by Elle Casey
He chuckles, pulling my attention away from the ceiling.
“What?” I ask.
“Gosh, you remind me so much of your mother. I really miss her. How is she doing?”
“Today is not about my mother, Red. If you want to know about my mother, then you and I can have a conversation about her that has nothing to do with the work I’m doing here. That’s not going to happen until the workday is done, though. So are you going to cooperate with me or not?” I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him.
He looks down at his knuckles as he rubs them, spins his rings around his fingers a little bit, and then his shoulders slump. “I’m going to help. I will try my best to help.”
I feel like I’m talking to my future son. “You are the successful lead singer of one of the most amazing bands that ever played a note of music in the entire world. I don’t need you to try. I need you to just do it.”
He looks up at me with an eyebrow lifted. “Have you ever served in the military?”
I huff out a breath. “No.”
“I think you would’ve been good at ordering people around.”
I smile. “I do have two younger sisters I like to boss around, and I’ve been doing it for over twenty years, so I guess you could say I have some experience.” Hey, maybe I am qualified for this job.
“So, that’s where it comes from.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Guess you have a knack for herding cats.”
“Pfft. More like herding eels, I think.”
He laughs, his eyes sparkling.
I take a step closer to him, hoping he can see that I’m practically begging. “I can’t do this without you, Red. If you’re not in it with me a hundred percent, it’s going to be a wasted effort. Everybody follows your lead. If you aren’t all-in, you might as well just let me pay you back the money that I got out of the bank yesterday and say goodbye. And we can just call this thing a failed experiment and go our separate ways.”
He stands and puts his heavy hands on my shoulders as he stares me in the eye. His voice is gruff. “You’re not going anywhere, Amber. I finally got you to hang around for a little while, and I’m not gonna screw that up. You just tell me what you need me to do, and I’m going to do it.”
I look up at him, seeing the dedication in his expression and the desperation in his eyes. “This is not going to be painless, you know.”
“I’m starting to realize that now.”
“One of the first things I plan to do is talk to the band about your hair and clothes.”
He lets go of my shoulders and looks down at himself. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
I shrug. “Actually, right now, nothing. But this is not the stuff you wear onstage.”
“Well, yeah. We have costumes.”
I shake my head. “No, you don’t. Because you’re not actors in a Shakespearean play. You’re the real deal and you need to start dressing like it.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, boy. I hope I don’t live to regret this.”
As I walk by him to open the door to the booth, he grasps me by the wrist, making me stop. I look up at him.
“I didn’t mean that. There’s nothing you could do to cause me to regret you being here. I mean that.”
“Better hold on to that thought. I have other things I’m going to need you guys to do for me too.”
He follows me out, chuckling. And then over the back of my head, he raises his voice and makes an announcement to the group. “Buckle your seat belts, boys. Hurricane Amber is about to make landfall.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I’m standing in front of the group of men again, still without Ty, but I have a lot more confidence now and newfound hope that things just might work out. “Okay, so that was a good little meeting.”
Cash looks over at Red. “And he’s only missing part of his ass. You failed to chew it all off.”
I smile. As if I could ever chew these guys out. “Ha, ha. Very funny. But seriously . . . let’s talk about Ty while he’s not here.”
“He’s gonna love that,” Paul says, rolling his eyes.
“No, he probably won’t if all he hears is that we talked about him behind his back. But when I have a chance to tell him what we discussed, I don’t think he’s going to be too upset.”
“I’m not sure if you know him well enough to say that,” Mooch says. “The kid is pretty sensitive.”
“Maybe because you keep calling him a kid and treating him like one.” I give him the look that my mother gives me when I’m being sassy.
He presses his lips together and nods slowly.
“From my perspective, which is totally coming from the outside looking in, I think the problem is that you guys are treating Ty like he’s just a temporary member of the band, when what you should be doing is treating him like he’s going to be here for the next twenty years. It comes across in everything you do and say, and your fans are absolutely picking up on that, and so is he.”
“I’m not even sure we’ll still be here in twenty years,” Paul says, getting a laugh from the rest of the band.
“Well, my job is to make sure that you are, or that you have the option to be.”
Now I have their attention. “So . . . the first thing to do is to fix this rift in your relationship. I really think Ty is good for the band. Not only is he talented and completely dedicated to the music, he’s got the look that you need.”
Cash uses a falsetto voice. “Oooh, somebody’s in love.”
I glare at him. “If I had something to throw at you right now, I would.” I look behind me at the mixing boards.
Jed holds up a hand like a stop sign. “Don’t even think about touching my stuff.”
I turn back to the band. “Okay, fine, no projectiles. But seriously. He has the look women like and men wish they had. Old or young, his appeal is undeniable. The problem is that there’s too big of a gap between what he’s got going on and what you’ve got going on.” I try not to squirm, because here comes the big truth.
Cash frowns and looks at his buddies. “I think we just got insulted.”
They all laugh.
“No, it’s not an insult. It’s just an observation. You guys have the same look that you had over twenty years ago, but you’re not in your twenties anymore. I get why you’re doing it; it’s your thing. But the problem is, you’re enjoying a resurgence of popularity and there’s a whole new generation of people out there.” I point to myself. “I’m a part of that generation, and I know how these people think. I know what they’re looking for.”
“And we’re not it?” Red asks.
I’m no idiot. His question is a challenge; I can see it clear as day. And I can also see everyone hanging on his words and my future answer. It’s make-it-or-break-it time. Okay, no more playing around. I’m going to handle these men like I handle my bees. I’m going to blow a little smoke in their faces, mesmerize them, and then take what I came for: one hundred percent cooperation. I’m gonna get the honey, baby.
“Listen . . . You can keep doing what you’ve always done, and you may pick up some new fans here and there because they like the music and they heard it when they were younger. But face it . . . your existing fan base is getting older. And maybe nostalgia keeps them hanging on to the music, but if you want this new generation of people to be singing your songs and buying your albums for another twenty years, you need to give them what they’re looking for. Something they can identify with.”
“Maybe we should’ve hired a different guitarist,” Cash says. He looks at his friends. “Remember? We could’ve had . . . uh . . . that other guy . . .” He looks nervous, like he’s said too much. I think he’s avoiding making eye contact with me.
Red shakes his head. “No, not that guy. Never that guy.”
I brush off the part of this conversation that’s interfering with me meeting my goal. “If you don’t want to make a complete change, I get it. That’s cool. I don’t want you to become different peo
ple. I just want to update the look a little bit. Like Bon Jovi did. He doesn’t wear the mullet anymore, right? There’s still some hair-teasing there, maybe a little product . . . but he keeps it at a bare minimum.”
Mooch looks over at Cash. “You realize this means you’re not going to be allowed to wear your jogging shorts to work anymore.”
The engineers snicker. Paul hides a smile behind a cough.
I shake my head with my eyes closed. These guys are impossible. Maybe I should be mad that they’re making fun, but all I want to do is laugh at them. God spare me from middle-aged rockers hanging on to the past.
“No, wear whatever you want,” I say, coming back to the conversation. “I mean, if you don’t mind your fans seeing you look like that.”
Cash looks down at himself. “Looking like what? I went running this morning.”
Everyone else smiles behind their hands, but I don’t bother hiding my reaction. “Where did you run from, the donut shop?” I point. “You’ve got some powdered sugar right there.” I point to his chest.
Everybody bursts out laughing except Cash. He looks down and brushes it off as he frowns. “Hey. That’s not nice. It’s not powdered sugar . . . it’s dust from my apartment. We’re remodeling.”
I walk over and put my hand on his arm and shake it a little bit. “I’m just kidding. Sure it’s dust. But honestly, Cash, you’re wearing what I would wear when I’m lounging at home with a pair of fuzzy slippers to match.” I place my hand on my chest. “Even I, hippie chick extraordinaire, wouldn’t be caught dead outside the commune in that outfit.”
He looks down at himself. “But these are my favorites.”
“And you make enough money to buy a big estate somewhere with a tall wall all the way around it where you can walk around in whatever short-shorts you want to. But you really shouldn’t do it in downtown Manhattan.”
Mooch looks over at him. “She has a point, man.”
Cash makes a face at him. “Traitor.”
Red takes charge. “So, other than no short-shorts, what exactly are we talking about here?” He looks at his fellow band members. “You know the new label wants us to do this stuff. Do you remember what that wanker said?”
“Yeah, but we’re never going to do that,” Paul says.
“What did the wanker want you to do?” I ask, super curious. Hopefully, he wasn’t pushing for a Ziggy Stardust look. There’s no way I could stick around for that.
Cash looks like he’s in pain, which, when paired with his current wardrobe choices, is enough to make me nearly kill myself trying to not laugh. “He wanted us to do the punk thing. He was talking about mohawks and fauxhawks and stuff like that.”
Mooch frowns and shakes his head. “I will not be wearing a fauxhawk in this lifetime.”
“Oh, Jesus. Fauxhawks?” This guy, whoever he is, really is a wanker. “No. I agree with you guys. A fauxhawk is a bad idea for anyone over the age of thirty. But may I remind you that you all walk around with teased mullets?” I wait for them to make the connection, but all I get is confusion on the faces around me.
“What’s your point?” Paul asks.
“I’m just saying . . . you have no problem with the mullet but you’re complaining about the fauxhawk . . . This illustrates my point exactly.”
Cash slumps down on the arm of the couch. “I’m starting to feel like I’m in school again and I’ve pissed off my teacher.”
I walk over and give him a hug, patting him on the back. “I’m not that mean, I promise. I want to make this as painless as possible.” I stand up with my hands on his shoulders and stare him in the eye. “Do you trust me?”
He nods wordlessly. I think I surprised him with the physical contact. Heck, I surprised myself. Not in a bad way, though. I actually like these guys, and back home, we’re always hugging and stuff, so physical contact is just a regular part of my day. I’m happy that I’ve brought that piece of me to the city.
I back off and look at the group with my hands together. I’m on the edge of victory; I can feel it in my bones. “My first act as your official consultant is to suggest that you get haircuts.”
I wait to see what they say. They all look at one another, mystified and maybe a little afraid.
“Since none of you are Sampson, I promise that cutting off some of that long hair in the back is not going to cause you to lose your strength or your musical talent.”
“How much are we going to cut off?” Paul asks.
“How about we let the professionals decide?” Surely there’s someone here in Manhattan who knows how to cut hair and do it well. That will be my next mission after I leave this place . . . to find that magician.
“As long as I don’t look like Lister when you’re done,” Cash says, pouting.
Everybody laughs and nods, even Jed and Pete.
Victory is mine! “Okay, I got it. I promise you, nobody is going to have to walk around looking like Lister. Except Lister, of course. Poor guy.”
We all have a good laugh at that. The more I picture them wearing suits with business haircuts, the harder I giggle. By the time Ty walks back through the door, we all have rosy cheeks and the mood is much lighter.
Ty stops just inside the room and stares at us suspiciously. I’m trying to decide if I should go over to him in front of all these men, when Red stands and does it for me. He walks over and puts his hand on Ty’s shoulder, forcing him into the room in a friendly way. “We’re sorry, man. We weren’t laughing about you. Come on in. We owe you an apology.”
The rest of the band stands and the engineers go over to their mixing boards, quietly turning their backs to the group.
“What’re you talking about?” Ty asks. He still hasn’t lost his suspicious air.
“We haven’t been fair to you since you joined us, and that’s on me.” Red holds his hand out. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that bullshit.”
I almost feel like crying watching this happen. Ty is getting exactly what he deserves—an apology and some respect. I’m so proud of Red for being a bigger man than he was being before. He actually listened to me and now he’s following through on a promise he made. It’s pretty heady stuff, knowing how powerful this guy is in the music industry and that he trusts me enough to act on my advice. I know if I weren’t a blast from his past, he probably wouldn’t have, but still . . . I’m going to take my successes where I can get them.
Ty slowly reaches up and shakes his hand. “Thanks. But you don’t need to apologize for anything.”
“Yeah, we do,” Cash says, walking over and shaking his hand too. “We were assholes. We should’ve done better.”
It’s Mooch’s turn next. “Yeah, you can thank your girlfriend over there for setting us straight.”
I stare at the ceiling, wishing Mooch hadn’t called me that, but loath to bring any more attention to it. Ty is probably going to hate me forever for being labeled his girlfriend. I can’t even look at him right now, imagining that he’s thinking he finally got what he wanted only because this hippie chick who showed up on the scene as the bastard child of a band member demanded it. Talk about an ego punch.
Paul speaks next. “You’re an amazing musician and you have every right to be here and in on every decision we make. We shouldn’t have blocked you out. It was stupid and senseless . . . something we should’ve known better than to do.”
There’s a funny tone to his voice when he says that. I look down from the ceiling in time to see everybody exchanging glances and nodding at one another. I can tell that Ty is just as out of the loop as I am about the significance of Paul’s words. He’s on the outside looking in, like I am.
I’m getting the impression that they have a lot of secrets I’m not privy to and probably never will be.
“How about we start this day over?” Red asks, distracting me from trying to read any more of their body language. He rubs his hands together. “Anybody here ready to play some music?”
Ty glances over at me with an unre
adable expression before answering. “Are we working on new material?”
“That’s the plan,” Mooch says, walking over to the small booth that I had my conversation with Red in. “I’m just gonna go bang out a couple rhythms I was working on this week.” He disappears into the room and shuts the door. Pretty soon we hear his drums going; the sound is muted but not completely gone. The engineers are busy with headphones on, watching lights blink on their mixers and computer screens as they make adjustments to different dials and sliders.
“What about you?” Red asks Ty. “You got any new material?”
Ty shrugs. “Maybe. I’ve been playing around with some stuff.” He doesn’t sound very confident.
“Great. Maybe you can show us.”
“Sure.” He turns his attention to me. “Can I have a word with you for a minute?”
I shrug. “Sure.” I wish I could be excited about this private meeting, but the truth is, I’m dreading it. He’s pissed, I know he is. I fought his battle for him—one he was losing for months before I got here—and won. What guy would like that?
I follow him out of the room into the reception area. There’s still no one there. As soon as the door shuts, he turns to face me. “I’m sorry I was rude earlier.”
I’m more than a little shocked that his first words weren’t I don’t ever want to see you again.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, relief flooding through me. “I understand why you were.”
He shakes his head. “No, don’t forgive me that easily.”
I smile, entirely charmed by the self-torture he’s administering on my behalf. “Why not?”
“Because. When I’m acting like a dick, you need to hold me to it. Don’t let me get away with it.”
“Why not?” I can’t imagine why he’d want me to extend his torture by forcing him to pay for his sins every time he makes a mistake. I’m not that much of a wench.
“Because . . .” He moves his lower jaw around and flares his nostrils, wrestling with his emotions for a few seconds before he answers. “That’s what my mom did with my father all the time, and he railroaded her.” Tears are threatening but he’s fighting valiantly against their escape.
