmed her, she wouldn’t have given him the time of day.

  She checked the mail on her way out, bypassing the bills that generally came around this time of the month, and found a letter from the organizers at Artistique. She wished they’d just emailed her the information but they still did official business via the snail mail route. Nyah offered a silent prayer and then tore open the envelope. She scanned the letter from the creative director.

  Our office really liked your package. However, as our guidelines stated, we are currently seeking only agented talent at this time. If you would like to resubmit before the deadline through a reputable agent or agency we’d be happy to add you to our lineup of featured talent at Artistique.

  The letter topped with the Artistique logo crinkled as she fisted the stationery. She resisted the urge to throw the letter into the nearby garbage receptacle because she hadn’t yet tortured herself by rereading the rejection multiple times. Instead, she stuffed it inside one of the compartments on her bass’s jacket.

  “This is bulls,” she mumbled. With all that she had done for both her careers, she was a reputable agent and manager. She had no official evidence to support her claim, though, and that would never fly with Artistique. The event, with its lineup from artists in both art and music of all genres, had been on the top of her list to attend this year. This new glitch in her application infuriated her to her core. She didn’t want to need anyone, least of all an agent. Her bad experiences when she first started out in music had taught her that just because she had an agent didn’t mean that person had her best interest in mind. Even if the scoundrel in question was Carlo Hutton, her famous father’s right-hand man for over two decades, and Nyah’s first and only agent. When she failed, Carlo wasn’t there with tried-and-true advice about changing direction, much less around to help her pick up the pieces.