Star Bright

by Shelly Greene

  “Well, the idea is that they want to re-record it, just the two of them.”

  Rafi stared, let air out through his nose, drank coffee to keep himself from exploding at Amber, who was only the messenger. “What’s the basis of their argument?”

  “Same old thing—two out of three, majority rules.”

  Rafi gritted his teeth. It was one thing to squabble over the songs they hadn’t recorded yet, decide who had the better right to which ones—that was painful enough, when Rafi was almost always the primary songwriter. It was only fair for him to compromise here and there; they did usually collaborate somewhere along the way, the three of them sharing writing credits and keeping little track of who wrote what. This was different. ‘Blood and Bone’ already existed, fully formed, a creation—the last creation—of Distant Kingdom as it had been. They’d recorded it just days before he and Bo broke up. Now she and Carlos wanted to do it over without Rafi, erase him from the last thing they’d all made together.

  “I don’t know, maybe that’s better than it never being released at all,” Rafi said, rubbing his eyes irritably. “It’s too good a song to go to waste.”

  “No,” Amber said sharply. “You’re not handing it over to them. If anyone’s getting dropped from the track, it’s the backup vocals, i.e. them, not you. This is why me and the lawyers only tell you this stuff after the fact, you are way too soft. I’m just letting you know about it, nothing’s settled yet. Now, item the second.” She hesitated, set down her half-eaten burrito, and tapped her fingers in a fidgety pattern on the table. “My last paycheck bounced.”

  Rafi’s mouth fell open. “Amber—I’m so sorry, I’ll look into it right away—”

  “No need. I know exactly what happened. Carlos cleaned out the account my salary is drawn from.”

  Rafi put his face in his hands. “He can’t do that, it’s a joint account, it belongs to all of us—”

  “Well, possession is nine tenths of the law. He’s got the money and it’s going to be the devil getting any of it back again. I’ve already filed a bunch of stuff about it, some of it I need you to sign.”

  “Of course. Throw it at me, I’ll sign it. I can…I can get your money from somewhere else, I just gotta look at where…”

  Amber waved a hand. “Bo paid up that much, when I called to scream at Carlos.”

  “Oh.” Rafi blinked in surprise. Half of him wanted to point and shout, See? See? She’s not that bad. It wasn’t stupid to love her. The other half was annoyed to see any reason not to hate her guts.

  “I hope she enjoys cleaning up Carlos’s messes, she’ll be doing a lot of it,” Amber muttered. “Anyway, I don’t want to count on her generosity for next month, so we gotta get my paycheck drawn from a different account. Not to mention putting a lockdown on all your finances before Carlos gets any more bright ideas.”

  “Yeah. I get it. You’re right. I think you already have power of attorney and stuff, right? You can do whatever needs doing?”

  Amber looked heavenward. “You know, you’re in this mess exactly because you’re so trusting. Consider learning from that.”

  “Are you planning to rob me?”

  “Obviously not. But if I was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Rafi just grinned and flicked some egg at her. It caught somewhere in her profusion of corkscrew curls, and she yelped and squeaked hilariously as she batted it out.

  “You’re a butthole, Rafael Reyes.”

  “I trust you completely, so if you say it, I guess it must be true.”

  “Shut up and eat your breakfast. Sheesh, it’s like having a toddler.”

  Those words pinched a little weirdly, given his thoughts that morning about wanting a child. Amber wasn’t a replacement for what he’d lost, or never had, but she was one thing he did have. It was good to be reminded that were still people in his life he could trust.

  “Speaking of the future, though,” Amber said after a minute, as she polished off the last of her burrito, “I really want to know what your plan is. You keep brushing me off when I talk about you recording a solo album—”

  Rafi groaned and rolled his eyes.

  Amber slapped the table. “Rafi, you might lose! Okay? It would be unjust and unmerited, but it could happen. You might have to watch Bo and Carlos ride off into the sunset with the ‘Distant Kingdom’ banner while you’re left all by your lonesome. What would you do? Quit music?”

  “No!”

  “Then what? You need a plan. Every month that you’re not on the radio, not on a stage, not selling albums, you’re losing ground. You know how fragile a music career is. Even if you win, what are you going to do, be Distant Kingdom by yourself?”

  “No! A band, okay? The plan is a band.” He got up and went to the window—which was to say, the wall, since most of his apartment was glass walls, an uninterrupted view of the Hudson River. “Either I rebuild DK, or…” Ugh, he hated even thinking the words. “Or I form a new band.”

  “Your name will be more familiar than a new band’s name. You could pull off a solo career.”

  “I don’t want to go solo. I don’t like being solo.” That was why he had formed DK to begin with; practicing alone, performing alone, it hadn’t felt right. Too isolated. When his brother joined him, and later his girlfriend, that was when it felt like an adventure. Felt like his life. “I like making music with people, not at them.”

  Amber put her hands up in surrender. “Okay. I can run with that. I still need you working on new material, though. Even if we have to re-record it later with new band members, I want something tangible that you own, you’ve put all the work into and definitely don’t have to share with Carlos and Bo.”

  Rafi nodded, thinking. “There’s…one song I hadn’t shown to either of them. They don’t even know it exists, so they can’t claim any songwriting credit.”

  “Perfect!” she said. “I already have you a studio session for tomorrow.”

  * * * *

  By the time he got home, Julian had gone from panicked to pissed. At Rafi, in part, for being drunk and inconsiderate and handsy; at himself, rather more, for letting the idiot rattle him. No one had been trying to hurt Julian—and even if Rafi had tried, Julian would simply have broken his nose and left. He was not some frightened child. He was not in a vulnerable position. He had everything under control.

  He took care of some ‘online presence’ tasks, first thing the next morning, continuing to set the record straight about the Cassie Bayles incident. Rafi ought to like that, not that it mattered.

  Should he call Rafi? Didn’t boyfriends call each other a lot? Julian looked down at his phone, considering. They weren’t actually dating. Surely there was no need to talk to each other every single day. Surely it was fine to take a little bit of space.

  Instead, he made another call.

  “Juley, babyyy! How’s it going?”

  Julian clenched his teeth, but didn’t object to the nickname aloud. It was unfortunate reality that a director as big as Pete Howell got to call the talent whatever he wanted.

  “Pete, good morning,” he said instead. “I wanted to talk about Nightingale’s Song. I’m absolutely interested.” Pete had sent him the script a week ago, inviting Julian to audition for the villain—a crime boss with a complex and unpredictable relationship with the police detective heroine. Julian was actually more excited about the role than he was comfortable admitting. “I left a message with your PA yesterday, but I’ve been on planes a lot since then, not sure if I missed you getting back to me.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure thing!” Pete’s silly, hyper over-intimacy didn’t falter, but there was a long pause before he spoke again. “So listen, we’ve seen some really great auditions since I sent you the script and it’s kind of…taken the character to a new place in our minds. We’re kinda thinking of a different direction now.”

  Julian’s hand tightened on the phone. “You…said I was in your top three choices.”

  “You were, you absolutely were! I
know you’d do a great job with the role, I just, it’s like I said, new direction, I just don’t think…Dude, I’m sorry, I am, but I don’t think you’re the right guy.”

  “Let me audition.” Julian kept his voice even, cool, neutral. He was not begging. “No harm seeing what I can bring to it. We can talk about you’re looking for.”

  “Juley, I am looking for…” Pete’s voice trailed off, and became a little more serious, even regretful. “I’m looking for someone less complicated right now, huh?”

  Julian’s face felt stiff. “If my reputation bothered you, maybe you shouldn’t have approached me—”

  “It’s not that.” Pete made a noise under his breath. “Geez, this is awkward. Julian, I’m a big name, but there’s folks even I can’t afford to tick off. It’s a no, all right? That’s it. I’m sorry, dude.”

  He hung up.

  Julian stared at the phone for a second. A sick feeling settled into his belly.

  His uncle, it seemed, was done tolerating his rebellion.

  * * * *

  It got worse before the end of the day.

  Julian had spent the morning getting his locks changed and talking to lawyers—again—about ending his manager contract with Uncle Eddie. A growling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten all day, and he was just pulling a protein shake out of the fridge when a buzz sounded through the doorman’s intercom.

  “Mr. Gault, you have a visitor. Says her name is…Svetlana?” He struggled slightly with the Russian name.

  The sick feeling in his stomach came back with a vengeance. Why was Svetlana here, now? They always set up their meetings days in advance. “Let her up,” he told the doorman, and started gulping the protein shake, hoping to get it down while he still had an appetite.

  He heard the elevator open, and Svetlana’s accented voice, hoarse and shaky with distress. “Julian?”

  “In here,” he called, and hurried out of the kitchen to meet her in the entryway.

  Svetlana, a lovely dark-haired woman about ten years older than himself, was usually impeccably put together. The grey housekeeping uniform Uncle Eddie’s staff wore did no one any favors, but she always looked neat and professional, at least. Today she was rumpled and creased, her hair falling from its bun, and her makeup was smeared with tears.

  Julian swore. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  At the sight of him, her face crumpled and fresh tears joined the mess. “I’m sorry, Julian! I don’t know what wrong, I don’t know how he found out!”

  “Sit down.” Julian led her back into the kitchen—to him, at least, the severe white-and-chrome was more comfortable than his overblown pretension of a sitting room—and poured her a glass of ice water. She took it with shaking hands, and he gave her a minute to sip and calm herself. Too late, he realized his own unwavering gaze on her wasn’t helping, but by then she was well enough to speak again.

  “Your uncle fired me,” she said dully. “I have nowhere to live now. My son is coming home from school in two days—I do not even have somewhere to sleep!”

  Julian put a hand over hers, which were wringing each other in her lap. Comforting gestures. He’d studied those, for roles. “I’ll take care of you, and your son. Don’t worry about that.” Paying for her son’s special-needs schooling was how Julian had gotten Svetlana on his side, gotten her to spy on his uncle—more specifically, to monitor how he acted with Christian. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was just working on laundry. Mr. Gault walked in and said something about, it was time to get the wiper out of his bosom? I did not understand.”

  “Viper,” Julian said, stomach sinking even further. “It’s a snake.”

  Her eyes widened. “So he does know, then. That has to be what he meant.”

  Julian swallowed. “Go on.”

  “He just…said I was fired. I had thirty minutes to clear out my room. He gave me this.” She pulled a folded paper from her pocket. It had Julian’s name written on the outside.

  On the inside, Julian saw as he opened it, was his uncle’s handwriting.

  You’ll know what I want you to know, when I want you to know it. Just like you always have.

  Julian dropped the paper as if burned and paced to the other side of the room, sick and chilled. So not only did Uncle Eddie know that Svetlana was Julian’s informant, he’d known for…how long? From the beginning?

  “What about Lyle? And Robert? Did he fire them?”

  “I don’t think so,” Svetlana said. “Lyle, he escort me out. Sweet boy, told me he was sorry. Robert, I saw him cleaning the car when I left.”

  Julian’s stomach unclenched a bit. Maybe Uncle didn’t know about all of Julian’s informants. Still, it was Svetlana he’d been depending on the most, as the one who was stationed in the house with Uncle and Christian. She’d never reported anything strange or worrisome in how they acted together, and Julian had taught her what to look for. Julian had let himself be reassured that Christian was all right. But if Uncle Eddie had known about Svetlana all along, even if he didn’t know about the others, then that sense of security was…suspect.

  Svetlana was crying again, quietly, into the edge of her apron. Julian forced himself to stop pacing, and put a hand on her shoulder. Comforting gestures.

  “It’s going to be all right, Svetlana,” he said. “I’m going to set you up with a hotel room for this week, and we’ll figure something out from there. Find you a new job.” Working for him? No, she’d be better off completely away from his uncle’s sphere of influence. He’d find something else for her.

  He got Svetlana into a cab to the Hilton Midtown, and wandered back into his apartment until he found a seat in the sitting room, eyesore that it was.

  He could deal with this. He could figure this out. Lyle and Robert were still in place; Christian was probably fine. His uncle was just messing with his head. Christian was fine. Everything was fine.

  For a moment he wished, with breathless ferocity, that there was someone he could ask for advice. Someone he could call on for help. His brother, his parents, a friend, anyone.

  He had a boyfriend, allegedly…no, that was absurd. When he needed heavy lifting done, that was when he would call Rafi, and not before.

  * * * *

  “Are you sure the label is cool with this?” Rafi said as he parked outside the studio. “Giving us a recording session, when the band is still so up in the air?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Amber waved a dismissive hand as she unbuckled her seatbelt. “Even if things don’t go the way you want, they’re interested in signing you as a solo act, so this is a good investment for them either way.”

  “I already told you, I don’t want to be a solo act.”

  “This is a good investment either way,” she repeated. “Come on.”

  They walked in to find the sound engineer, Luke, already in deep conversation about tempo with Distant Kingdom’s producer, DJ Orbit.

  “Yeah, soft and quick like that, I think that’s gonna be about right. Here’s the man himself to tell us for sure. Rafi, my man!” DJ Orbit turned to greet Rafi with his usual effusive hug.

  “Orbit, looking amazing as always!” A childhood immigrant from Sudan, Orbit had the darkest skin Rafi had ever seen, and enjoyed playing up his dramatic appearance; today he was decked out in bright silver jewelry and a navy blue steampunk vest. It was a shame the guy was straight, although Rafi supposed he probably didn’t need the complications of dating his producer.

  Also, Rafi had a boyfriend, allegedly. The thought perked him up more than it should have.

  “Who’s this? Nice to meet you.” Luke, a competent but scruffy white guy with a blond goatee, rose to shake Amber’s hand.

  “Amber Hernandez, Rafi’s manager. I’m just here for moral support.”

  “My man needs as much of that as he can get,” DJ Orbit said. “Rafi, we’re gonna try two mics on the guitar and one on you, let’s get you set up…”

  Rafi and Orbit had spent over an hour on the
phone the night before, talking about the song and how to record it. It sounded like he’d interrupted his producer at a party, but Orbit had laughed off his apologies and said work came first. This was why Rafi liked working with Orbit; he was easygoing and professional, two qualities that sometimes seemed to be in short supply in the entertainment industry.

  They’d agreed that for acoustic reasons Rafi would sit in a full-sized studio, not a sound booth. It felt strange to be in there by himself, though it shouldn’t have; it was more usual than not for the band to record their parts separately, to be mixed together later. It just…felt lonelier, knowing this time Bo and Carlos weren’t singing the same song on the other side of a wall.

  He shook it off, and started warming up his guitar—classical, not electric, for this song. They were going for a simple, acoustic, almost vintage sound with this. A different sound than his usual, and there were pros and cons to that right now, but for good or ill this was the song he had.

  “All right, Rafi, give us a run-through when you’re ready,” DJ Orbit said through the speaker, standing over Luke’s shoulder at the mixing table. “Just a warm up, scratch vocals.”

  Amber caught his eye and gave him a double thumbs-up. He crossed his eyes at her, took a deep breath…

  And knew immediately that it wasn’t going to work. His stomach had clenched inside him, his hands going clammy on the guitar strings.

  Another deep breath. He could do this. He’d practiced this song for hours at a time, fiddling with the lyrics, tweaking the sound. This was no different than practice, just with microphones. He could do it.

  He strummed the intro, then did it again, ramping it up, buying himself time. Hummed a little, under his breath—hopefully they could edit that out. Made himself start singing.

  “It hasn’t been a good day

  The sun is cold, the sky is grey

  Everything is walls, no doorway

  I’m alone and you’re so far away”

  There, see? It was going fine. Silly to have stage fright now, of all times.