I just roll my eyes at the soundboard. I like Joaquin. I do. One of my cousins from New York, he’s been my body man since he graduated high school. He’s loyal, trustworthy, and doesn’t snort his paycheck like half the people in this industry. And more than that, he always has yes-es when I need to hear them. But right now I don’t need a yes-man. I need someone who’s going to tell me what the fuck is wrong with this track.
Problem is, when you’re the producer on top of the talent, everyone expects you to have that answer. Today, though, the magic is not happening.
“Here.” I pull off the two fat chains around my neck, the diamond-encrusted pinkie ring, and the watch I bought with the royalties from the first Billboard hit I ever produced. I hand the whole kit over my shoulder. “’Quin, this shit is weighing me down. Take it back to the hotel and have them put it in the safe, all right?”
Joaquin whips out a velvet cloth to take the jewelry. He knows I don’t like my ice getting his fingerprints on it. And this happens often enough that he’s usually ready for it when I’ve had it with the hardware. The funny thing is, I don’t even like it that much. When I’m by myself, I keep it simple. T-shirt. Jeans. That’s about it.
But when you don’t come from much, you feel like you need to insulate yourself once you have something. Like somehow a little gleam makes it real.
I remember that feeling when I started making some money. First came a record with my first job at The Hit Factory. Then someone picked up my mixes. They started hiring me at bars. Clubs. Festivals. More records. More gigs. They just kept coming and coming.
But the numbers didn’t seem real until I saw what they could buy. Nothing—nothing—will ever compare to the feeling of handing my mother the title to her very own two-bedroom condo on the west side of Manhattan, four blocks from the falling-down building in Hell’s Kitchen where I grew up. From there, she could look over New York like the queen she was, not the servant she’d always been forced to be.
I turn to Barry, the sound tech. “What do you think?”
“Needs more bass,” he says, directly contradicting Joaquin. “You knew I was going to say that. It needs bounce.”
I turn back to the console like it’s going to give me all the answers. I did know that. Barry’s in-house here at National—a good guy who’s worked on some other projects with me. Old school, though, and very L.A. He wants to make my shit sound like Dr. Dre. I’m not having that. I’m from New York City, not Compton. Boricua, not Crenshaw.
“Joaquin. Phone. Call Nico.” I hold out my hand behind me, and like magic, my phone appears, the number to my best friend already ringing.
“Yo, mano. Where the fuck you been? I tried to call you, what, five times last week?”
I grin as the voice of Nico Soltero, my best friend, echoes through the room. Joaquin grins too. Everyone loves Nico.
Me most of all, though. Because out of everyone in my life, my boy is the only one who keeps it real. He tells me when I’m being a jackass. He tells me when I’m getting too big for my head. And he tells me when I’m getting shit right too.
“Where else, man?” I reply. “I’m in the studio.”
“Don’t you have that video shoot? I thought today was the day you become a real rap star!”
I grimace at my reflection in the window. “Yeah, the video’s on hold.”
Behind me, Joaquin snorts. Okay, fine. So I ran off set to fix the damn track. What the fuck is the point of doing a video if the track’s not right?
“Layla good?” I ask, deflecting. “Family good?”
I can practically hear my man’s grin over the phone when I mention his wife. Cha-ching, if there was ever a man whipped by his woman. But I don’t blame him. She’s fine as hell, and really fuckin’ good for him to boot. We should all be so lucky as those two.
“Yeah, man, she’s good. Got a promotion at work last week. She’s director of the whole damn office now. You believe that?”
I nod. “Yeah, yeah. I can believe that. How about you? How does it feel to be a fuckin’ FDNY lieutenant now, mano?”
There’s another deep chuckle before he launches into some updates. He probably thinks I’m humoring him with these questions. But really, who’s doing better things for the world, huh? A firefighter and a social worker with two beautiful kids? Or an asshole making records about shaking ass and popping tags?
“Yo, man. I need you to listen to this track,” I say. “You got a minute?”
“Ah...sure, I guess. But you know I don’t know anything about music, bro.”
“Just tell me if you like it,” I say. I don’t have time for this song and dance. Nico isn’t a musical talent, but he knows good shit. If anyone else has an ear for the vibe I want, it’s him.
“I’m trying to make it sound like home,” I clarify.
Before he can ask any more questions, I flip on the song, hold the phone up to a speaker, and let it play for a solid minute before turning it off.
“Okay, what do you think?”
There’s a long pause. Shit.
“I mean, it’s nice...I’m sure it would play well with the younger crowd these days…they seem to like that auto-tuned business that got so popular.”
I groan into my palm. I knew sampling this girl was the wrong way to go. National demanded fuckin’ “synergy” on this project, and they gave me straight-up shit.
“It’s weak,” I translate. “And Katie Derek sounds weak on it.”
“Well…yeah. Claro, man. I’mma be real, I’d probably change the station. The beat is tight, but you need a better voice with it, you know? If you’re gonna use that rhythm, you need a hook to match. Maybe...shit, Kayce, I’m not a producer.”
I groan again. “Nico, cut the shit. I asked for your help, so just tell me what you’re thinking of.”
“Coño, calm the fuck down all right. God, you’re such a sensitive fuckin’ artist, you know that?”
I snort. “Shut the fuck up.”
“You shut up. You want my opinion or not?”
I sigh. I do want his opinion. Honest to God, Nico and I are probably...what’s the word...codependent. “Hit me.”
There’s a long pause while he thinks. “All right...I hear the lyrics...and I hear that beat you got going. It’s a rumba, right?”
“Right.”
“It reminds me of those Sunday mornings, you remember? Remember our moms, they used to hang laundry out the fire escape while they listened to that Ghetto Brothers album?”
My eyes pop open. “Oh shit. I forgot about that album. The one with those licks like Dusty Springfield? Like it’s echoing in a glass goblet? Viva Puerto Rico Libre…”
“Ah...I guess? But yeah, that song. That’s the one I mean.”
I can already hear it. Sultry harmonies, a lazy hum liquid as the ocean. In a flash, I’m back on the fire escape in Hell’s Kitchen, watching the sway of my mother’s skirt in the summer heat while she sings along and pins my shirts to the clothes line. In those moments, she was back in Santiago, sitting under the palm trees, watching the ocean as blue as the sky.
“Tell Layla I said what’s up,” I say in a hurry. “I gotta go.” I hang up—Nico knows there’s no more time for goodbyes, not when I’ve got the sound locked in my head. I swing around to Barry. “Yo, we need a guitarist.”
Barry nods—he’s been listening to my end of the conversation. “You want me to call Danny, the cat who worked on Drake’s last album?”
“How about Elian Ramirez? I think he’s in town. He could do it.” I’m rocking now to an unheard melody. Ba-da-da-dahhhh. I can hear it clearly, swimming over the beat I wrote, but with a different voice. I shake my head. “We need a new singer too.”
But Barry’s got no suggestions. Shit.
“Who, Barry, who?” I demand. “Goddammit, who’s available right the fuck now? Deeper voice, kind of husky, but Latin? Coño, who am I thinking of? I need to get this shit down before it flies.”
Barry taps a finger on his lips
while Joaquin’s expression ping-pongs between us. “I don’t know, man. National ain’t gonna like it if you ax Katie Derek…”
I wave him away. “They’re gonna like it fine when I give them a platinum record. She doesn’t work with this, and you know it.”
“Ariana can do it the way you’re saying—”
“Nah, she’s touring in Australia with Katie Derek right now,” I say. “Who else?”
I’m snapping my fingers like a guy who needs his fix.
Barry opens his mouth and rattles off a few more names, but none of them work. Fuck, fuck. I’m sitting here rapping my brains, trying to think of someone, anyone who can sing this fucking hook for me.
And then, before I can name anyone else, the studio door opens, and the voice enters.
“All right, where’s the bastard who delayed an entire video production to adjust a few fucking beats? Where’s the spoiled brat who thinks the entire fucking industry revolves around him? Which one of you assholes is DJ Cairo?””
I swear to God, I don’t even remember what she said after my stage name comes out of her mouth. She practically sang it, like she was making fun of a singer, but it was melodic, and the deep, husky tone shot through my bones.
Without even turning around, I raise my hand. “That would be me, sweetheart.”
“Damn,” Barry murmurs behind me. He bats me on the shoulder. Then he does it again.
Finally, I swing in, wondering what he’s on about and ready to get this intruder into the sound booth so we can finish this shit. Then I look up, and I can’t think at all.
Chapter Three
Shama
He’s just...staring at me.
I won’t lie. I stare too for a second. But I did it the nice appropriate way through the tiny window on the studio door. Because it was a shock—a shock, I tell you—to walk in here and see world famous, yet oddly reclusive producer DJ Cairo sitting there with no jewelry, no flashy clothes, no posse, brow furrowed while he listened to a track over and over again. Lost in the zone. Totally floating away on his music.
Look. It’s not like I’ve never seen a hot musician before. Shit, I’ve been brushing these assholes aside like flies since I started in this business. Get it done, get it done. The number one rule of being a producer.
But this...somehow this is different.
I stride over and snap my fingers in front of his face. “Hey! Rapper boy, you there?”
He blinks and bats my hand away. “Coño! No need to get into my face, damn!
“You’re DJ Cairo?” I let the name slides of my tongue with disdain so thick it’s practically molasses.
He’s not at all what I would expect a Puerto Rican rapper to look like. Where’s the hat? The chains? The baggy jeans? This guy is pale enough that he probably passes as white most of the time in spite of the deep-set eyes and close-cut hair that’s even blacker than mine, and the full mouth set in a never-ending smirk. And with nothing on but a simple white t-shirt, completely normal jeans, and a pair of Adidas sneakers, he looks like any guy off the street.
I must have seen his picture before somewhere. A newspaper. Maybe a press release. Of course I have. That must be why he looks familiar.
At that, he blinks, then gives me a lazy smile and raises his hand. “Claro, that’s me. But I’m going to need you to say that one more time, sweetheart. This time, into the mic, por favor.” He points toward the studio, and another guy, whom I’m guessing is the technician, is already standing, ready to escort me inside.
I push his hands away. “Get off me! I’m not a back-up singer, you asshole.”
“Then who are you?” Cairo grabs a red Yankees hat off the soundboard and claps it on backward. He absently toys with a small chain around his neck, pulling out a medallion of what looks like a Catholic saint while he scowls up at me. Ah, there’s the rapper I was expecting.
I cross my arms. “I’m Shama Sandhu, your new producer. The studio ruined my first vacation in seven years to get you back on set. Do you have any idea how much time you’re costing them by tinkering with the auto tune?”
The scowl deepens, which could be hot if I wasn’t so fired up.
“No use making excuses,” I say. “You might be a hitmaking veteran, but you’re a virgin performer. In this economy, you’re lucky the studio gave you any kind of video budget for your first single, and if you squander it making the crew wait, you won’t get another.”
“Oh, really?” he sneers. “According to who?”
“According to me and my seven years wrangling idiots like you. Do you want to do this or not?”
He taps his lip again. It’s distracting. And then that smile reappears, and for a second, I have to balance myself against the wall.
“Fine,” he says. “You want me on set?”
I nod sharply.
A wide, slow smile spreads across Cairo’s face. “Fine, sweetheart. I just need your voice.”
Chapter Four
K.C.
The second she said my name, like a woman who’s pissed and turned the fuck on all at once, the syllables dripping off her tongue like honey, I knew that was the exact thing this track needed. Sultry and stubborn, right where it belongs, like a call and response to the lilt of my rhymes.
Porque eres mi gatita (DJ Cairo)
Porque eres mi mamita (DJ Cairo)
When I first asked, she stared at me like I was crazy. And for a moment, I thought I knew her. I must have seen her around, maybe in the studio, or at an industry party somewhere. I can’t pace it, but something about her feels right.
But I ignore it, because there’s a part of me that turns on like a button at the weirdest fuckin’ things. A tone. A new pitch. And then I can hear it. Not just that one sound, but I can hear how it fits in a whole fuckin’ symphony in my mind.
It takes us less than two hours to finish. For real, I don’t know if I’ve ever laid a track that quickly. It’s not just because Shama’s a damn natural, purring into the mic like she wants to make out with it later. No, it’s that with her, everything just works. She might scowl at me every time I ask for another take, but damn if her husky, somewhat imperious vocals doesn’t add exactly what this track need.
Pop star out, cranky producer in. Add the extra riffs from the guitarist Barry wrangled, and we’re on our way back to the video set by noon. And apparently, not a moment too soon.
“Finally!” shouts Blake, the director, as Shama practically drags me across the beach toward the section of the Santa Monica pier the studio blockaded for the shoot.
“I know, I know,” Shama says, accepting a hug from the director. He kisses her on the cheek, and I have to fight not to be jealous. I just spent the last two hours with no one but her, Barry, Joaquin, and the guitarist. Now, standing here on a beach full of extras and crew members, I’m feeling a little invaded. I want our privacy back.
And why would that be, mano? Nico’s laughing on my shoulder. That motherfucker. He knows what’s up. Whatever, I’m a professional. And this pain-in-the-ass chick is my boss. At least for the next two days.
I accept a slap on the hand from Blake.
“We done?” he asks. “You got the new track?”
I nod. “Joaquin?”
My body man holds out his phone with headphones for Blake to listen. “Here you go. It’s so hot, man. You’re gonna love it.”
Blake just rolls his eyes, but puts in the earbuds and starts bobbing his head almost immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, that is much better.” His eye pop open right when the hook thumps through the tiny speakers. “Who’s the girl?”
“That would be me.” Shama looks bored, but I can tell she’s kind of proud. She knows the goods as well as I do. “Porque” is going to be the song of the summer. It’s gonna be her voice bumping through every open window between L.A. and New York.
Blake gives the headphones back to Joaquin. “Ah...you know we don’t have a model for this. Shit, I know it’s good, but she’s all over this track, and I can’t do a
whole new shot list. And we didn’t hire anyone to lip-sync…”
“Nah, Shama’s gonna be in it,” I say, only just realizing I mean it. “Just add her to my shots during the hook. That’s all you gotta do.”
At that, Shama swings around, her soft-looking lips open. “Um, excuse me?”
Behind me, Joaquin chuckles, but already, Blake is sizing her up. I want to tell him not to bother. Shama’s just as gorgeous as any of the girls we got out here. Tall and slim, with an ass that doesn’t quit. Yeah, I was looking on the way out to the car. And on the walk down the beach. No shame in that. The fabric of her dress clings, and wasn’t nobody doing any harm, all right?
But it’s not just the body. Shama is fuckin’ gorgeous in a way that’s a hell of a lot more real than most of the bimbos crowding the sand around us. Her hair is blacker than mine, if that’s even possible, and her skin is deep brown and glows like she’s been out in the sun a little too long recently. But it’s her eyes, which sparkle like black diamonds and are glaring right at me that will really make the video come alive. The push and pull that was in every utterance of my name—that’s going to fuckin’ jump out of the screen. I know it.
“Yeah.” Blake nods appraisingly, and I can tell he sees what I see. “Shama, you got it, baby. We need you.”
Another thick scowl. “Blake, I am here as a producer, not a performer. You need me here to keep this on track not to get off course!” She tugs at her hair, which is falling over her shoulders in thick waves. For a second, I imagine what it would look like spread across a white sheet. While I cage her under my body, undulating in time to the rhythm.
Whoa, there, you horny motherfucker. One look at this girl, and suddenly you’re a Backstreet Boy? What the fuck is going on?
“Come on, Sparks,” I say, cuffing her lightly on the shoulder.
“Sparks?” She whirls to me, and Blake covers a smile. “Who the hell is Sparks?” she demands.
But the fire I see only makes me like the nickname more. Not caring whether or not anyone is watching, I reach out and tug the end of her hair.
Bad Idea- The Complete Collection Page 109
