by L. Philips
“Sorry. I just never thought I’d have to see any of them in person,” I admit. “And . . . I had that dream again last night. It’s all just a little too much.”
Victor claps a hand on my shoulder. “It’s cool. I shoulda kept my big mouth shut. I just know how bad you want to play, how bad you need out of that house. I guess I was hoping this could be your chance.”
“Richard Pierce may not have pushed my dad off that balcony, but he might as well have,” I say, as gently as the words will allow. “I could never take money from Paradise, even if the guy offering it had decent taste in music and was gorgeous. There’s blood on that money.”
Victor squeezes my shoulder, then raises a brow at me. “How about some chili fries?”
I stress-eat, and Victor knows I stress-eat, so I’m not sure if he’s being a friend or just an enabler. I opt to believe friend. I grin at him. “Extra cheese, please.”
Chapter Four
Cameron
For the record, I am not staring at the blurry picture of Nate’s shoes when Tess finds me in a lounge chair by the pool. Not staring. Not analyzing. Nothing of the sort.
She parks herself in the chair next to me, swings her Amazonian legs around, and lowers her oversized sunglasses to the bridge of her nose. “So I hear you signed a band last night. Good, good. And Daddy didn’t blow a gasket, also good.”
I set my phone facedown on the glass table next to me and lower my own shades. “No. He liked them. I’m not sure he’s convinced we’re the right fit for them, but we will be.”
She nods. “Because you’ll be in charge.”
“And I won’t touch their sound.”
Tess leans her head back, lifting her face toward the sun. She’s in workout clothes, but she’s not sweaty (glistening, as she calls it), so she must be on her way to the gym.
“How did it go with Taylor?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I think I bore him.”
“I’m sure anyone who’s not a raging alcoholic bores him,” I say, and it’s probably the truth. Taylor’s known for his drinking, and since Tess doesn’t touch the stuff, Taylor probably can’t handle it. He probably can’t handle any girl who keeps her head on straight and doesn’t get drunk and fall prey to his whole sleazy routine. “It’s his loss, sis.”
“I know. Maybe I’ll call up Jimmy Michaels. See what he’s up to.”
At the mention of yet another Hollywood bad boy, I squeeze my eyes shut and decide to stay silent.
“So, when are you going to tell Daddy you want to sing?”
“Tess!” I hiss, glancing around to see if anyone is close enough to hear. Our staff is great about discretion, even among our own family, but still. There’s no one. Theo is in the pool house, watching SportsCenter. I sit up so I can get closer to her and speak as quietly as possible. “I’m not. You know I can’t.”
“Yes, I know,” Tess says, bored and yet sarcastic at the same time. “You’ll be too busy taking over the world with the other manly men, beating your chests and grunting and all that.”
“You know I’m not like that.”
“Then why are you falling for it?” Tess swings her legs in my direction, getting in my face a little more than I’m comfortable with. “Just because our family is stuck in the last century doesn’t mean you have to be. And you can still be involved in Paradise. Just tell him you’d rather be one of our artists than manage them.”
“Even if telling him that would change anything, I’m not good enough, Tess.”
“More bullshit. Why do you insist on putting yourself in a box, Cam?”
“What is with you today?” I ask angrily before the meaning of her words sets in. “Wait. What do you mean, ‘bullshit’?”
“Saying you’re not good enough,” Tess says, somewhat softer. “You don’t think I hear you sing in the shower or in your room? You don’t think I hear you plucking out melodies on the piano? You’re good. Better than good.” She shrugs. “You might be better than Taylor, but you never heard me say that. Tay’s got a good voice, and he can write a great hook, but your voice, Cam . . . there’s something about it.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“Yes. And you need to do this. Or at least try. Or you’re going to regret it.” Tess looks all around, preoccupied now with something else, like she hasn’t just dropped an atomic bomb on me. “Good lord. Where is Michelle? I need a Diet Coke, like, yesterday.”
“Michelle took the day off to take her kid to Disney. And for pity’s sake, get your own Coke, Tess,” I say, waving it away. “Let’s get back to what you were saying about regret.”
Tess lowers her sunglasses again, specifically so I can see her eye roll. “Do I really have to explain this to you? Your self-knowledge is superlacking, you know that? Seriously subpar.” Her mouth makes a bow. “You love singing. Clearly. And you have actual talent. Like, better-than-your-competition talent. And I don’t want to see you as an old man, all alone up at the top of Paradise Tower, miserable and depressed about something that never was.”
We’re quiet for a moment, with only the waterfall splashing into the hot tub to fill the silence. “I wouldn’t even know how to begin to ask Father for something like this.”
“Then don’t.” She shrugs. “Do it legit.”
I tilt my head to one side. “What do you mean, ‘legit’?”
“Don’t just ask Daddy for a contract,” she says. “Present yourself like you would any artist you want to sign. Get him a demo; invite him to a gig.”
“But I don’t have any gigs, and I don’t have a demo.”
Tess makes a noise that sounds kind of like our old cat, Eartha Kitty, when she’s mad that she hasn’t been fed. “Cameron, seriously. Do I have to do everything for you? You have notebooks filled with lyrics. Set them to some music and voilà! Demo material.”
A prickle of embarrassment skitters along the skin of my neck. “Do you go into my room when I’m gone and just dig through my stuff?”
“Of course I do. And by the way, if you’re going to keep those nude pictures of Harry Garrett around, you might want to hide them better. If those got lost . . . I’m just saying, he probably has some of you, right? Cover your ass.”
“He . . . might have some of me; I don’t remember,” I say. Honestly, my ex-boyfriend isn’t really a priority, blackmail possibilities aside. “Stay out of my room, Tess. How old are you?”
“Three minutes older than you, dear brother.” Her smile is devilish. “My point is, you have lyrics. Write the music. Cut a few tracks while Daddy’s looking the other way at the studio. Pitch the next big thing to him, and make the next big thing you.”
I like what she’s saying. It makes so much more sense than trying to convince Father that I could be a singer. If I can show him I am already, it won’t seem like such a gamble. For the first time, I’m more excited than scared of this possibility. But there’s a giant speed bump on this highway we’re driving.
“But I can’t really play anything. I mean, I can get by when I’m writing, but there’s no way I could play for myself at a gig. And I wouldn’t have any idea how to create some kind of accompaniment, anyway.”
“Then get yourself a pianist. Or a guitarist—they’re more portable,” Tess says, and damn if she isn’t brilliant. I wouldn’t have thought about portability until I was out of luck at a venue with no piano. “Work with them, give them songwriting credits, and—boom—album. We’ve got guitarists coming out the wazoo at the studio. Pick one and go.”
Which reminds me. I pick up my phone and type in my code. Nate’s feet are still on my screen. I hold it up to Tess’s face. “Know these sneakers?”
Tess’s lip curls. “Whoa. I mean, if you’re going to wear Converse, I guess decorating them isn’t the worst fashion decision you’ve made . . . oh, but I do like his jeans. Tight
. But no, I don’t know him. Looking for the one who got away?”
I chuckle. “Precisely. He was at the concert last night. We danced through a few songs, talked for a while, and then Theo came up and called me by my name, and this guy took off like I had just told him I had gonorrhea.”
Tess smirks. “To some people, our name might be more problematic than an STD. At least those can be treated with antibiotics on occasion.”
“Well, before he ran, he also told me he plays guitar.”
“Ah. So are you interested in his talent or getting into those tight jeans?”
“Why does it have to be one or the other? Your world is so black-and-white.” She gives me a tiny punch in the arm. I feign injury. “It’s not a bad plan,” I say in my defense. “If he’s any good at guitar, I mean. If he sucks, the whole thing is moot.”
“Nah, if he sucks, you still get to hang out with a cute guy.” She fans herself with a perfectly polished hand. The color is deep burgundy, almost black. “How are you going to find him?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “I thought maybe I’d go back to the club the next time a good band is playing. He’s bound to be there. He had excellent taste in music.”
“Those tight jeans seem to indicate that his excellent taste in music is just a cherry on top,” Tess muses. Then she turns to me, her face hopeful. “Send me that pic. I’ll ask around. I’ve got lots of friends. Surely someone knows him.”
I look at her, trying to analyze her motives, but her hazel eyes betray nothing sinister.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, and text her the picture of Nate’s shoes. “I mean, it sounds nuts, I know, maybe even desperate . . . but he was the first guy I’ve met in ages who didn’t seem lame. And goodness knows he wasn’t into me for my name. Or money.”
“Hard to find someone like that,” Tess says absently. Her fingers are flying on her phone, her brows scrunched at the screen.
“Of course, if he wants nothing to do with our family, that’s something else entirely. But it’s weird. I’ve had plenty of people think I’m just a shallow, greedy, spoiled brat because of my name. But running away is a different thing entirely. What do you think that was about?”
“Huh?” Tess says, briefly looking up from her phone. “Oh. Well, you said he was a guitar player. Maybe he was afraid of losing his indie image. Okay, done.”
“What’s done?” I ask, sitting up slightly.
“I posted that pic. Of the guitar player’s shoes.”
At that, I straighten and turn my whole body toward my sister. “Wait. Posted where?”
“On my Instagram. And Twitter. It automatically posts to my Facebook too, but I don’t have as many followers there.”
I blink. “I thought you said you were going to check with friends.”
“I am. This is the easiest way. Plus, I mean”—she laughs haughtily—“I have a few followers, Cam. Someone out there will know these shoes. They’ll track him down.”
“Track him down?” My vision goes sideways. “No, Tess. No, no, no.”
“What?” she asks, confused. I reach over and grab her phone off her lap. There, on her Instagram account, is the picture of Nate’s shoes with a caption that reads, “Anyone know the owner of these shoes? My Prince Charming brother is looking for his Cinderfella!”
“Oh god, you didn’t . . .” I feel sick. “How many followers do you have? For real?”
“Um . . .” Tess takes her phone back and taps through several screens to find an exact number, as if she doesn’t check it every half hour. “Uh, about thirty-five or so.”
“Thousand?”
My sister looks at me like I’m from a different planet. “Million, Cameron. I mean, I’m no Beyoncé or anything, but—”
“Thirty-five million?” I ask, and damned if I don’t sort of screech it.
“Yeah. See? We’ll find him. No worries.”
My throat suddenly feels like someone is choking me. “Yes, and so will thirty-five million people. Oh my god, Tess. What have you done?”
“I helped you, dear brother. Soon you’ll have your man. And perhaps a guitarist.” She settles back into the lounge chair, satisfied with her good deed for the day. “If you want to thank me, I believe there are Diet Cokes in the pool house.”
I suck in uneasy breath after uneasy breath. “Oh god. I’m going to die.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she says, her mouth curling up in disgust as the beginnings of a panic attack set in and my world goes all slanty. “Oh lord. Fine. I’ll get the Diet Coke. But I’m mixing a Xanax into yours.”
“Tess!”
“Kidding. Sheesh.” She gracefully stands, looking at me with concern for the first time. “Relax, Cameron. It will be fine. He’ll probably answer back, say he’s sorry he ran from you and he just panicked and he thinks you’re the best thing to ever happen to him. And if not, he’s an idiot.”
I focus on counting backward from ten, her words not even sinking in.
“Come on, Cam. This could be a good thing for you,” she says. “You haven’t had a boyfriend since the whole Xavier–Harry thing. I don’t want you to end up like Dad, working all the time. Or worse, Mom. I mean, when was the last time Mom ventured outside the house? We’re Pierces. Fame comes with the name. We can’t be scared of it.”
I look at her. Her pretty face is twisted in concern, and I know that, in her own way, she thinks she’s helping. Combine that with the fact that I can never seem to get truly angry at Tess, and all I can do is shake my head at her.
“If this ends badly . . .”
“I will take full responsibility,” she says with a wink. “But you’d better believe me, if and when this works out for you, I’ll take full responsibility for it, too. And you know what that means.”
“It means I’ll never stop hearing about how right you were.”
“Damn straight.”
And with that she saunters off, and I can only watch enviously as I try to will my heart rate to slow down.
Nate
My fingers dance over the flamenco-esque José Feliciano version of “Light My Fire,” landing the particularly difficult but short solo between verses. When I finish with that, I segue into a little Santana. Just a sampling of “Black Magic Woman,” but slower, sultrier. Acoustic. Then I’m back to my own song, the one about some kind of burning, or magic, or black magic, or putting a spell on someone, or . . .
I let my hands drop from the guitar. Maybe I should just give up on this song. I thought I had something with the burning theme and all, but even trying to coax it out with some familiar classics isn’t working.
Then, just for the hell of it, I dive into Usher’s “Burn,” keeping the Latin vibe going into it, putting a spin on the R&B groove. It’s something I do often, blend styles, just to see what it sounds like and, really, to see if I can do it. Although I’m most at home in the sweet spot of folk—the raw and mellow sounds of the backwoods and moonshine and rocking chairs on a log cabin porch—I’m comfortable in just about any style. I owe that to my dad. For the first nine years of my life, I had the best teacher in the world. As soon as I’d learned a few chords, we’d play together. But he didn’t just teach me the notes; he taught me how to feel music. Sense it. Intuit it. He taught me how to think on my feet, to improvise, and we’d listen to the jazz greats and the rock greats and the Latin rock greats and the metal greats and each and every great, and I got to know every type of music.
When I moved out here with my dad, he didn’t have as much time for me as he did in New York. He was mostly in the studio, or at gigs. Then, after he died, and I didn’t have a teacher anymore, I was a bit lost. My public school’s music program had been stripped down to almost nothing, just a few pitiful used clarinets and saxophones and a dented trumpet or two. Honestly, in my high school, if you wanted any sort of music education at all, you had to have
parents who gave enough of a shit to get you private lessons.
Dad would have given a shit, but Tonya sure didn’t. But I kept playing, and finally I found a teacher who would let me tidy up his music store in exchange for lessons. After a couple of years, I outgrew him, and he hooked me up with another teacher who had been a studio musician for decades. This teacher never let me pay him. He said it would have been unethical, because I was helping him keep his own chops sharp. We would just meet and jam, really, with him only offering advice or pointers, teaching only by challenging me with his own playing. He only mentioned my dad once, in a quiet, dignified, and respectful way that spoke volumes more than his words: he greatly admired my father, understood what I’d been through, and believed that I could be great like my dad one day. When I turned sixteen, he set his guitar down and looked at me and said, “Nate, I can’t do any more for you. You have all the building blocks. It’s time for you to build your own sound.”
For nearly two years I’ve been trying to build that sound, but with blocks as varied as the ones my dad gave me, it’s hard to find any one thing that’s truly me.
I curse as my fingers stumble, and I let them slide off the strings with a short glissando. Flamenco Usher is probably not my sound. But maybe what Cam was talking about the other night would work.
No, Richard Cameron Pierce Jr., I remind myself. With a groan, I lay the guitar on my bed and flop down next to it. He was one of the first boys I’d ever been close to that made me feel small. He was only a few inches taller than me, but the broadness of him . . .
I sigh and let myself remember how amazingly good it felt to dance with him, his head pressed to mine, hands warm on the small of my back.
And that’s when Victor bursts into my room. “Dude!”
I scream in terror at the sudden intrusion, which Victor completely ignores.
