Amped

by Teagan Kade

  The stranger looks to Ari, Mat and back again. He starts to walk away, jerking his head towards me. “You can fucking have her, man. She’s probably had more dick in her that a frat-house urinal anyhow.”

  Mat goes to rush forward, but I hold him back. “It’s fine, Mat. Let Little Dick here run back to his friends.”

  He does so, the three of them getting up and leaving.

  “You alright, Sel?” asks Ari at my back.

  I nod. “Fine, Ari.”

  Mat swings in front of me. “I see you can still handle yourself.”

  I wink. “What can I say? I’m Latina.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MAT

  I’m surprised my key still works. I stand in the grand marble foyer of my childhood home, what we used to call ‘The White House,’ a soft Californian breeze at my back. “Anyone here?” I call.

  I don’t know why. Mom’s still in the same Palm Springs psychiatric facility she was before I left. I doubt she’ll be hosting dinner parties again anytime soon.

  I was expecting a maid or gardener perhaps, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in quite a while given the pyramid of mail beside the door and the cotton apparitions covering the furniture. The gardens where we used to play as kids? Like something out of Jumanji now.

  I take a seat in the sunken lounge where Dad used to do his best work, feet on the table, Les Paul in hand, and a beer or three to take the edge off. It’s so quiet now it’s offensive.

  And I fucking hate quiet.

  “Yo!” I shout, my voice echoing through the house.

  I look up at the large black-and-white photo of Dad on stage in Moscow framed above the fireplace. “Guess it’s just you and me, bozo.”

  I put my feet up on the table in the den. My thoughts turn immediately towards Selena. I knew it would only be a matter of time before we crossed paths here in LA. The Delaney thing was a lucky break, a contact pulling me in as filler at the last minute.

  Sel.

  She looks better than ever, better than the construct I’d created in my head these last three years, but I’m too late. She’s with Rick now, Rick ‘the agent.’

  I shake my head. Didn’t see that one coming, did you?

  We both wanted her when we were younger, whether we admitted it or not, but Selena was untouchable even back then. She’d walk into a room and the place would instantly light up. My dad used to joke with her, “Sel, I pity the poor guy who tries to tame you.”

  I suppose Rick’s that guy, but I don’t think he has fully tamed her—not yet. I saw some of that old Sel sass tonight. Rick might have polished her up for pop, rubbed off her edges for the masses, but I know the wild girl I grew up with is still in there somewhere. Question is, what’s it going to take to tease her out?

  You can’t, dickhead. You’d do that to Rick? Your best friend?

  Former best friend, I correct.

  And that’s just it. He’s not my best friend anymore. I hardly know the guy. He could be anyone… Any-thing.

  I think of them together, his hands on those soft, caramel legs, shifting up her side to the swell of a breast. I have to shake myself out of it, my cock filling out my jeans iron hard. Let it fucking go.

  As Dad used to say: When life kicks you down, get the fuck back to work. So that’s exactly what I do. I pick up the phone.

  It’s midnight, but superstar agent Dominic Palmer still picks up on the second ring. “I hope this is my birthday blowjob calling.”

  “It’s better,” I reply.

  “Mathew fucking Barton.”

  “The one and only.”

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Dominic was my father’s agent. He took me in after Dad died and became something of a surrogate father to me, even if I haven’t spoken to him in years. Mom was never part of the picture. She had a mental breakdown after Dad’s accident and has been sunning herself up in Palm Springs ever since.

  “Can’t I just call to say hi?”

  Dominic laughs, voice rough from years of hard living and a few too many whiskies around boardroom tables. I think that’s why he’s been so successful—he knows how to mix it up in what is unquestionably a corporate boys’ club. And make no mistake, the music industry is all testosterone at the top. “Rock’s favorite son returns and all he wants to say is ‘hi.’ I saw your thing with Sel on the Delaney Show, by the way.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I think Sel is showing you up. She’s on her way.”

  “Which is why I’m calling.”

  “And now we get to it.”

  I take a pause before continuing. “As you say, I lack polish.”

  “And you want me to give you the famous Dominic Palmer shoe shine treatment?”

  “Something like that.”

  Now the pause comes from the other end of the line while Dom thinks it over. “Bullshit was never big in the Barton family, so let’s get this straight. You want to put together an album that wasn’t made in some crackhead’s home studio and you want me to represent you?”

  “Bingo.”

  Another bout of silence. Like I said, I fucking hate silence, always have, even when I was a baby. I’d scream my little lungs out when Mom tried to put me to sleep. I always needed Metallica or Led Zep or Lynyrd playing next to my crib.

  Finally, Dom speaks. “You up for a bit of genre-bending?”

  “Gender bending?” I stammer.

  “Genre, you idiot. Mix up your style a little.”

  I stand and start to pace. “You’re the expert.”

  Another pause. “Okay, I accept. How’s tomorrow looking for you? I can have a couple of session guys down at Astoria Studios in the morning. Just don’t do a Mason and show up five hours late.”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s a date then.”

  I smile with the possibilities. “It’s a date.”

  *

  ‘No bullshit’ might be a Barton staple, but punctuality is not, which is why I show up half an hour early to make a good impression. I’m ready to break into the big leagues—whatever it takes. If Dom wants me to wear a pink vagina and sing rockabilly, I’ll damn well do it.

  Like most studios too cool for their own good, Astoria proves difficult to find. There’s no signage except a spray-painted ‘A’ on a garage door. I rap on it a few times. Several minutes later it opens to reveal an individual who might indeed be Bigfoot. He looks me up and down. “The Axl Rose tribute’s across the road, bro.”

  Fucking idiot. I hate guys who use the word ‘bro.’ “I’m actually here to record today.”

  Nothing.

  I can’t believe I’m going to have to spell it out for this asshole. “Mat Barton.”

  Still nothing.

  “Son of Mason Barton?”

  That does it. He clicks. “Oh yeah, shit, man. I’m sorry. Your agent called. Come in, grab a beer.”

  We come through the garage into a sort of lounge, the open studios visible down the back hall. I notice quite a few people are gathered around, definitely musos given the smell—somewhere between burnt electronics and nicotine. They look at me and return to whatever it was they were doing. They must be the session players Dominic organized. I tried to call up my own guys, but once we hit LA, they split. Even my ‘band’ on the Delaney Show was cobbled together last minute.

  The human bigfoot returns to me holding a clipboard. “You said you had some air time booked today?”

  “For Dominic Palmer.”

  I’m not afraid to drop names if I have to.

  The human bigfoot has an epiphany. “Ah, right. The agent. We slip in Dom’s people when we can, but we’re fully booked today, my man. No can do.”

  An hour in traffic and I’m getting ‘no can do’? Why didn’t this fuck-wad tell me outside instead of waltzing me through the entire studio? And why are the session guys here?

  “What do you mean you’re fully booked, Jerry?”

  Jerry—the human bigfoot
has a name, and Dominic Palmer knows it. I feel his hand on my shoulder.

  Dom smiles beside me. He’s got a bit of salt-and-pepper going on in the hair department, but he’s otherwise unchanged. “Early arrival. I like that. It’s good to see you, Mat.”

  I nod. “And you.”

  But ‘Jerry’ is still shaking his head. “Sorry, Dom, but we’ve got some serious star power in today. I can’t bump this, not even a minute.”

  Dom comes around, looks at me with an ‘I got this’ smirk. He comes close to Jerry and lowers his voice. “Have long have we known each other, Jerry?”

  “A long time,” Jerry replies. “But money talks, Dom, and these guys are loaded.”

  Dom shakes his head. “You sound like a Wall Street fucking banker, you know that? What happened to the indie powerhouse that recorded bands like Seether and Smokehouse here? Bands who could barely rub two dimes together?”

  Jerry shrugs. “Hey. Everyone moves on, Dom. I’m sorry.” He lifts his head to look behind us. “Here’s your star power now.”

  I look back towards the garage, squinting as the door lifts and light pours in. Slowly a figure and their entourage comes into view.

  I look a little closer, can sense Dom doing the same beside me.

  No fucking way.

  “Selena?”

  “Looks like it,” confirms Dom. He turns back to Jerry. “You’re recording Selena Torres today?”

  “That’s right.”

  Selena and Rick both spot me at the same time, but it’s Sel who speaks first. “Mat? What are you doing here?”

  She’s dressed in a smoking hot miniskirt and plunging V-neck, jalapenos patterned over it. Her hair falls onto her shoulders in creamy ringlets. She was never big on makeup, but that’s always been her strongest suit—she simply doesn’t need it.

  Dom speaks. “I arranged some studio time for Mat here.” He looks at Rick. “But it looks like we’re being pushed out”.

  Rick puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Sorry, bro, but money talks, and last I heard you weren’t exactly bringing home the bacon.”

  The fuck? I’m about to ask Rick what he’s on about when I notice Sel.

  She’s smiling, watching me. “You want to get back into recording?”

  I scratch my neck. “Hell yeah.”

  Sel tugs Rick’s arm. “Can’t we work something out?

  For a second I think Rick might buckle, for old time’s sake, but it seems he’s changed. He ignores Dom and I completely. “We paid good money for these sessions, baby. I’m sorry.”

  Sel lets go of Rick’s arm and raises a finger. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s share the studio time.”

  Rick looks on dubious, puffing his cheeks out. “Baby,” he starts.

  “It’s my money, isn’t it?” says Sel.

  Rick comes around in front of her. “Yes, but…”

  “It’ll be fun.” She ignores Rick and walks towards the studios, stopping to wave me over near the mixing desk. “You are coming, aren’t you, Mat? I mean, you can still sing, can’t you, or do you need a little Latina girl from the south side to show you how it’s done?”

  I beam. “You’re on.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SELENA

  Listening to Mat play live is a joy. I’ve forgotten how much I missed it. Rick used to mess around on bass, but he never had the passion for performing like Mat and I do. It’s in our blood. My father was a popular mariachi back in his day, Mat’s a global rock sensation. We were born to make music.

  Mat breaks into the chorus and it’s surprisingly catchy. The hook is solid, his heart bleeding into the mic, and this is the thing. Mat isn’t a pretender. He sings from experience. His lyrics come from a place of pain most people can’t imagine. Kurt Cobain, Jeff Buckley, Corgan… and soon Barton—again. That cheesy song from the Delaney Show doesn’t represent the Mat I know at all.

  The Mat you knew.

  Rick’s still standing beside me with his arms crossed. He’s barely said a word since Mat started singing, only stopping to check his watch.

  “What do you think?” I ask. I’m genuinely curious, but Rick isn’t in the mood for discussion.

  “I think this is wasting valuable time, Selena. I think we need to get Mat out and you in there to start laying down your magic. Time is money, baby.”

  I’m half expecting him to plead ‘think of the fans!’, but he continues to stand there coldly trying to turn Mat to stone with his steely gaze.

  “Doesn’t it remind you of when we were kids?” I ask, trying to lighten him up.

  “You were the talented one, Selena, and you still are. Mat… Well, Mat is Mat.”

  I turn to face Rick, my own arms crossing now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Mat’s good, but he’ll never be great. You know it, I know it, and Dominic Palmer knows it.”

  “Dom is a great agent.”

  “Dom was a great agent,” Rick corrects. “It’s common industry knowledge he hasn’t had a hit, even a tiny, teensy one, in years. I’m sure he sees Mat as an easy money grab. Sell some records off his dad’s name and” — he throws his hand up — “toss him to the wind.”

  I look towards the lounge where Dom is trying to figure out how to use the coffee machine. “You wouldn’t say that to his face.”

  Rick smiles. In it the man I remember, the man who tried for years to woo me, is gone. In its place something distasteful, something foreign. “I don’t need to say it to his face. He already knows.”

  I bring my attention back to Mat, riffing on E minor coming into the outro. It has been a long time.

  A hand slides down my lower back. Rick whispers into my ear. “I’ve got to go, baby.”

  “Already?”

  His hand moves down to my ass, squeezing. “See you at home.”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t let Mat take up all your air time, yeah? We’re on the clock, remember.”

  He gives me a light tap on the butt and drifts away. Funnily enough, I’m kind of happy he’s leaving. The last thing I want around here is bad energy.

  I continue to watch Mat play.

  That is the kind of energy I need.

  In fact, it’s given me an idea.

  *

  I give a little clap when Mat comes out of the studio in a white tee and jeans. His shirt is lightly damp with the scent of his sweat, dotted with something deeper, mechanical. He unslings the guitar and hands it back to one of my techs. “Thanks. She’s a beauty.”

  He reaches to the sofa and pulls on his leather jacket—Mason’s old jacket, the one he used to wear working on the Trans Am.

  I walk over. “You’re still wearing that thing.”

  His gunmetal eyes find mine. “Dad’s jacket? Everyone knows the best leather is worn leather, and this leather’s been through a lot.”

  I look to his chest, his shirt stretched out over his pecs. “And what about this crucifix necklace? Could you be any more of a rock star cliché?”

  He fingers the crucifix. “You mean the crucifix you gave me?”

  I can’t believe I didn’t recognize it. All I can say is “Oh.”

  He holds it in between his fingers. “I never take it off. It reminds me of you, of home. Wherever I am in the world, I know that if I’m wearing this, you’re close… to my heart.”

  For a second he almost has me until a smile breaks.

  I roll my eyes. “Gag alert.”

  He starts to laugh. “Not bad, huh?”

  “I really hope you didn’t use those kind of lines on your worldwide buffet of women.”

  He comes close and leans down, his lips feathering my ear. “I don’t need lines.”

  I push him away. “Mathew Barton, always with tickets on himself.”

  He collapses onto a sofa and pats the spot beside him. “Selena Torres, always with the wise-cracking.”

  “I give it as good as I get.”

  He leans forward, storm-gray eyes pure mischief. “I be
t.”

  Damn. Walked right into that one, didn’t you?

  I take a seat beside him and have to admit there is something intangible between us, but I don’t have the courage to really think these feelings through, not yet. “Tell you what, ‘cock star,’ what would say about working together on a few tracks?”

  He shifts. “Us? Working together? I wouldn’t want your sugary sweet pop peppiness to rub off on my bad ass rocker tunes.”

  “Come on. It’d be fun, just like it used to be. Remember when we used to practice in the pool house?”

  “The one Dad converted into a studio?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Mat mulls it over. “Dom did ask if I was open to mixing styles.”

  “Damn straight I did.” Dom stands before us in one of his trademark Tom Ford suits. He’s a real sore thumb here with all these hipster session musicians and groupies. “I think it’s a great idea, Sel, and thanks for letting Mat suck up some of your studio time, though I don’t think Rick was so hot on it.”

  Rick. What to do with Rick? He’s been after me for years, and finally, finally I let him in a month or two ago. He’s actually quite sweet when we’re alone. He’s perfectly fine boyfriend material, but as someone I want to spend the rest of my life with? Someone I want to jump into whatever comes our way with? I’m not so sure.

  “You let me worry about Rick,” I reply. “He just needs some persuasion, that’s all.”

  Mat shifts again beside me, nods to the studio. “Go on, Sel. Get in there. I know it’s a tough act to follow, but hey, someone’s got to do it, right?”

  Do it. Do him.

  Sel!

  The space between my legs grows hotter. Yes, someone’s does have to do you, Mathew Barton, but it’s not going to be me…

  Right?

  *

  “Rick?” I call out, but there’s no reply.

  I hate coming home to an empty house. You’d think after spending all day surrounded by make-up artists, photographers, and producers I’d be over people, happy to have some down time and quiet, but it only serves to compound the emptiness.

  Besides, I hate quiet.

  I’m thinking Rick is working late again when I spot him out by the pool.