by L. Philips
“He’s good,” Tess whispers. “And the lyrics are good.”
Admittedly, I’d paid more attention to his voice than the words, but when she says that, I listen to his lyrics and Tess is right. The song is about a missed opportunity, a guy who got away, and I admit, I wish it were about me.
When he finishes, Mitchell and Ross don’t say a word, which is nothing new. They tend not to give any indication of their feelings during the audition itself. Mitchell leans across the table and gives Nate the lead sheet. The song is Luke’s, our new artist. We figured it was the closest we could find to what I want to do, but since he’s not even done with his album yet, no one knows the music.
Nate studies the music for what seems like an eternity. Tess must feel the same way because her hand snakes around my forearm and squeezes in anticipation. But then Nate sets the music on the stand next to him and plays, barely glancing at it. He plays skillfully, even sliding in some improvisation to make the song his own. When he’s done, he looks straight at Ross and Mitchell.
“That’s great. Kind of old-school R&B vibe, right? Who wrote it? It’s brilliant.”
“An unknown,” Ross says neutrally. “But he won’t be for long.”
“No, he won’t,” Nate agrees, smiling. “Is that who I’m auditioning for?” Mitchell and Ross exchange a look, and Nate laughs nervously. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have asked. But that would be awesome. He’s obviously talented.”
Mitchell leans forward again and hands Nate the lyrics. My lyrics. I watch his dark eyes scan the two simple lines and look for any judgment, but his face remains completely neutral. He sets the lyrics on the stand and adjusts his tuning pegs, then he starts to talk. But he’s not asking Ross and Mitchell for answers; he’s just thinking out loud.
“Okay, I get the feeling this should be slower. Slower and a bit . . . melancholy. But not sweet, either. There’s a little darkness here. A little anger. Like maybe a Stevie Ray Vaughan meets Marvin Gaye with a twist of Dolly Parton.” Nate grins at Ross and Mitchell. “I certainly can’t sing like her. Hell, I can’t sing at all. I hope you don’t hold that against me. This is about the guitar, right?”
Ross chuckles. “The guitar, and songwriting.” Ross leans back in his metal chair, which makes a buckling sound. “Show us what you’ve got.”
Nate starts to play, and just from the first few notes I can tell: he gets it. He gets what I’m going for. The Stevie meets Marvin meets Dolly sound. He’s got it. That perfect blend that is so me and my voice, so twisted up in longing and loneliness and responsibility. In breezy nights at the beach and the glowing orange of L.A. lights and neon signs. In the glamour of champagne at Chateau Marmont and the dingy, seedy bars where I see my favorite bands. Nate gets it, and when he starts to sing my lyrics, for the first time, I hear the melody that I’d been hoping for.
When he finishes, I feel bereft. I want him to go on forever, making something beautiful out of what little I could contribute.
There is a long pause, and finally Ross says, “Thank you, Nate. That was really good.”
Nate looks crestfallen, obviously hoping for more, or maybe an offer on the spot, his inexperience showing. He lifts his guitar by the neck and puts it back into the case, packing up. He nods once toward Ross and Mitchell, thanks them for their time, and walks out the door. It’s all I can do not to run after him and offer him a job right then and there.
Tess and I emerge from our hiding place and Ross’s smile nearly lights up the room. “So do we even bother with the rest of the auditions?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, but next to me, Tess is shaking her head.
“Cameron, we need to talk first. There’s something you need to know.”
Annoyed, I turn to my sister. “What could there possibly be to talk about? Yes, it will take some convincing, but he’ll get it. He does get it, didn’t you hear that? He’s exactly what I’m looking for.”
In more ways than one, I add silently.
“Yes, but . . .”
Tess never gets to finish her protest because suddenly Mitchell says, “Well, holy shit.”
“What?” everyone else says at once.
“Ross, the kid’s name is Nate Grisheimer. That has to be . . .”
“No.”
“He did sort of look like him. . . .”
“It is,” Tess says, her soprano voice cutting through the men. “It’s Mick Grisheimer’s son.”
Mick Grisheimer. I know the name. It stirs up vague memories of music and hushed arguments, my dad closing the door in my face as he takes yet another call about an artist at Paradise, of accusations, of headlines with my father’s name in them, grainy pictures of a high-rise apartment building with crowds and ambulances out front, and flowers laid by the door. But most of all it brings back memories of explosive anger. Of Mother refusing to come out of the house. Of Father being so consumed and distant for months that he seemed like a stranger. Of finally being sent to live with Grandma in Florida for a while.
Tess continues on. “That’s the fire I need to put out. Yesterday the press found out your Cinderfella is Mick’s son, and I was hoping to control it, but more and more sites are picking up the story. To be honest, short of Taylor and me announcing an engagement as a distraction, I’m not sure we can do anything at this point.”
“And you’re just now telling me?” I feel my jaw tighten. “Ross, Mitchell, would you excuse my sister and me for a moment?”
The two musicians nod and seem quite relieved to be leaving the conversation. The door shuts behind them, and I turn to Tess.
“Cameron, I’m sorry. You were finally making progress on this demo and I didn’t want you to lose focus.”
“Too late for that now. What are they saying? How bad is it?”
Tess blows her hair out of her eyes. “Bad. Bringing up all the stuff from before, about how Daddy was there. He and Mick argued, then Mick jumped to his death. That it was Daddy’s fault. But of course now they’re painting it like this relationship could be some sort of redemption for our family, as if we need to be redeemed.”
“And you’re sure we don’t?”
Tess stares at me, flummoxed, wide-eyed. “Are you kidding me?”
“Not at all.”
She shakes her head at me, disgusted and angry. “You remember what happened. They accused Daddy of practically pushing Mick out that window. He had to go into hiding. And that was pretty much the last time Mom ventured out in public. Daddy was hounded by the press. And you and I had to—”
“Go to Florida,” I finish for her. “I know all that, Tess. What I don’t seem to remember is hearing Father’s side of it.”
“Do you seriously think our father pushed Mick Grisheimer out that window?”
“No,” I say forcefully. “Of course not. I don’t even know if I believe they argued. But have you ever heard from Dad himself what happened?”
Tess relents slightly. “No. I’ve, well, I’ve researched it. Daddy didn’t ever respond to the rumors. Paradise issued a statement, naturally. Just a letter of sympathy to Mick’s grieving family. But . . . Daddy said nothing, because you know how proud he is. He wouldn’t have bothered to dignify the accusation with a response, but of course that didn’t look good and Paradise was in bad shape for a while.”
“And we were, what, nine? Maybe ten?”
“Probably closer to ten.”
“Which means you and I had nothing to do with it.”
I see the nervousness creep into Tess’s expression. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” I start, exasperated, “that I hope people don’t hold something against me that happened a decade ago, which I had nothing to do with, and my father may not have had much to do with either.”
Tess smiles at me, but it’s dim and filled with pity. “I doubt Nate will see it that way, Cam. How co
uld he?”
“I know. The way he looked at me when he realized who I was, it makes sense now. I doubt there’s even a chance,” I say with regret. “But thank you for letting me have my self-righteous asshole moment. I need him to play for me, though, Tess. He’s the only one who gets it. What do I do?”
She touches me on the cheek. It’s so Mom-like that I’m immediately comforted. “I think you have to let this one go, guitar and otherwise. Perhaps the best thing we can all do is stay out of the spotlight for a while. Let’s focus on the demo and our artists. It’ll be okay.”
I’m not sure I can believe that, but it’s all I’ve got for the moment, so she goes off to wage war with the tabloids, and I call Mitchell and Ross back in, and brace myself for the next round of auditions.
Nate
Victor sets a paper basket of crispy fries next to me and commands me to eat. I look down at them, both intrigued and disgusted by the amount of grease soaking the wax paper, and dig in. “Thanks.”
“You need to eat. Also, think Tonya would care if we broke out some chicken tenders?”
“I don’t know. She’ll probably take it out of our paychecks,” I say, mouth full. “But I think she was so happy to hear I actually wanted nothing to do with Cameron, she might forgive it. She actually smiled at me this morning. She might have even forgiven me for taking off for a couple weeks.”
Vic opens the deep freezer and pulls out an industrial-size bag of chicken tenders. He dumps about a dozen in the fryer. “If anyone understands wanting to get away from a Pierce as much as you do, it’s Tonya. Don’t you think?” Victor says. It’s one of those moments where he’s oddly profound and reveals how observant he is.
I nod to him. “You’re probably right.”
The tenders sizzle in the grease, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. Then Victor pivots and disappears into the small room behind the kitchen, where we store our possessions in tiny lockers. When he comes back through the swinging door, he has a stack of magazines in his arms. He dumps them out on the counter next to me. He’s got the whole spectrum of the rags, from People to the National Enquirer.
“Stopped by the drugstore on the way here. You’re only on the cover of one: Star. And it’s just your shoes again. But there are a couple of articles about your dad, and how you’re refusing to have any contact with Cameron.”
I thumb through the magazines, ignoring the god-awful sick feeling I have in my stomach. “Well, at least they can’t talk forever about how I’m not interested in Cameron. That’s not exciting. They’ll move on to something else soon.”
Victor nods. “Actually, Tess did you a favor.” He pulls a magazine out of the bottom and turns it so I can see it. Tess Pierce is on the cover. It’s a pretty good picture of her, considering she’s leaving a club at about four in the morning with Taylor Huffman’s entourage. She’s wearing a champagne-colored dress that barely covers anything, and leather booties that I know for sure are in Alexander McQueen’s fall line. Her hair and makeup are perfect. She looks beautiful. She looks like her brother.
“She’s back on with Taylor?”
“Oh, now you’re interested?” Vic says, chuckling. “Maybe. Or maybe she just knew the paps would go nuts with her and Taylor at the same club, and she wanted to take some heat off her brother.”
I groan. “Yes, the Pierces are so caring.”
“I still think it was Cameron who got the paparazzi to back off that first night.”
“Maybe, but if he did, it wasn’t for me. Cameron just didn’t want to look like a loser,” I say, but there’s no conviction in it. “Anyway, he’ll move on. The gossip will move on. Everything will move on. Including me.”
“Speaking of,” Vic begins, pulling the wire basket of tenders out of the pool of grease. They smell delicious. “How were your auditions yesterday?”
“Most of them were okay. I mean, I think I did all right. Some were a complete waste of time. Like, I’m pretty sure one of them was for a children’s group. Kinda like the Wiggles or something. They asked me to play the ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider.’”
“Ha. Should have gone all metal on it. Sung it in German.”
I laugh. “Maybe. But Travis said everyone has to start somewhere. I didn’t want to blow it, even if I was going to have to wear a purple dinosaur costume for the gig.”
Vic shakes his head at that, and we both reach for a tender, burn our fingers, and let out appropriate curses as we fling them back into the wire basket to cool.
“But there was one audition that was so . . . mysterious.”
Brow arched, Victor leans back against the counter and makes a circular motion with his hand. “Go on.”
“It was in this old warehouse, and all it said was that it was for an up-and-coming artist. So I get there, and the place is clearly a death trap. I’m pretty sure I passed about ten rats on the stairway as I went up to the second floor. And I get in there and it’s just these two guys at a folding table and a chair for me and a music stand. Still no description about what I’m auditioning for. At all.”
Victor is truly intrigued. He’s leaning forward a bit, waiting for the rest. I can’t resist prolonging it, so I reach for a chicken tender, still too hot, and make a big show of trying to cool it down.
“Nate . . .”
“Yes?”
“Are you kidding me? Don’t leave me hanging.”
I laugh and reach into a tub on the counter for a packet of honey mustard dip. “Here’s where it gets really good. They let me play my own song to audition, which none of the others did. The others all wanted to hear something famous. Then they had me read a chart that—and I could be wrong, but I have a hunch—was written by Luke Miles. Remember that new singer I dragged you to see a few weeks back?”
“The male Amy Winehouse? Yeah, I remember.” Victor’s eyes are wide. “You really think you auditioned for Luke Miles?”
I shrug. “I don’t have any idea, but it was his style. Totally.” I bite into the chicken and thank whichever god created honey mustard. “But then they had me write my own music to go with some lyrics they had.”
Victor is mid-bite himself, but that doesn’t stop him from talking. He sprays crumbs as he says, “Write something on the spot? Is that normal?”
“As far as I know, it’s about as abnormal as you can get. Seems like they’re looking for a songwriter, too.”
Victor considers this. “So how’d you do?”
“Okay, I think,” I say. “I tried to match Luke’s style, but put my own spin on it.” What I don’t say to Victor is that I’d totally put the kind of spin on it that Cameron and I had talked about the night we met: a little bit folksy, a little bit California beach.
“Well, I mean, you always say you’re much better at writing music than writing lyrics. Sounds like that could be a match for you.”
I smile, a bit proud. “Honestly, I’d be floored if they didn’t call. They didn’t say anything, but I could tell they liked me.”
“And then you could be working for Luke.”
“I could be working for Luke,” I agree. “Or,” I add, and I feel my smile brighten, “I could be working for someone even better than Luke. Those lyrics were good. Really good.”
Victor beams, and I get warm fuzzies from my best friend being proud and happy for me. He raises his chicken tender in the air.
“To working for someone better than Luke!” he says, tapping his chicken finger to mine.
“I’ll eat to that,” I say, and stuff the rest of the chicken into my mouth.
Chapter Ten
Cameron
I feel a bit like my father, sitting at my big, expensive desk, hands steepled together, looking over résumés. But I’m betting my father never experiences crippling self-doubt like this.
I’ve made two piles: the ones that won’t work and the ones that would be okay if
I have to pick someone other than Nate Grisheimer. That pile is pretty small, and if a pile of résumés can look disappointing, that one certainly does. Nate’s résumé is in a folder next to the piles, and for about the fortieth time today, I pull it out and read it again like I have an acute case of OCD. I practically have it memorized.
Seventeen years old. He’s played nowhere professionally yet, just some groups at school and with his private teachers here and there. And his private teachers (I’ve discovered by a simple Google search) were the cream of the crop. At the top of that list, of course, is the one and only Mick Grisheimer. Nate doesn’t say they’re related in his résumé. He doesn’t have to. As Ross said after we were done with auditions yesterday, “Only Mick Grisheimer’s son could sound that much like Mick Grisheimer.”
Blowing out a breath, I reach over and press a button on my desk phone.
“Mr. Pierce?” Parker’s voice answers on the speaker.
“Hey, do you think you could do me a favor?”
“That is my job, sir.”
Right. Of course it is. “Do you think you could find Mick Grisheimer’s old masters for me?”
Parker doesn’t answer right away. I hear some typing, a pause, then more typing. Finally, Parker says, “I don’t see a record for them in the archives. Would they be in our active registry?”
I sit back in my chair. No, there’s no way his recordings are active. I don’t think Paradise ever actually made a cent off of Mick, especially after his death. A sudden thought makes my stomach sink. “Can you check our rights sales? We might have sold them.”
There’s another pause, more tapping at a keyboard, then Parker says, “I’m not finding anything, sir. If you want, I could run over to the archives. See if maybe the recordings just aren’t listed in the electronic catalog.”
