by L. Philips
I brace myself and look at Victor. “I was hoping the story died.”
“It did. For a while. Which is why I didn’t bother you with it. There wasn’t anything to tell.” Victor shifts his considerable weight from one leg to the other. “Until this morning.”
That’s when Victor moves the phone so I can see the screen. And I see myself. Well, myself at about age eight, playing guitar, my dad sitting next to me and beaming with pride as he watched.
It hits me like a sack of hammers: the worst has happened. They linked me to my dad. Someone out there was nosy enough, invasive enough, to dig down deep and find out that the Cinderella boy with the Chuck Taylors is the son of the late Mick Grisheimer. The proof of the invasion is right there in the bold headline on TMZ: my link to Dad, Dad’s link to Paradise Entertainment, Cameron’s link to me, the full circle.
I immediately feel nauseated. As I sink down into an ancient, threadbare couch, I mumble, “Why would they do that? Why couldn’t they just leave it alone?”
“Because they’re assholes,” Brendon says in his sweet voice, as sour as he can make it, and everyone nods in agreement.
“Money-grabbing, drama-loving assholes,” Vanessa clarifies. More nods of agreement.
“What do I do?” I say to them, because even though Liquid isn’t big-time enough yet to know what I’m going through with the tabloids, they’re preparing themselves for it to happen any day. They are way ahead of me as far as prep work goes.
“Don’t respond,” Murray says. “Not a word, not a picture, not even an unfriendly gesture in their general vicinity. Keep quiet, let it die.”
There’s a murmur of assent, but I notice that Travis is silent. His arms are crossed, his eyebrows scrunched. He looks pissed.
“What do you think?” Even though I don’t use his name, everyone in the room knows I’m talking to Travis, because they look at him in wait for an answer.
He doesn’t acknowledge them, but says quietly, “Can I have a moment alone with Nate, guys?” and because Travis is truly the leader of the band, everyone stands and files out of the room without question.
I press my fingers into my temples. “How long can I continue working for you? I mean, I know I was only hired on for two weeks, but the tour moves on to the East Coast, right? I could do a couple of weeks there with you before school starts up again.”
“Nate,” Travis begins, his rough voice whisper soft. “You need to go home.”
Those are not the words I was expecting to hear, but I accept them, swallow them down. Nod. “Okay. I get it. I don’t think anyone wants this kind of attention for their band. It’s rough enough without the paps digging into your roadie’s family history.”
Travis shakes his head. “No, you’re misunderstanding me. What I mean is you’ve got to go home and face this.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “Face this? What? Give in and look up Richie Junior and let them have the satisfaction?”
“I’m not talking about Richie,” Travis says. “I couldn’t care less about that asshole. I’m talking about your dad.”
At that, I shake my head. “It doesn’t have much to do with my dad.”
“It has a lot to do with your dad, and I think you know that. You think I didn’t notice your hesitation to play the other night? Or how you couldn’t bring yourself to look down when we were on the balcony?” I cringe and Travis leans forward, his voice even quieter than before. “Let me ask you something. How many gigs have you played?”
“Gigs? None, really.”
“And how many auditions have you done?”
“I . . . none. Why?”
“Exactly, why? Why haven’t you been auditioning?”
I blow out a breath. “I’m not ready yet. I’m not good enough.”
“Who says you’re not good enough?”
Sinking more into my chair, I think about how to answer him. “Me, I guess,” I finally say. When Travis says nothing in return, I start to ramble. “I mean, I think I’m just afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” Travis presses.
I shrug as casually as I can. “Afraid of not living up to my dad. Afraid of not being good enough. Afraid of actually being good enough and then some record company like Paradise pushing me to make crappy music.”
“All understandable worries. But you want to play, right?” Travis asks gently. “Like, for a living.”
“It’s the only thing I want to do. It’s the only thing I can imagine myself doing.”
“Then can I be honest?” He looks me directly in the eye. “I told you, I don’t do bullshit. I don’t sugarcoat.”
I nod, giving him permission.
“I’ve heard you play. Not just the other night, but when you thought I wasn’t listening. When you tune my guitars or polish them after a show. You play whenever you can, and I have to tell you, Nate . . . you might be one of the best guitarists I’ve come across. Especially factoring in how young you are. And my fear for you is that you’re going to let what happened with your dad keep you from greatness.”
Greatness.
Dad was great. Travis is great. Nate Grisheimer is striving for it but never seems to quite reach it. And that gives me pause.
“What should I do?” I ask, resigned to Travis’s advice.
“Go home,” Travis says again. “Go home and don’t be afraid. Let people talk, but do what you need to do. Play. Being here with me on the road won’t let you play like you need to. You’ve got to write, play gigs that pay you next to nothing, accompany a singer or find a band, do the grunt work.”
“I plan on it soon, I really do. I’ve just been so busy working.”
“More excuses.” I flinch, and he goes on. “You’re too talented to be making ice cream cones. And while you’re sitting there, pouring sprinkles on top for some ingrate customer, you’re missing opportunities. Auditions or connections or whatever. You can’t do that at the Dairy Barn.”
“I know, but I have to get out of the house. I can’t take living with Tonya anymore, and I need money.”
“We all need money, Nate, but you’ve got a golden ticket in your pocket. Your dad was Mick Fucking Grisheimer, and you got what he had; he passed that gift on to you. Don’t be afraid of that, use it. The money will come, but you’ve got to do the work. Go home. Live. Find your sound. Do the work. And the money will come, I promise you.” Travis shakes his head. “And in the meantime, keep living on Tonya’s dime. She owes your dad that much.”
He says his last point with the kind of anger I’ve been harboring myself over the last decade, and I wonder, perhaps for the first time, if all my father’s fans see Tonya in that light.
A full minute goes by, maybe two, where I only sit and stare at him dumbly, mouth agape. Then, finding my voice, I ask, “And what about Cameron?”
“Other than Cameron pretty much representing everything you’re scared of, he’s irrelevant, don’t you think?” Travis jerks a shoulder. “He intrigued you. He made you write. But so will another guy. Hopefully one who doesn’t want you to sell your soul to Satan.”
I chuckle, but it’s fake. “So stay away from him? Ignore the paparazzi?”
Travis meets my eye, unblinking. “If it were me, I’d stay far away from the Pierces, and from Paradise. Especially now that they know who you are.”
As I try to process that, and try to figure out if it’s the answer I was hoping for, Travis gets up and walks over to the case that stores his acoustic guitar. The guitar isn’t in there. I know he’s already set it out onstage to prepare. Regardless, Travis lifts the lid and withdraws a piece of paper. He hands it to me.
I look at him in question but he only shrugs, so I unfold it and see he’s written down dates and addresses and other details in his wild scrawl. Audition information.
“There’s your schedule for next week,” Travis says with a nod
toward the paper in my hands. “I started jotting down auditions after that night on the balcony. Go to all of them you can, and more. Some are for studio work, which I know sounds like a slow, musical death, but it’s a steady paycheck and you’ll learn a ton. Those guys really know how to play.”
“I . . .” I start, but don’t know what else to say. Travis nods.
“We’re up and down the East Coast for two weeks, then we’re back. We’ve got studio time booked, the label wants our next album soon, and they’re going to drop it on the world like it’s a nuke. You and I need to jam while we can because pretty soon I’m going to be too big to remember all you little people.”
“So this is it?” I say.
“This is it.”
I nod. “Thanks for letting me hide.”
“Of course. But no more.”
“No more,” I agree, and almost believe I’ll do it.
“I’ll have them get a car for you. And Victor. I don’t suppose he wants to stay on.”
“I think he’s pretty homesick, really. And he likes the Dairy Barn,” I say, and Travis shakes his head like he’s never heard anything sadder.
“Nate, man, take care.” Travis and I do that guy thing where we do a handshake then pull each other in for a hug and a good thump on the back. As since neither of us is really that type of guy, it’s not smooth at all.
“You too. And if you ever need someone to tune your guitars again—”
“Not a chance. You’ll need someone yourself soon. You’ll see.”
I smile at him, and that’s it. This is where I leave Travis Blake and Liquid and go home to face the unwanted attention from the paparazzi and become a real musician.
Piece of cake.
Chapter Nine
Cameron
I sit back in a metal folding chair and cross yet another name off the list on my clipboard, then reach for my bottle of Diet Coke, wishing it were something stronger. Ross and Mitchell, the two studio musicians helping me with the auditions, are no more enthusiastic than I am.
“The last one wasn’t a bad player,” Ross says, trying to find a very elusive silver lining.
“He wasn’t,” I concede. “But he also had the personality of a wet blanket. And he kind of looked like one too. Sorta . . . lumpy and pale.”
Mitchell agrees with a laugh. “And he certainly didn’t do anything for your lyrics.”
I nod. We decided that the last part of the audition for my guitarist would be to see what they could do with a few lyrics of mine, and while some of the guitarists came up with interesting things, most fell flat, or stylistically went in a completely different direction from what I was hoping for.
Just then, the door swings open and Tess saunters in, holding a bottle of water spiked with rosemary and lemon and probably kale or whatever trendy vegetable of the week she likes. She’s wearing these high-waisted, pleated shorts that kind of look like they should be on a sailor from the forties, and a shirt that doesn’t cover her midriff. I’m sure I’ll see the outfit or something similar in the style section of Vanity Fair next week.
“Ugh, this is torture. How many more?” she says, sitting in the empty seat next to me.
I gaze down at the clipboard. “Today or . . .”
She buries her face in her hands. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. It’s better not to know.”
She leans back and digs out her phone, content to ignore me and the others until our fifteen-minute break is up. I see that she’s busy ordering things from a boutique in Rome, so I am fine ignoring her too.
I start to hum as I look over the couple of lines of lyrics I brought with me. I can almost hear the full song, but not quite. It’s like in dreams when you can recognize a person, but it’s not really their face.
Ross leans in my direction. “You know, I have to admit, when I heard you wanted to sing, I kinda thought—”
“Kinda thought I’d probably suck at it and was only doing this because of who my dad is?” I finish for him, not at all mad. It’s something I’ve come to expect. With a name like mine, I have to really earn my stripes, and when I earn them, I still have to put up with the assumption that it was only my name that got me there.
Ross nods. “Sorry, man. A voice like that, though, you wouldn’t even need your dad.”
I give him a smile and a pat on the back. “Thanks, Ross.”
“Hey, Cam, can I talk to you for a sec?” Tess says suddenly, and I nod. We both get up and head into a separate room.
The auditions today are in an abandoned warehouse downtown. Our need for total secrecy made it necessary to pick a random location, not the studio, and Ross suggested this place because of the acoustics. The owner was all too eager to rent the place for a week, but honestly, it’s the best space I could have asked for. The acoustics are great, and the run-down feel of it—the bricks that have settled into irregular lines, the giant windows that let in crooked shafts of light, the uneven wooden floors—reflects the roughness of my ideas, the unpolished sound of my lyrics, the slight edge in my voice. The warehouse really sets a tone.
Tess pulls me into a smaller room off to the side of the large open space we were using. At one point, perhaps it was someone’s office. There’s a rusted metal filing cabinet in one corner, some mint-green paint still visible.
“Is it okay with you if I jet for a few hours?”
I raise a brow. “Got a date with Taylor Huffman?”
If Tess were in any other kind of mood, she may have giggled. But she’s turned rather serious, her brows all scrunched together and lips pursed, and I regret joking. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, it’s fine,” she says hastily. “I just need to go put a fire out, so to speak.”
“With Paradise?” I ask, alarmed. We’d blocked off nearly all our mornings this week for auditions. If anything is going wrong back at the office, I should have been notified too.
Tess shakes her head. “No. It’s a personal thing. I’ll tell you later, okay?”
“As long as you’re sure you’re okay.”
Before Tess can answer in the affirmative, Ross’s and Mitchell’s voices rise up in a chorus of greetings, and a soft but deep voice answers back. It’s a voice that I recognize immediately, even if I’ve only ever heard it once.
I peek out the door and my heart drops into my stomach.
“Tess,” I hiss at my sister. She peeks out too, crouching slightly so we can both look out at the same time.
“Cinderfella?” Tess looks alarmed. “He’s auditioning?”
God, he looks good. He’s in these tight acid-washed jeans and a red V-neck, white high-top sneakers that have to be from the eighties, and a newsboy hat in a black-and-white gingham pattern. How a person can wear all that together and not look ridiculous is beyond me, but Nate pulls it off. No, Nate is beyond merely pulling it off. It’s sexy.
He holds the handle of his guitar case with both hands, white-knuckled.
“Am I too late? I got a bit lost.” He looks around the warehouse as if he still might be. “Is this where you’re auditioning for a guitarist for . . . To be honest, I’m not quite clear on what it’s for.”
“We were purposefully vague,” Ross says, smiling. “Did you call to reserve a spot?”
Nate’s face falls. “Oh. No. I’m sorry. I’m a bit new at this.”
Ross shrugs. “It’s okay. We have some spare time. Had a few no-shows earlier.” He glances over at me and Tess, and Tess signals him to go on, and pulls me back into the office.
“But I want to hear him,” I whisper to her.
“He can’t see you right now, Cameron. Trust me on this.”
Tess has a point, I suppose. He’d probably just run again. I glance back at Nate. He’s clearly making the rounds. He probably has plenty of other options, and he’d take them if he knew it was the crazy stalker who g
ot him on TMZ who was looking for a guitarist.
“Do you have a résumé?”
“Oh, sure.” Nate pulls a slightly wrinkled paper out of his guitar case and hands it to Mitchell, who glances at it with indifference before pushing it aside.
Mitchell quickly goes over what the audition process will be: they want to hear something prepared, want to hear him play something cold from a lead sheet, then they want to see what he does with my lyrics. And the whole time Mitchell talks, he never gives any indication of whom Nate would be playing for, or even any leads on a style. As discussed, we’re looking for someone who veers that way naturally, and all I can do is pray that maybe Nate will do just that.
“Can I start with my prepared song?” Nate asks. He takes his guitar out of its case and sits in the provided chair. He folds the guitar into his lap like a mother would her child, familiar and protective all at once.
Ross holds an open palm out. “Be our guest. What will you be playing?”
“Something I wrote myself, if that’s okay.”
Ross and Mitchell exchange a look that is mostly discreet, but I can see a brightness in their eyes that means they’re impressed. Most of the guitarists we’ve had played a cheesy eighties hair-band song, or they tried to attempt a classic solo and fell flat. None of them played anything original.
Ross nods and Nate begins.
At first it sounds almost classical, some pretty arpeggios and a twisting little run. Then he settles into a downtempo groove that makes me think of hot summer nights, back porches on rustic cabins, and moonshine.
Then, to my amazement, Nate starts to sing.
His voice is . . . serviceable. It’s not unpleasing, but I can tell the muscles in his throat aren’t accustomed to being used like this, and he doesn’t have much of a range. Despite his limits, he delivers it with startling emotion, and there are times when he seems to forget that his ability isn’t quite up to snuff, and he attempts a phrase too soulful to handle. It’s kind of adorable, actually, and in spite of the flaws, the fact that he knows it should be more soulful is telling of his skill as a songwriter.
