by Zoey Oliver
“Rosa, I didn’t know you were here,” Chelsea says, sitting up straight, pulling on a mask of professionalism in two seconds flat.
“You weren’t answering your phone. You have an appointment. Did you forget?”
Chelsea’s eyes dart to the clock and she jumps to her feet. “Crap! Yes, I’m sorry. Give me ten minutes to get changed.”
Rosa—her manager, I presume—gives her a stone-faced look, her arms folded, giving Chelsea a curt nod as she darts out of the studio. Then she turns that ice-cold look to me, nothing but disappointment in her hard eyes. I don’t know what the hell that’s about, but I don’t like it.
“Guess I should be going then,” I say, snatching up my notebook and tucking it in my pocket. Rosa doesn’t say anything, just holds the door open with her body, giving me a total ‘any fucking time’ attitude.
By the time I’m back to my car, I’ve got a text from Chelsea, saying we should try working on lyrics again tomorrow before we start recording. I already can’t wait to see her again and fire off my response far too quickly.
Chapter 6
Chelsea
It’s a date, his text back says, and I can’t help the smile that creeps up. I didn’t really know what to expect before meeting with Ian today. I knew his reputation and I knew the kind of guy I thought he was, but the real Ian surprised me.
Not only is he incredibly talented, but he’s down-to-earth. He’s goofy in a way that makes my heart flutter, and he looks at me with this intensity that makes me feel like he’s seeing all of me.
Yeah, his line about x-ray eyes didn’t feel that far off the mark at all. I still can’t believe I agreed to do the song with that subject matter. It’s like I want to torture myself with something I can’t—and shouldn’t—have.
But I had fun with him, and that was way more than I was expecting, so I’m in a pretty damn good mood as I leave the studio, Rosa close on my heels.
“I shouldn’t have to hunt you down to make sure you adhere to your schedule, Chelsea,” she says sharply.
My jaw and shoulders tighten at the same time. She may be my manager, but I think sometimes Rosa forgets that she works for me, not the other way around.
“I lost track of time,” I say, not wanting to start a big thing right now and kill the good mood Ian left me with.
“Yeah, I saw how hard you were working,” she says bitterly.
I stop and whirl to face her in the middle of the parking lot, not even caring if there’s anyone else around to see it. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
Rosa seems surprised by my anger and backtracks a step, looking less angry and more concerned. “It means that I don’t want you to forget what a bad influence Ian Monroe can be.”
“Have you forgotten that you’re the one that wanted me to work with him?” I say, my voice nearly a shriek. I’m getting too defensive and Rosa can tell. I take a deep breath, trying to get rid of the angry shakes rumbling through me.
“It’s a good opportunity for you to cross genres,” she says. “But we’ve worked too hard to cultivate your good-girl image. The last thing we need is for some bad boy to come along and ruin it all.”
“I didn’t cultivate anything. I am a good girl. And you know that, so why don’t you do you job and let me do mine?”
I can tell she’s taken aback, and she shakes her head. “Just be careful, will you?”
I sigh. I know she’s only looking out for what’s best for my career. “Yeah, I’ll be careful.”
“Good. I’ll see you at the studio tomorrow.”
I climb into my car without another word, turning up the radio as loud as it will go as I pull out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
I know what I’m doing with Ian. I know not to let him get too close.
It’s a date, his text plays back in my mind, sending a fresh little thrill through me. I imagine his smoky voice saying the words and shiver.
Okay, so maybe I am a little out of my depth with Ian, but is that such a bad thing? He’s not what I expected at all. He certainly didn’t seem like a guy fiending for his next hit. And the idea that he could ruin me… Well…
That thought sends tingles between my thighs and I clamp my legs together against the onslaught. Being ruined by Ian didn’t sound half as bad as it should. Watching him play did things to me that no one’s done since Jamie. And really, that comparison is an insult to Ian. Jamie was just a teenage infatuation. He never made me laugh the way Ian did today. He never made my whole body twang with the need for his touch. He never turned me on like this just with a heated look.
Ian’s on a whole other level, and it’s one I’m not really sure how to navigate.
Obviously, I want him.
Obviously.
But obviously, he’s trouble. So much trouble. Like Rosa said, I need to be careful.
We could be discreet. We’re supposed to be spending time together for this album, for writing songs and recording and planning for the tour. There’s plenty of opportunity for us to be alone. We even both have home studios. There’s unending excuses for why we’d be alone together at all hours of the night…
But then I remind myself why Ian is such a bad idea. He’s an addict. Recovering, maybe, but an addict all the same. Like someone treading water in open ocean—if I try to swim out to him, he’s just going to drag me down with him. Eric nearly destroyed me and my career with his addiction. He nearly brought down everything I’ve worked for since I was fourteen. And then he died.
If he had nearly broken me before with his struggles, his death absolutely shattered me. That’s why I haven’t had a new album in over two years. That’s why I haven’t done any performances other than the odd Wish Givers show. That’s why I’ve been out of the limelight and off the charts—because I just couldn’t.
My music is what ended up killing Eric. As much as I love it, I’ve been angry at it all this time. But Ian’s changing that. He’s making me remember how fun music can be. He’s making me remember how good it can feel when it doesn’t constantly fill you with agonizing guilt.
But he’s also a constant reminder of all of that. Of Eric, of his addition, of his failure to overcome it. I see that same haunted look in Ian’s eyes that I remember in Eric’s. That look of someone who’s lost and hasn’t quite found their way yet. Maybe I’m projecting on him. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t really there, but I can’t be the one to help Ian find his way. I have my own way to find. I can’t be dragged down by another person’s problems, no matter how sexy and charming that person may be.
So, I’ll work with him, yes. I’ll even have fun with him and be friendly—after all being a bitch all the time isn’t easy since it’s not really my style. He doesn’t deserve the attitude I gave him this morning. Maybe we can even be friends. Once I let my walls down a little, I really did have a blast with him.
So friends. I can be friends with him. But nothing more. No late-night trips to his studio, no inviting him over to my place, no dinner dates, or fantasies of kissing him. Just friends. That I can do.
Maybe.
Chapter 7
Ian
Even though we’re booked at the recording studio today, I still show up bright and early just to prove that I can. It’s not even seven and I’ve already got a coffee for both me and Chelsea—hers made the way I watched her do it yesterday—and a dozen donuts for everyone. She might try to deny it, but after watching her make a half-syrup coffee yesterday, I know Chelsea’s got a sweet tooth, so I’m feeling pretty good about my chances of getting one of those smiles out of her.
Luckily, I don’t have to wait out in the cold. The security guy here has my name and lets me right up. The managers aren’t here yet, but that’s just as well because there were some things we wanted to work on beforehand anyway. I wait for about five minutes before Chelsea shows up, and today she’s in this little white sundress that’s probably see-through in the sunlight. Of course, I don’t have the benefit of seeing her in
the sun at this ungodly hour, but she looks good enough to eat either way.
“Ian Monroe,” she says teasingly, spotting me on the couch sipping my coffee, “if I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you were a morning person, beating me here again.”
I just shrug and hold out her coffee. “What can I say? I’m addicted to my work.” It’s a line that’s been playing pretty well with the press ever since I cleaned up my act, but Chelsea doesn’t seem to go for it. Her smile tightens and turns fake and I’m kicking myself for saying the wrong thing even if I’m not sure what that was.
“It’s for you. Still hot,” I say, waving the cup at her again.
She looks at it dubiously, her eyes squinting at it like she’d be able to tell with those x-ray eyes of hers if I poisoned it. Finally, she takes it and braces herself for a sip. Then her eyes go wide and she takes another hearty gulp.
“How did you—”
“I’m observant.”
“Hmm,” she says, trying to hide a smile as she sits down on the opposite end of the couch. This studio’s only got the one, so of course she’s as far away from me as she can possibly manage.
“Donut?” I whip out the box and open the lid with a flourish. Her eyes go wide and she bites her bottom lip, and I have to suppress a groan because it’s sexy as fuck.
“No… I shouldn’t. There’s a tour coming up if you haven’t heard…” Her mouth says no, but her eyes are begging for it. She just needs a nudge in the right direction. So I wiggle the box.
“Come on, Chelsea, don’t you ever give in to temptation? Aren’t you ever a little bad?”
She glares at me, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. Those eyes are sparkling behind that fake anger. She snatches a donut out of the dozen so fast that she might be afraid of the box biting her.
“You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“I’ve heard it once or twice,” I say, smiling as I tuck the box away.
As she eats the donut, flakes of sugary glaze fall off onto her dress and she daintily picks them off before licking her fingers in a display that’s going to fuel my shower masturbation for a long time to come. I didn’t think anyone could make eating a donut sexy, but Chelsea Garten has proved me wrong.
“So,” she says, dusting her hands off and licking the last crumbs from her plump lips, “I worked on those lyrics last night, but I don’t have any music to go with it.”
“Well, let’s see what you’ve got,” I say, hiding my disappointment that we’re jumping straight into work after all the fun we had yesterday.
She hands me the notebook and I smile at her big, loopy girl writing. My notebooks are full of unintelligible scrawls and she’s got perfectly formed letters, in neatly-measured cursive. I mean, of course she does.
I read through it once for the rhythm and then a second time, tapping it out on the table in front of us. There’s a melody playing far-off in the back of my mind, but I can’t bring it forward, so I hand her the notebook back. My brain will work on it while I work on other things and then suddenly the solution will appear. That’s how this has always worked for me. Agonizing over a song is only going to ensure it doesn’t get done. If I just let my subconscious do its thing, magic happens on its own.
“Well?”
“I like it,” I say, nodding. “I’m sad you didn’t keep my swordplay line.”
She smacks me with the notebook and I hold up my hands laughing, trying to protect myself from her attack.
“I said I like it!” I laugh.
She drops the notebook and purses her lips at me.
“I mean it,” I add, allowing a note of sincerity into my voice. “It’s good. I might have some music for it, but I don’t have it yet.”
Her face tells me that statement just made me sound crazy.
“What? You don’t do that?”
“Do… what?”
“Let your brain work on things for you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. When you’re agonizing over a chord progression or a lyric choice for weeks and you finally give up on it only to wake up at four a.m. with the eureka moment? You’ve had that happen, haven’t you?”
“Um… yeah,” she says, uncertain.
“Right,” I nod. “Your brain was problem-solving for you in the background. Just gotta give those ideas time to percolate.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but she’s smiling. “Okay, percolator, what do you do in the meantime?”
“We work on the other songs, obviously. You ready to warm up?”
It’s almost like she’s surprised that I’m suggesting we go straight to work rather than sit here chatting for a while longer. I hate to tell her this, but I’m planning on surprising Chelsea a lot.
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
We head into the recording room where the instruments and the better acoustics are and she grabs a guitar and starts warming up her voice.
I don’t do any of the things she’s doing. I just make the most insane, outlandish faces I can, trying to trip her up.
She’s trying to ignore me—and putting up a valiant effort at it—but I catch her smirking and pull out the crazy face I’ve been saving as a trump card. Just as I hoped, she bursts out laughing and then glares at me.
“Are you ever serious?”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
Her deadpan look almost makes me feel guilty.
“Look, I know you haven’t worked with many rockers, but we’re an expressive bunch. If I don’t warm up my face muscles, I could pull something and then this handsome face you’ve come to know and love would be unrecognizable.”
Chelsea scoffs, tossing her hair over her shoulder and turning her attention back to her guitar.
“It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone how insensitive you were to my people.”
She shakes her head at me, completely exasperated. “You’re ridiculous, do you know that?”
“I’ve heard it a time or two,” I say, grinning.
“Well, are your face muscles sufficiently warmed up? Because my voice is.” She’s trying so hard to sound stern and serious, but that telltale sparkle in her eyes keeps giving her away.
“Let’s do it.”
“What do you want to start with?”
“How about ‘Autumn Love’?” I say, naming one of her songs.
She nods and pulls up the music on her phone, setting it on a stand between us. I don’t need it though. I did my homework. I spent all night last night learning the lyrics and progressions for the songs of Chelsea’s that are going to be on the album.
We jump right in, and after a couple of false starts, we find our stride, harmonizing even better than we did at the show. Our voices mix and mingle together in a flirty little dance that I just know she has to be able to feel.
Once we finish the song and the music fades from the room, I hear it—applause. Chelsea’s head cocks to the side and we both step up to the window of the recording booth, cupping our hands around the glass to block out the glare.
A light on the other side flips on and both of our managers are there, positively beaming.
“Great job,” Rosa says, her finger on the intercom button. Merrill gives me a double thumbs-up.
“We were just practicing,” Chelsea says, clearly a little violated about the unintentional show we just put on.
Rosa shakes her head. “No need. You should just record it now. It can’t get better.”
Merrill’s nodding along. “She’s right. You two are a natural fit. Can’t improve on perfection.”
Chelsea looks to me, uncertain, but I shrug. “We should probably give the people what they want…”
She still doesn’t look convinced, but she nods. “All right, let’s do that one again.”
We get through “Autumn Love” and then two more songs—one of hers and one of mine, by the time the managers tell us our time slot’s over.
“Wow! What a productive d
ay,” Rosa says as we head back into the lounge area of the studio. “Six hours in the booth and we already have a quarter of the record.”
That makes me pause. I knew we were doing good, but the thought that this album is already a quarter of the way done means that I just have that much less time with Chelsea. I wonder if I should fuck up some chords, make my voice crack, do something to sabotage our progress moving forward because I don’t want this time to go by too quickly. As much as I’m attracted to Chelsea and want her like nothing else, I actually really like making music with her and just hanging out with her. I’m pretty sure I’m not the kind of guy Chelsea Garten is going to hang out with when she’s not making an album with him. So if I want to keep her in my life, I have to do something, right?
But I can’t sabotage the record. We’re doing this for charity, for those sick kids. I just have to take one for the team and be better at my job than anyone expects. What a curse.
Merrill claps me on the shoulder with an approving look as he and Rose filter out, talking about the notes they have for the mixing and the order of the tracks. That’s all stuff for them to take care of. I just make the music. What they do with it afterward is not my problem or concern.
“So, that went well,” Chelsea says, rocking on her heels.
“Yeah,” I say, still thinking about how soon this is going to be over.
“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” She sounds hesitant and I know this is my opportunity. I gotta step up now and take it.
“You could come back to my place and we can work on the new song. My brain’s been working on that melody all day and I might just have something.”
Her mouth opens, like she’s shocked at the very idea of me inviting her to my house. I know what she’s thinking, and she’s not wrong, but if she doesn’t want anything more than songwriting that’s where we’ll stop.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Chelsea. We have work to do, is all.”
She shrugs, trying to play off the hesitation, but I already saw it for what it was and it leaves me with a bitter taste.
