by Grea Warner
“And I haven’t turned in my moving papers to the apartment. So, that’s not a problem.” The probability of it had spread throughout the residence, though, that was for sure. As much as I hated some of the old-fashioned rules and regulations, I would have missed most of the people in the place I had come to call home.
“Good,” Ryan continued. “I’m looking forward to the creative stuff—writing and composing. Let the business do the business. Besides, the show is taking up a lot more time than I thought.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t know.”
Yikes! Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. But it was true.
He slightly shook his head before asking, “Are you watching at all?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “My own personal train wreck.”
“It’s harder as you get deeper in it. Believe me. Honestly, though, the top ten or even the winner ... the chances they make a career out of it aren’t really good.”
“Great. You just told me to stay in town.”
“You. Yes. Because you have a talent. It’s songwriting, not singing. Not that—”
“I get it.” I did.
“A lot of the singers sound a dime a dozen. The few elite—”
“Your wife.” I glanced at the photos of blonde-haired, brown-eyed Kari Thompson, which were scattered amongst the images of him and the famous faces.
“Kari, yes, her voice is gold. But without the right words behind them ...” He changed his train of thought and said, “All right, check with your job, and let’s set a time to meet and work on some of these songs. Then maybe we can get some kind of better theme or branding together.”
I almost laughed—it wasn’t like I had one. Obviously, he had checked out my social media accounts and knew they were sparse on content. While I looked at them daily, I posted infrequently. And that consisted of just quotes about music or audio clips of me singing to the lyrics on the screen. I didn’t show my face. The music was what I wanted everyone to focus on ... not me.
“So, how does that sound to you?” he asked.
“Like a dream.” That time my internal happy monologue actually escaped my mouth.
***
Ryan was serious. He wanted to get started right away and had legitimately cleared most of his schedule for the rest of the week and the following. I couldn’t have been happier. It was a lot better for me to dive right into something than to allow time to think and be nervous. I mean, after all, I was going to partner up with a nationally known talent manager to work on my existing songs and create new ones. A songwriter. This. Was. It.
So, only two days later, we sat in his office once again. We scanned through the music I had given him, and he talked about some of his notes. He made me choose my top three favorites, and then he revealed his. Two of ours were the same, which was interesting. I thought the one he chose for the third was too mushy. I didn’t think I did sentimental very well. But he thought I had. We agreed to work on those three songs first and then see about others or new ones next.
But it wasn’t easy. There were so many interruptions. He didn’t have a huge staff, but those who were there were bouncing in and asking questions on a fairly regular basis. And the secretary had a number of calls that required Ryan’s attention. Some he managed to delay but others he took.
We were struggling to slightly change two lines in a song when the secretary interrupted again. “I’m sorry, Ryan. I know you don’t want any more calls, but it’s the school about your daughter. They tried your—”
With wide eyes, he looked at his personal phone, which he had silenced. “Put it through.”
“I’ll wait in the lobby,” I offered and got up.
He hadn’t asked me to leave on any of the other calls, but his daughter’s school was personal, and I figured it was the polite thing to do. I pretended to admire the expensive-looking art hanging on the lobby walls while hoping the call wasn’t anything bad. By the initial look on his face, I knew it wasn’t a regular occurrence, but from past experiences with my parents, I knew sometimes calls from schools meant emergencies.
“Hey, Bethany.” Ryan dipped his head out of his office. “Come back in. We’re gonna have to wrap up. Sorry,” he concluded as I reentered the room.
“Everything all right?” I wasn’t trying to be nosy ... just concerned.
“Yeah. My daughter, Sallie, got sick in kindergarten,” he said as he was gathering papers. “The school nurse says it’s probably an ear infection and the pain made her throw up. I feel bad, though, because she said her ear hurt this morning, and I played the whole ‘tough it out’ dad routine.”
“You didn’t know,” I offered.
“I should have. She usually doesn’t complain at all.”
“Tough little girl.”
“She is ... until she isn’t.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I have to go get her, and since she threw up, she’ll have to stay home tomorrow, too. So I know we were supposed to meet again tomorrow ...”
“Not a worry. Your kids come first.”
“They do,” he said with straightforward confidence. “Not everyone understands that. And with being a single parent ... temporarily—Kari’s on tour overseas—it’s up to me.”
“Go. We can reschedule. My long-awaited music career can wait a day or two longer. My dreams have been crushed before.”
“Oh, brother.” He shook his head, and I smiled, picking up my guitar. Ryan’s fluttering eyes and little twitch in his cheek clued me in that he was contemplating something. “Would you consider coming to the house? My house? Tomorrow?”
Oh. “Uh ...”
“She’s a good kid. She won’t bother us. Joel, though, if he was home ... My folks say he is payback for how I was when I was his age.”
I laughed, picturing a little Ryan. “You sure? Your house?”
“Yeah,” he said more succinctly that time. “If that’s all right with you. I’m on a bit of a tight schedule with the show, and I know tomorrow was free ...”
“Yeah, I guess.”
There was a tiny part of me that was leery of being at a man’s house alone ... with the exception of his young daughter. But he was nationally known, and it was very obvious it wasn’t a setup. Besides, in reality, I put myself in just as perilous of situations every time I took a taxi by myself.
That—transportation—was my real concern. “How far is it?” I asked.
“Depending on traffic ... a little more than fifteen minutes north.”
“By car?”
“Uh, yeah.” His eyebrows gathered.
“Oh.”
“Why? Do you have a private jet I don’t know about?”
I was enjoying the sarcastic side of Ryan Thompson. It perfectly matched my sense of humor, and I was already discovering how the ease in conversation was helping us as collaborators. It was just so darn different from the version of “Mr. Mean” on TV.
“Yeah,” I played along. “But the jet is at my private airport getting refurbished with the latest technology.” Ryan’s belly shook in laughter as I continued with the truth. “No, I’ll need to tell Uber. I walked here. Probably can’t walk to your place, though.”
“You walked here?” His voice rose in shock.
“Yeah. Don’t have a car.” I repeated an answer I had been used to giving since moving to LA. It seemed to shock and awe every time I gave it, especially in a world of rush-rush and instant gratification.
“At all?” he asked in the same tone.
“Uh, it’s not like ... Is it The Price Is Right where they have the half-image of the car, or is it Wheel of Fortune?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head again.
“Nope, no car,” I continued. “Really haven’t needed one. Everywhere I have to be—stores, work, restaurants—I can either walk, take public transportation, or friends drive.”
“Oh. Okay. Well ... so—”
“I probably could get one.” With years of payments. “Not a Tesla or Porche or anything. I kind of want
ed to make sure this was going to be home.”
“Hopefully we’re one step closer to that?” He had everything gathered in his hands.
“Help me sell my songs and we will be.” I smiled.
“Deal.” He started toward his door, causing me to follow. “So, how about if you give Anamaria”—he stopped at his secretary’s desk—“your address, and we’ll arrange transportation.”
“Oh, no, that’s all right. I told you, I can—”
“Look, I’m inconveniencing you. It’s not a biggie.” Before I could refute, Ryan told his secretary what was happening, and she said she already had my address on file. “Great. Get her set up with a ride back to her place now, too.”
“It’s like a forty-five-minute walk. I’m fine.”
“Forty-five! Definitely ... ride.” He nodded at Anamaria, who immediately got on the phone. “See you tomorrow, Bethany. Sorry. Gotta run. Poor Sallie.”
***
The Thompson house ... oh, my stars. A personal security guard for the exclusive neighborhood, a newer paved private road, and another gate in front of the residence were the security measures in place for an award-winning singer and talent manager couple. But it was the beauty and features of the house itself that made me go weak. Sprawling best described the two-story wood and stucco home from the outside. And once Ryan invited me inside, I almost needed air. It was so breathtaking.
“Thanks for coming, Bethany.”
“No problem.” I think I got the words out, but my mouth was jarred open, looking everywhere from the soaring ceiling with wood beams to the light oak floor below. “This is so beautiful.”
“Thanks. We custom built a few years ago.”
“Yeah, I can tell it’s newer, but it has such old-world charm.”
“Ah, you like that? That was my doing. When you see the kitchen, that’s Kari. She’s all about the modern stuff. Although, it’s kind of ironic. She’s not ... she’s not much of a chef. Anyway, I figured we can work in the living room. The piano is in there, and I brought a couple of the guitars, too.”
“Okay, let me—” I started taking off my shoes, glad my feet were relatively attractive and I had recently painted the nails ... a weird green color, but nonetheless.
“You certainly don’t need to do that because of the house. This place has two young children in it. Finger and feet marks are everywhere. Unless you’re like an undercover cable repair person who is mandated to wear those baggie things on their shoes.”
I laughed before asking, “Do you mind if I take them off? I promise they’re clean. Not stinky.”
He chuckled back. “Neh, go right ahead. I hardly wear shoes around the house. Only put them on because you were coming.” He kicked his off dramatically and left them haphazardly near mine.
“How’s your daughter?”
“She’s fine,” he answered, and I had to take my eyes off the magnificent curved staircase in order to follow him down the hall and past the dining room showcased by an enormous oval table. “She could have gone back to school today—actually wanted to—but it’s a twenty-four-hour-policy thing. Joel, on the other hand, begged to stay home. But I didn’t let him. Two opposites as opposite can be. So, Sallie is in the family room. Let me introduce you so she knows you’re here. She might pop in every so often. But she is pretty self-contained.”
“Whatever she needs. It’s fine.” Upon approach, I had to make a comment again before we entered. “Pocket doors. Geez, I love pocket doors.”
Ryan seemed amused as he looked from the partially opened doors to me. “Until the wood swells a little in the heat and they don’t slide. But yeah, me, too. Sals,” he called to the little girl coloring at a table, “I want you to meet Bethany. I told you we’ll be working in the living room if you need anything. Do you need anything now?”
A bright smile emerged as she gave a thumbs up. “Nope. All good, Daddy.”
With blonde hair closely resembling her celebrity mother’s, the little girl stared at me as I said, “It’s nice to meet you, Sallie. What are you working on?”
“A book,” she said nonchalantly. “I’m the author and the illustrator.”
“Very cool and very talented. What’s it about?” I asked, impressed by the kindergartner.
“Unicorns going to school!” She literally bounced in excitement.
“Ah, I’d love to read it sometime.”
“Okay. When I’m done.”
“Daddy gets first dibs, Tink,” Ryan chimed in.
“All right, Daddy,” she agreed. “Then Miss ...”
“Bethany,” Ryan reminded.
She looked again at me. “Yeah, she can read it.”
“All right, baby. Come get me if you need anything,” he directed, but the little girl was already back at work.
As we started out the room, I noted, “I guess ambition and creativity runs in the family.”
“She’s gonna outshine both her mother and me,” he agreed.
“Maybe we should have her be a part of our session.”
“I don’t think you’re going for the unicorns-in-school album, though.”
“No, probably not.” I laughed.
“Okay, Bethany, let’s see what we can get going.”
***
Ryan and I were able to get so much done. It was amazing and exhilarating. I admired and respected his talent and wanted to soak in all of his knowledge. But because I was also me, I freely offered my thoughts and ideas as we continued to work on the songs we had selected from my repertoire. We were a really good team—truly bouncing ideas off each other and making things work almost magically. I had partnered up with other musicians and lyricists before, but in none of those cases were we so instantly compatible with ideas and thoughts.
It was nice watching Ryan in a more relaxed state, rather than his office. Fewer interruptions absolutely aided in that cause. Of course he did have to tend to his daughter, but her dramatic interpretation of the book she wrote was a welcomed break.
And there were still phone calls he had to take, too. It was during one of those when he wandered off in the house that I called Willow back. She had left a message to call her as soon as I could. And although it sounded somewhat urgent, I was not about to interrupt my career-changing session.
“Bethany, where are you?” Willow asked as soon as she answered her phone.
“I’m at Ryan’s,” I replied.
“All hell is breaking loose here.”
“What? Where? The house?” I always found it funny that the residents in my skyscraper apartment building called it that. I guess because it sounded homier that way.
“Yeah, yeah,” she continued in her gossipy voice. “It’s Andre. He’s—” She halted her story. “Wait, what? You’re at Ryan’s? Mr. Mean’s?”
“Yeah. Yeah ... Mr.—” And I stopped myself, realizing he was close by somewhere.
“You mean his office?”
“No. His house.” I hadn’t told her that. We didn’t see each other daily, despite being next-door neighbors—literally a couple of feet apart.
“Wha—” she started.
But I interrupted. I really wanted to know what was going on, especially since she had mentioned Andre. “Never mind. It’s about Andre?”
“Yeah, the cops were here. He got hauled out.”
“What? What’s going on?” I felt my arms get suddenly warm as the news kickstarted my blood pressure.
“Something about him stealing stuff. They suspected it. So, they were watching him, and then they also caught him drinking with Nell.”
“Drinking-drinking?” I knew Andre was twenty-three since the residency had recently celebrated him working there for five years and he started right after high school. But I also knew Nell wasn’t.
“Yeah, it was outside but on the property. And we know little miss innocent Nell is underage. And I guess that wasn’t all they were doing.”
“They were ...?”
I didn’t say “having sex.” I
didn’t want to say “having sex.” I never wanted to think about other people doing it. But Andre? It wasn’t that long ago ...
Thank goodness I was able to tune back into Willow’s voice. “Not yet. Nell’s upset, and there’s all kinds of stuff being said about how he’s a serial Casanova and has been with a number of girls in the house.”
Well, there you go. My stomach jumped and turned. I had some regret after the thing with Andre and me happened. But after listening to Willow, I felt downright sick and a little violated. Even though it had been mutual and a no-strings, one-time deal, I thought it was more special than that.
“He’s getting in trouble for that, too?” I asked a little more quietly that time.
“I don’t think so. That’s all girl gossip, you know. Everyone here is at least old enough to get it on. But his contract said he was not permitted to interact socially with the tenants. Kind of sounds like he was being discreet—loving the ones who were ready to leave, probably so he didn’t have to deal with them anymore or get found out. He’s gone no matter what.” She paused for a split second. “Hey, good thing you decided to stay and not turn in your moving papers. You might have been the next little concubine.”
My stomach retched once again. Thank goodness no one knew of my indiscretion. Thank goodness I had asked him to use protection. And thank goodness I wasn’t going to have to look at him anymore. I should have never let my body rule my heart. I would never make that mistake again.
“Yeah, good thing,” I managed to say.
“He is a cutie, though. Although, I am kind of a sucker for men with curly, wavy hair. I’ll stick with Til’s and not some ... What’s a good word for men like Andre?”
“Bastard. I’m going with men are bastards.”
“Whoa!” Willow’s voice came out extra loud since she wasn’t used to me using a word like that.
Some of the heightened volume, though, was because there was an echo to her exclamation. I spun around to discover Ryan. As he reentered the room, he said the same word as Willow did at the same exact time.
“Sorry,” I apologized to Ryan more than my neighbor.
