by L. J. Greene
It was a beautiful voice. I loved the way he said the word about. And part. I added those to my little list of favorite words Jamie says. Love you made the list, too, but I wouldn’t have admitted it just then.
I hadn’t been naïve going into this, but I hadn’t necessarily expected my predictions of joy and heartache, pleasure and pain to come to pass quite so quickly. Maybe I should have added hot and cold to that list.
Jamie walked off the stage and made a beeline for me. In just a few long strides, he closed the distance between us, looking sexier than anyone had a right to. His eyes were on fire, and when he reached me, he swept me up in an ardent kiss that staked my claim on him every bit as much as it staked his claim on me.
“I missed you,” he said, sounding vaguely surprised as he pulled back just enough to see my face. “I should have called.”
It was a question that masqueraded itself as a declaration. As much as I hated the disappearing act, this wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d signed up for this, whether I cared to admit it or not.
“I missed you, too. You’ve been writing?”
“A lot. I was feeling very inspired.” He smiled so sweetly that I couldn’t help but forgive him for the radio silence. “It’s been a brilliant week.”
“I’m excited to hear it. Are you ready for this A&R guy?”
“Ready as we can be. Cross your fingers that it doesn’t go arseways.”
“It won’t. You’ll be amazing.” I smiled at him in reassurance, and he kissed me briefly in return.
“We sold out the venue.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, a little. It’s a big place. We typically get a good crowd but this is more than usual.”
“Word’s getting out, maybe.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Anyway, I’ve got a good spot set up for you here in the wing.”
§
The show itself was incredible. Whatever condition the new song had been in the week before last, they’d worked out all of the kinks. The set was a masterful blend of their distinct sound, delivered with trademark passion and energy. They ended with a song I’d heard them play once before called False, an angry young man’s anthem and clearly a crowd favorite.
Jamie’s centripetal presence on stage seemed to make the whole crowd lean in closer. As I watched him from the wings, I couldn’t help but think to myself that maybe this is it. Maybe this is that pivotal moment in his career when it all comes together with a bang, a violent explosion of success that seemed inevitable, if not slightly elusive. Maybe I was witnessing his success story right here.
The band rocked hard through the last chorus of False. Jamie pointed the neck of his guitar at different sections of the crowd as he played with incredible dexterity. And then he turned back to Killian and slashed downward once more across the strings.
WHAM, he demanded.
WHAM WHAM, Killian replied.
Nash’s arms were flying around the drums, thrashing the cymbals, as Greg thumped furiously on the bass. The song ended with a crash of instruments, and then the stage went dark. For a moment, nothing happened.
Suddenly, the crowd went insane. The roar was deafening. It felt like a physical rush–like something that might actually blow your hair back.
The lights came up, and the band, breathing heavily as if they’d just run a marathon, was smiling like I’d never seen them before. They seemed to absorb the nourishing adoration of the audience as though it were a corporal recharge. Nash came out from his drum kit and tossed his sticks into the crowd, while Greg and Killian fielded a handful of items tossed onto the stage.
“I thank you, kindly, San Francisco,” Jamie grinned to the chanting crowd. He waved briefly and strode purposefully across the stage, pulling an earpiece from his ear and letting it dangle across his shoulder.
He was glorious.
When he reached me, he crushed me in a sweaty embrace that made me laugh with its exuberance.
“You were extraordinary,” I whispered into his ear.
“I have a joke for you,” he beamed, when I looked up into his face. “What’s the difference between God and a lawyer?” He raised his brows expectantly as if I might know this one, or maybe in anticipation that the punch line was the greatest in lawyer-joke history. “God doesn’t think he’s a lawyer.”
I laughed, less from the joke than from the eagerness of his delivery.
“Nope. Still terrible, front man. You better get go yourself a record contract–you have no future in comedy.”
Jamie’s eyes shone brightly as we stood for a beat with chaos whirling around us. Listening to the roaring crowd, I had the distinct realization that this could, indeed, be that moment that changes it all. He took my face in both of his hands and kissed me sweetly. His face was a little rough from his stubble, and he smelled musky and faintly of beer.
“Your lips to God’s ears, angel,” he whispered. And then he was gone.
§
I could see the five of them talking–Cadence and the A&R rep–off in a quiet corner of the second floor balcony. I had wondered what someone who changed lives for a living might look like. I thought white robes and sandals may be a little much, but surely, he wouldn’t just look like everyone else.
In this case, though, he really kind of did.
He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties, with a mop of shaggy brown hair and glasses. He was on the heavy-set side, dressed in jeans and a dark t-shirt, and he was wearing a large Rolex on his right wrist. He was definitely not someone who would stand out in a crowd, but maybe that was the idea–that, when he wanted to, he could channel his Clark Kent rather than his Superman. It made sense that he’d want to be inconspicuous in certain circumstances.
From my vantage point near the small bar, the conversation seemed to be going well. There was a lot of smiling and nodding. Jamie looked relaxed. And I couldn’t have been happier for them. They were really hard-working guys with a lot of talent, and if they couldn’t make it, who could?
With a little time on my hands, I made my way to the restrooms and resigned myself to the very long line. The wait allowed me to appreciate the ceiling of the Great American Music Hall, a coffered and gilded masterpiece with gorgeous architectural detail.
When I looked around again at my immediate surroundings, there was Clark Kent.
I glanced over my shoulder, but I was too far away to see if the band was still seated in the balcony. But here in the flesh was our guy–our life changer. I realized I must have been staring at him. Finally, he looked up and directly at me.
“How’s it going?” he asked casually.
“Oh. Good.” A truly brilliant retort.
And then I thought of a better one. “What’d you think of the show?”
“Oh, it was good. These guys put on a decent act.” Decent act. He must have been deep in Clark Kent character to be so understated. It was a great act. And, yes, I was biased, but if the reaction of the crowd was any indication, I hadn’t been alone in my opinion.
“Do you see a lot these kinds of shows?” I knew he did, obviously, but he had no idea that I knew the band.
He seemed to puff up a little at the question, and crossed his arms so that his Rolex was in plain sight.
Stepping just fractionally more into my personal space than I would have preferred, he eyed me with more interest than he had before.
“Yeah, I’m in A&R.” There was an unmistakable element of male bravado in his voice.
“Oh. How exciting. You must love it.”
There was a lot of coming and going around us, as well as the constant sounds of a flushing toilet, but he glanced around furtively before speaking.
“If you want to know the truth, I hate the music scene. And I hate musicians even more.” Then he laughed at his own sparkling wit. “It’s not personal,” he added as an obvious postscript.
He must have thought he was charming; I thought he was an ass.
“Why do you do it then?”
> “Pays good,” he said, showing me his wrist. “And it beats a lot of alternatives.”
He was no Superman, after all. In fact, it was hard not to take an instant dislike to this man. And even harder not to let those feelings show on my face. I apparently failed at both.
“What?” he asked, his countenance changing in an instant.
“Nothing. I guess I just would have expected a little more enthusiasm for the kind of work you do.”
Brown eyes assessed me shrewdly with a look of contemptuous amusement. It was obvious that our conversation was not progressing as he had expected.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer.” Well, not yet licensed lawyer, but he wasn’t interested in the details.
He laughed. “And you love what you do?”
His tone was unquestionably derisive, matching the well-mannered dislike on his face. I didn’t get the impression he was looking for an answer, and I didn’t offer one. The truth is, I didn’t really have one. And unfortunately, while he disappeared into the crowd almost immediately thereafter, his question lingered reprovingly in my mind.
Did I love what I do?
I seemed to have been asking myself that question a lot lately. And if I were to be completely honest with myself, I knew didn’t love being a lawyer. Did that make me no better than Clark Kent, here? Like him, maybe I was just a person going through the motions of a job I didn’t really want. Would my clients suffer for my lack of passion?
I didn’t dislike the law, per se–I certainly didn’t hate my industry, as he had proclaimed to–but I couldn’t say that I went to work every day excited to be waging and defending intellectual property disputes. And sometimes the thought of doing so for the next 30 years was more than a little stifling. I pushed that reality from my thoughts.
I had to remind myself that the law was a solid career, and like the vast majority of my life choices, it was a practical one. My parents had made a huge investment in me, not to mention the fact that my firm had bestowed the ultimate vote of confidence by hiring me before my bar results were even in.
A lot of people had a stake in my success to date, and it was too late for second thoughts. Besides, I expect that most people don’t honestly love what they do. Maybe they were less obvious about it than my fallen Superman, here. But few have the chance, like Jamie, to make a career out of their passion.
I envied Jamie for that. And that’s why it didn’t seem right that someone who grants those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities should be so callus about it.
It kind of made me sad. Or mad; I’m not sure.
But by the time I made it through the line and found Jamie again, he had a Sharpie in hand and was signing t-shirts and CDs for fans. He looked so happy. And I decided then and there I wasn’t going to tell him about my conversation.
Business was business, after all. No one needed to tell that to a lawyer, unlicensed or not.
Chapter 11
Jamie
THE NEXT TWO PHONE CALLS changed my life–both in ways I could never have imagined.
“Hi, pickle.”
“Jamie, I swear to God, it’s a good thing I can’t get a hand on you right now.”
I laughed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I wanted to hear how the show went last night. Was it packed?”
That was a rather odd question. “Yeah, actually, it was mad. How did you know?”
“Are you near a computer?”
I had just arrived home from work when she called, but went to the living room and flicked on Greg’s PC at her request.
“Go to www.myspace.com.”
“Okay.” I had literally no idea what to expect.
“Now type in ‘Cadence’ in the search box.”
What came up was a fully built-out Cadence page. It was tremendously well done, with photos and recordings of our music, and even a video that Cara had taken a while back from one of our festival appearances. It also had an events page that listed some of our upcoming gigs.
“What do you think?”
I didn’t really know what to think. “It’s brilliant.”
“Want to see the best part? Roll your mouse over the two connecting circles. Those are your connections.”
“It says I have two.”
“Yes, one of them is me, gobshite.”
“And someone named Tom Anderson.”
“He’s the founder and you automatically get connected to him when you join. That way, you’re connected to everyone. But here’s the cool thing: See the other set of circles? Those are people who’ve connected to you.”
“There are nearly three thousand people here.”
“And more and more every day. You can’t believe how quickly it’s growing. And all of these people are listening to the songs I posted and writing comments. Jamie, a bunch of them came to see the show last night.”
I scrolled through some of the comments in shock. I’d never seen anything like this. The whole site seemed to be geared towards connecting musicians directly to their fans. No middle man–no record label, no radio station. Some bands had tens of thousands of connections, and they were posting new material for feedback from their fans. Most of these were bands I’d never heard of. But plainly, MySpace members had. Out of curiosity, I searched Arctic Monkeys. Sure enough, they were a thing. And Christ, did they have a following.
“Hey, still there?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“If you guys add more songs to this and post all of your shows, I’m telling you, I think it could be big. All of my friends are on it.”
I wouldn’t have believed it if I weren’t seeing it for myself. But she was right. These bands were actively using the Internet to promote their music. Mostly to teenagers, granted, but in the history of music, especially rock and roll, teenagers almost always got it right.
“Hey, I got another call coming in. Can I call you later?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Do you need any money?”
I always asked her. She had some financial aid, but it wasn’t enough. Cara would be the first college-educated member of our family if it killed me. And sometimes it nearly felt like it would.
“No, Jamie. Take your call.”
Switching over, I recognized the voice of Matt Kayes, the A&R rep from Spire Records, nearly instantly. My heart went crossways. When we’d seen him at the show, he said he was going to recommend to the A&R team that we be offered a recording contract.
“How’s the craic?” I asked.
“The fuck does that even mean, Callahan?”
I laughed.
“Anyway, I got news, man. I met with my director and producer, and the label’s in. We’ve decided to offer Cadence a deal.”
“Jesus.”
I had to sit down; imagining something and having it actually happen are two vastly different things. I thought my heart was going to pound out of my sternum. My hand was shaking, and I had to switch the phone to the other ear.
“Truly?”
“Yeah, truly. I’ll have a deal memo in the mail to you in the next week or so. We can discuss any questions you have after that.”
He was so fucking casual about it. I felt quite in shock, myself, like I’d fallen down a rabbit hole. I scratched absently at my chest, waiting for my brain to begin functioning again.
“Brilliant. Okay. I’ll look for it. Thank you.”
“Yep,” he said. “And Callahan–don’t make me look bad.”
With that, we hung up, and I just sat there like some nutter. I’m not sure what I thought it would be like to be offered a recording contract, but the reality of it was quite sterile.
Still, it was a contract.
We’d done it.
Years of writing and rehearsing and gigs. Hundreds of demo tapes mailed. Thousands of doors slammed in our faces.
But now we were finally on our way.
There were so many people I wanted to phone. Greg, of course, first, and Killia
n and Nash. And Danny and Cara; they’d been my bedrocks from the beginning. But even as I picked up my mobile to ring up Greg at work, I knew that the person I was aching most to tell was Melody.
Chapter 12
Mel
“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO LIKE it,” Jamie insisted stubbornly.
“Why do you say that? Maybe I’ll love it.”
Jamie had plowed his way through the crowd at O’Malley’s and somehow managed to wedge himself between two occupied stools at the bar.
“It’s an acquired taste,” he called back to me.
“So are you.”
Jamie laughed like he always did, unembarassable, and received some hearty backslapping from one of the stools’ occupants, an older gentleman who looked like he might actually live there on that stool.
“Fine,” he said, his dimples betraying his amusement. Then, he turned to the bar tender and added, “I’ll take two pints of Gat, mate.”
For a Monday, O’Malley’s was a remarkably busy place. And the fact that the five of us, four band members and I, were able to get a table could only be karma-related.
I’d never been to O’Malley’s, but I liked it immediately. The bar was located on O’Farrell Street in the Tenderloin, not a great area, but not far from Jamie’s apartment, either. The building itself had that old, classic San Francisco feel, with cherry wood in abundance and high, ornate coffered ceilings.
It was absolutely the perfect place for a celebration of this magnitude.
I had come straight from work in my navy suit and found Jamie, who’d insisted on waiting for me by the bar before ordering. The rest of our group was already seated at the table, but we hung back to have few minutes alone.
“Sláinte!” Jamie said, raising his pint to me upon his return and taking a healthy drink from his glass. I watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed and then tracked his tongue across his mouth as he licked a smear of the head from his lips. He was so sinfully beautiful, so mercilessly sexy in his dark gray Henley t-shirt and black jeans. I imagined lifting his shirt over his head, and applying my mouth to his dangerously inviting chest.
