by Carnal, MJ
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal for him to do this, and maybe it’s not, but to me it is a huge deal that he would act so nice about it. Most of the “big time producers” that I’ve met are eye-roll worthy. They’re all so nice in interviews and so humble in front of cameras, but you get them in a studio and they’re all about work no play, as they should be. Anybody else would have gone all diva over Shea taking a nap during his recording time and Nick hasn’t.
“What’s your deal?” I ask, walking back to sit beside Nick. “Why are you so nice?”
The side of his lip turns up. “You think I’m nice?”
I shrug. “Well, yeah.”
His eyebrows raise as he shakes his head. “You really haven’t heard much about me, have you?”
“You haven’t heard much about me either,” I reply.
“True … so let’s remedy that. Tell me more,” he says, shifting in his seat and crossing his ankle over his leg.
I laugh. “There’s not much to tell. I just meant because you didn’t know I was Hendrix’s sister.”
Nick nods. “What else are you?”
I shrug. “Chris and Roxana Harmon’s daughter,” I mutter, exhaling loudly and turning my head to look away. I hate having people know who my parents are. I wish it were something I could be proud of. I guess it should be since they both work hard and are so successful at what they do, but I can’t bring myself to be happy for any of it. Most of the time when people find out whose daughter I am, they leach on to me to better their own agenda.
“I didn’t ask who your family is, Brooklyn. I asked you who you are. I don’t give a fuck about who your parents are.”
I look back at him, stunned. Not because he doesn’t care about who my parents are but because it gives me nostalgia about the last person who said that to me.
“I have to go,” I say, standing quickly.
“You okay?” Nick asks, visibly confused.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I just remembered something I have to do.”
I walk out before tears pool in my eyes.
***
It was a hot summer day and I was lying out by the pool of my parents’ Beverly Hills house waiting for my cousin Nina to wake up. Nina was staying with us for the summer, which I loved because nobody was ever home. My brother was seventeen at the time and wanted nothing to do with hanging out with thirteen-year-olds. I couldn’t blame him. I knew how annoying we could be sometimes. My mother had just fired the longest nanny I’d had, Mildred, saying that she was trying to seduce my father. Mildred was fifty-five years old and my mother was delusional. I had a feeling that the real reason she let her go was because she heard me refer to her as my mother one night. To me that was what Mildred was, though. She was more of a mother to me than my own. She had been ever since she started looking after me when I was six years old. Roxana, on the other hand, gave birth to me. But giving birth doesn’t make you a mother, much less a good one.
When Nina woke up, she found me by the pool, dozing off as I let the rays hit my back.
“What are we going to do today?” she asked. “Mall?”
“Okay,” I replied sleepily.
I told my driver, Todd, that we needed to go to the mall to shop for a party we were attending that night. One of the kids in school was having a birthday party and invited me. It was the first evening birthday party I would attend, so I was extra excited about it. After shopping we went back home and tried everything on. My mother barged into my room while I was pulling on a purple tube top.
“Oh, Brooklyn, how many cookies have you had this week?” she asked.
My excited face instantly fell. “I haven’t had any,” I lied. I’d only had two—how could she tell?
“Sure,” she scoffed. “If you keep that up, I’ll be able to pinch your fat.”
I looked in the full-length mirror in front of me, horrified. I’d heard the way my mother spoke about muffin tops and “cellulite covered thighs.” I’d heard the disapproval in her voice whenever she saw a friend of hers for the first time after a long time and she’d gained weight. “Wanda,” she’d say, “you look so … fat.” Just like that. The filter over my mother’s mouth wasn’t broken. She was just a bitch. That was something I’d learned from an early age.
“Yeah,” I muttered quietly, wishing I didn’t have to constantly diet to earn her approval, not that I would have it even if I looked like a skeleton.
“Where are you two going tonight, anyway?” my mother asked airily.
“Donovan’s party,” I replied.
“Donovan … Matthews?” she asked, seeming more interested.
“Yes.”
My mother nodded, a smile spreading over her face that made me wonder what she was thinking. Of course she never said, she just turned around, her perfectly wavy, frizz-less hair bouncing as she did, and walked out. My mother walked with a grace one could only hope to perfect in one lifetime. She’d been in countless fashion shows and modeled for numerous designers. She was still, even at her age, one of the most sought out models. She had long dark hair like mine, honey brown eyes like my brother’s, and a lean figure that made her look taller than she was. She had legs for days, my father loved to say. I always wished I did. The only thing I had for days was my ass, and I hoped to grow into it as I kept developing because it was calling a lot of unwanted attention from much older men.
When we got to Donovan’s party that night, Nina went off to flirt with the first cute guy she spotted. I walked around talking to the girls from my class, ignoring the way they began to whisper to each other as soon as I walked away. A couple of them asked me if my brother was coming over, which I hated. I hated that the girls in my grade and the grade above mine had such big crushes on him. And I hated that the guys in my class all called my mom a MILF. It didn’t disgust me more than it bothered me. I just hated that they paid attention to her but didn’t even give me a second glance.
Sighing, I stepped outside and wandered off to sit by the pool, grabbing a soda on my way there.
“You here alone?” Ryan, a tall lanky kid in my class asked.
“With my cousin Nina,” I replied.
“Oh. Nina. Yeah,” he said with a laugh.
“What?” I asked confused.
He shook his head. His hair was strawberry blond, matching the strawberry freckles that bathed his cheeks. He had nice green eyes, big ones that always looked like they were in awe of one thing or another.
“She was trying to hit on me,” he explained as he sunk down to the grass beside me.
“Ohhhh,” I said, laughing. “Sorry about that.”
He shrugged. “No biggie.”
We sat there in comfortable silence, listening to the music pouring out of the speakers and the loud squeals of laughter emitted from the girls that were dancing and jumping around. I never understood the whole shriek when I see my friend even though I just saw her yesterday in school, so I just sat there rolling my eyes most of the night.
“Can I ask you for a favor?” Ryan said after a while.
I closed my eyes and lay down beside him on the grass. I didn’t want to be rude because he was always so nice to me, but I felt like screaming, “Why? Why do people always want something from me?”
“Sure,” I replied instead.
“Will you be my pretend girlfriend?” he asked.
My eyes popped open and I turned to him. “Pretend girlfriend?” I asked, completely shocked by what he was asking. “Why pretend?” I was annoyed and a little hurt. I didn’t want a boyfriend. I didn’t even like Ryan in that way, but why did it have to be a pretend thing? “Is it because of my parents? You want to pretend you’re my boyfriend so people can say ‘Oh, look how cool Ryan is. He’s Brooklyn’s boyfriend. He gets to go to her house and see her mom all the time.’” I imitated with a goofy voice even though my blood was boiling. I sat up quickly, too pissed off to sit there any longer.
He grabbed my arm to keep me from standing. “No! I don’t give a fuck who your parents are,
Brooklyn!” My eyes widened at his use of word. We didn’t usually say bad words, even though some of the other kids in our class spoke like sailors behind the teachers’ backs. “I need you to pretend because my father asked me if I was gay, and I said no, but I know he doesn’t believe me.”
My shoulders slumped. “Oh,” I said. “I guess … are you?”
He shrugged. His eyes looked sad, all the light that was previously there had gone out. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I think so.”
I looked around, not knowing what to say or do. “Do … do you want to find out?” I finally asked.
His blond eyebrows crinkled. “How?”
“I dunno, maybe if you kiss me you’ll see that you’re not gay?” I suggested with a shrug.
Ryan laughed. “Okay.”
So we did. We both leaned in, our lips touching ever so slightly until they met. That’s as far as it got before we both pulled away, both looking equally as disturbed and disgusted.
“No?” I asked.
“No,” he confirmed.
We shared a laugh and lay back down beside each other for the rest of the night.
“Well, boyfriend, I think I’m going to go home now,” I said when I saw Nina walk outside.
Ryan smiled brightly. “So that’s a yes? You’ll be my girlfriend?”
I laughed and bumped him with my elbow. “Are gay guys supposed to be that excited about having a girlfriend?”
“A pretend one, yeah,” he said, laughing as well.
“So I guess that’s a yes,” I said. It’s not like I had anything to lose.
“Brooklyn,” he said, standing and helping me up. “This will be the beginning of a beautiful pretend relationship.”
I shook my head, unable to contain my smile. “I believe you.”
And that was how my friendship with Ryan went from “just friends that talk here and there” to “pretend boyfriend and girlfriend that don’t let each other breathe because we talked so much.” And I loved it. Every moment of my relationship with Ryan was full of joy.
For a while.
Much like non-pretend relationships.
***
I’m expecting Shea to call me at any moment. He’s been in the studios downstairs for the past week and a half and has yet to tell me what he wants to talk to me about. I’ve made it a point to stay out of his way so he can focus on his album. We’ve been to lunch a couple of times, but other than that it’s been hi and bye. Even when I leave for the day, he and Nick are holed up in the office working their asses off.
As if hearing my thoughts, my phone rings in my hand as I walk into the Harmon building. I glance down at my screen and see a text message from Sarah. I swipe it to read the entire thing, which is a thank you and a picture of Melody with the American Girl doll we bought when she was here. I smile, replying to her quickly and stuff my phone in my purse. I’ll just go up and see Shea on my way to my office.
The elevator ride is, as usual, eternally long with all of the stops it makes on the way up. I’m fidgeting with the mustache scarf I wore today when we finally reach the forty-fourth floor. It’s a half-day for me today, so I dressed casual. It’s not really a half-day of work, just a half-day of work in the office. I have a meeting with a band later today, but because I’m meeting them at a pub for lunch, I figured I would dress down.
“Heeey, look at you,” Shea says as he holds the door open to the studio.
I smile and pick up the pace as I walk toward him, wrapping my arms around his middle to hug him. He smells of strong cigarettes so I know he’s just coming back from a break.
“Yeah, I’m meeting some guys later,” I explain, stepping out of the hug to look at him.
As usual, his dark hair is messy but sexy. His eyes are exhausted, but look happy to see me, which in turn makes me happy to have come by.
He leans against the door, pushing it further open and waits for me to walk past him. The scripted tattoo on his wrist catches my eye and I sigh. Every time I see it I remember the day he got it.
“I’m getting your name tatted on my chest,” he joked.
“No, you’re not!” I squealed, turning my naked body away from his.
“Yes, I am. I never want to let you go,” he’d said before bringing me back to face him and kissing me into silence.
He did get the tattoo, which may be a reminder of me, but is mainly a stamp to remind him of his roots and where he came from.
“You always did like it,” Shea says, smiling when he catches my eyes.
I smile back. “You did say it was for me, didn’t you?” I joke.
He laughs his throaty laugh and ruffles his hair a couple of times. “It was a joke when I said it, but don’t think it doesn’t remind me of you every time I look at my hand.” His voice is serious even though he’s smiling, and I can feel my conflicted emotions brewing.
“Hey, Brooklyn,” Nick says, his husky voice snapping me out of my reverie.
He’s standing beside the bathroom door, stretching his arms over his head, letting the faded black Led Zeppelin shirt he has on ride above the dip of his ab muscles. Victorious V, Nina calls that. She says that as soon as a guy takes off his shirt and exhibits the Victorious V, you’re done for. Usually I laugh at that, mainly since I’ve been with guys that have it. Shea sort of has one, but he’s thin. Nick’s is the meaning of a Victorious V. My mouth is watering just thinking about tracing it and the defined muscles above it with my tongue. He has what I like to call washboard abs. With that and his golden tan, ocean blue eyes, and dark blond hair that he styles into the perfect faux hawk he looks like he could be on the cover of a magazine.
“I like your style today,” Nick adds, his lips stretching into a knowing smile, like he knows exactly what kind of dirty thoughts I’m having of him. I blink rapidly and swallow my desire for his arrogant ass and smile.
“Hey, Nick,” I say, smiling back. “What is your tattoo of?” I ask, pointing at his now covered ribcage.
“You seem to really like that tattoo, huh?” he asks, pressing his lips together to contain a smile.
“BK loves tats,” Shea says, stepping in. “She has some nice ones … but they’re in very private areas,” he adds in a tone that leaves no question as to if he’s seen them, which makes my face instantly hot.
Nick’s face darkens at this, his jaw tensing as he looks away toward the soundboard before looking back at me. “I’m sure they’re very nice,” he says, clearing his throat.
I almost call bullshit because they are not in very private areas. I have one on my pelvis, the other one is by my ankle. I don’t correct Shea, though, for some reason I kind of like seeing the look on Nick’s face when Shea pushes my buttons, even though I don’t know why the look is there to begin with.
When Nick takes a seat in front of the soundboard and busies himself, I shoot Shea a dirty look and punch him in the arm.
“What?” Shea asks with a laugh. “What’d I do?”
“You’re an asshole,” I huff.
Shea laughs, plops down on the couch and takes out a Philly wrapper and some marijuana.
I gape at him. “You’re seriously going to roll a joint in here?”
Shea shrugs. “You act like the people in studios one through eight aren’t coked out.”
My mouth drops open, but I pick it up quickly because it truly doesn’t surprise me that they are. “Is that all you’re doing?” I ask quietly. I don’t have to specify what I mean by that because he knows exactly what I’m asking him.
Shea stops rolling and narrows his eyes at me. “Of course it is!”
I shake my head. “Just asking.”
“A little weed never killed anybody, Brooklyn,” Shea says in a defensive tone.
I roll my eyes. “Save it for somebody who hasn’t been to-” I stop short, remembering that we’re not alone, and look over my shoulder to find Nick watching me intently. “Whatever. What did you need to talk to me about?” I ask Shea.
“Oh. I wa
nt you to go on tour with me,” he says nonchalantly.
I hear Nick drop something loud behind me, but I’m too struck by what Shea’s just asked me to look back.
“What?” I ask, completely bewildered. When Shea lights up his joint and takes a drag, looking at me like he doesn’t understand why I’m shocked, I know he’s serious. That’s when I start laughing hysterically. “You are completely out of your mind.”
He blows out smoke, the powerful smell of freshly cut wet grass filling the air immediately. “Why? It’ll only be for a few shows. I’m doing you a favor,” he says.
My eyebrows crinkle. “How?” I ask, picking up my long hair and holding it away from my face, hoping that I don’t smell like a pothead when I get out of this room, but knowing that I’ll most likely smell like Bob Marley himself.
“Because,” he says, inhaling and exhaling again, “we have a lot of opening acts that are unsigned in some of our shows.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “That makes no sense.”
“It’s true,” Nick says. I turn around, crossing my arms against my chest, waiting for him to continue. “There are a couple in California.”
I nod. “There’s talent everywhere, though. Why would I travel to California when I just came from there? I know about a lot of them, they’re good … but not good enough.”
Nick shrugs with one shoulder and turns back to the turntable, dismissing me. I let out a breath and look at Shea again. His muddy green eyes are becoming glossy and content. I mumble my goodbyes and walk toward the door.
“You haven’t heard of Slate,” Shea says, effectively stopping me from walking out.
My shoulders slump and I let go of the door handle. “I’m listening.”
“There’s a group of guys out there—they’ll be in our show in San Francisco,” Shea starts. I stiffen and immediately shake my head. There’s no way in hell I’m going there. “Hear me out, Bee. Please,” Shea pleads quietly. I jump at his proximity. I was completely unaware that he’d gotten up and walked over to me.
“I can’t, Shea.” My voice is wavering as I say the words.
Shea turns my body to face him and wraps his arms around me, pulling me to his chest. The smell of weed doesn’t even bother me as I inhale. Because I’m wearing flats I’m eye level to his cheek. None of the guys I’ve been with are much taller than me. My eyes are filling with tears as he holds me so I begin to blink rapidly, unwilling to let my feelings show, but it’s too late, I realize as I look over his shoulders and into Nick’s eyes.
