by L. Philips
She pulls me closer to her. It’s so like Mom. Mom is always kind too. “I . . . I don’t think you can. I don’t think even Daddy could make this right. Not for Nate, anyway. I mean, could you let go of something that big? What if we’d lost Mom? Or Dad? They may not be stellar parents, but God knows we’d be completely messed up without them.”
I curl into her, let myself be comforted. “It was stupid to ask. This whole thing is stupid. I don’t know why I can’t just let him go. We’ve barely talked.”
“Barely, but he could play. And apparently he did a hell of a good job with your lyrics. Mitchell even said so.”
“He did. But it wasn’t just that.” I close my eyes and picture Nate that night at the show. “Ever just feel so incredibly drawn to someone that you have to cross a crowded room just to say hello? Or spend five minutes with someone and they’re already finishing your sentences? Or been so intrigued by a stranger that you stay up at night, wondering who they are? That you stay up at night, wondering exactly what it is about them that makes you feel like you have to get to know them?”
“Actually, no,” Tess says. She laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way about anyone. Even Taylor. I think I only feel that way about shoes.”
I roll my eyes and laugh too. I should tell her to knock off the shallowness; it’s insincere and fits her all wrong. Another conversation for another time.
“Sounds like a soul mate thing,” she muses, before I can say anything.
“That would be a cruel trick the universe played if my soul mate was the one guy in the world who hated our whole family.”
“Please, he’s not the only guy who hates us.”
We both laugh, but I sober quickly. “So what now?”
Tess picks at her fluffy skirt. “Like I said, the second best. There was one guitarist who was a good player, right? He didn’t have a lot of ideas, but he took direction well. He could probably catch on. Then we record, take it to Paradise, and tell them all about this up-and-coming artist we discovered. I mean, your music is already getting a lot of attention on Instagram, and it’s only been up for a few minutes.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, and my stomach flips around and makes me feel all nauseated. The last time I was popular on Instagram, I made Nate’s life a living hell.
“Your song. Whatever you were singing when I walked in. I put it on Instagram.”
“Tess! That wasn’t done! It was nowhere near good enough for . . . god, how many followers do you have again?”
“Not many.” Tess shrugs, gives me a wicked smirk. “But it’s mostly not my fault. Harry and Xavier shared it too. Since you’re obviously übertalented, both of them are claiming they had musical influence on you and now they’re fighting over you like it’s two years ago all over again.” Her smirk becomes more pronounced and she whispers conspiratorially. “I mean, if you just wanted to have some fun, I think both of them would be up for it again. Get your mind off Nate, anyway. Although if you have to choose, I’d go with Xavier. He was always sweeter than Harry, and I think hotter, don’t you?”
I’m staring at her incredulously. “Tess, you cannot keep posting things about me like that.”
“You’re so uptight.”
“I am not uptight; I’m pissed. It’s just . . . too personal.”
“No, it’s music, Cam. And music is personal. You’re going to have to get used to sharing the personal stuff.” She has a point, but I’m too mad to acknowledge it. “Besides,” she continues, and she stands, making her way out the door, “if you’d just get your own Instagram, I wouldn’t have to. And think about calling Xavier. You could stand to release a little tension.”
Nate
Victor’s grilling me about every detail, as if I could possibly remember all the things I said to Richard Cameron Pierce Jr. Cameron. Maybe I should refer to him as Sir Pierce, or is it Lord? Or are those titles too beneath him? His Majesty might work better.
We went to the In-N-Out, since Victor had to come back to get me and never made it there, and there’s no way he’d pass up a burger. As we head back, we hit some heavy traffic on Sunset, and we pause in the standstill. Vic’s got the Jacket Zippers blaring, and usually I’m good with that, but right now the association with the Jacket Zippers is too much. I reach over and turn it off, and the AC while I’m at it. For some reason I’m shivering.
Victor says nothing, and rolls down the windows instead. The sounds of the city pour through. Then, “Did you really say that thing about his dad being a bloodsucker?”
I wince. “I think I did.”
And I may have meant it, but maybe I shouldn’t have said it out loud. At least not to his face.
“And he still wanted you to play for him?” Vic asks. I nod. “You have the upper hand, you know.”
“What are you talking about?”
We inch forward. “With Cameron. He wants your body. And/or your guitar playing. I think he’d do anything to get it.”
“Don’t be crass.”
“I mostly meant the guitar playing.”
I sigh. “You mean I should ask for an absurd amount of money and do it?”
“Yes. Or money and a ton of control. I mean, you’d be songwriting, right? You know there’s more money in that than playing.”
“Preaching to the choir, my friend,” I say. “But I can’t.”
Victor opens his mouth, probably to argue with me, but at that moment both of our phones make loud, important sounds. Since we’re stuck in traffic, Victor wastes no time pulling his out of his pocket and looking, and I do the same.
Mine has a text from Travis Blake. I read it before my brain can freak out that Oh my god, Travis Blake is texting me.
Thought you should see this. Sounds like that Pierce guy wrote a song about you too.
I pull up the link he’s sent, and it’s a video. The link is to Instagram, to Tess Pierce’s account, more specifically. I hit play, and the image comes to life. It’s Cameron, sitting on the floor of the warehouse I’d just left, and he’s singing to himself. He’s got a notebook in his hand and he’s scratching out words in pencil, in time with the melody, and he’s obviously unaware that someone’s taking a video of him.
Next to me, Victor’s phone is blaring out the same video but lagging a few seconds behind mine. I pause mine and lean my head back against the seat, shutting my eyes, and Cameron’s voice fills the car.
I don’t know what’s more surprising to me, that his voice is actually really good, or that I’m hearing Richard Cameron Pierce Jr. sing at all. He shouldn’t have that voice. He shouldn’t sound so good. His voice should be off-key, flat; it should sound robotic or snobby or distant. Instead it’s emotional, and nervous and somehow humble, and his heartache comes through with every note. He’s quiet, suppressing all the power his voice has the potential to unleash, almost whispering. But even at the whisper, every note is dead on pitch, hugging every soulful word.
“Okay,” Victor breathes. “Maybe he wants more than your body and your guitar skills.”
“What?” I say, lost.
“Aren’t you listening to the words, man? If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was in love with you already.”
Victor starts the video over and this time, I listen to the words.
. . . Barely know you but my heart does
Like we’re lovers from another time
You found me again, or I found you
And your soul connects to mine
Victor snorts. “It seems Cameron believes in soul mates. That’s pretty emotional stuff for someone whose father is a bloodsucker.”
My cheeks burn at that, and I’m not quite sure whether it’s shame or anger. I motion to Victor’s phone. “Turn it off. I can’t listen anymore.”
I close my eyes and try to block out Cameron’s voice, his words, the melody, as they al
l echo around in my head.
Victor makes a humming sound, and I open my eyes. He’s scrolling quickly through a Twitter feed, clearly unconcerned that traffic might actually move one of these days.
“What now?” I ask, my heart rate speeding up. “Are they talking about me again?”
Victor shakes his head and doesn’t look away from his screen. “No one’s really linked it to you. Yet. It’s mostly that Harry Garrett and Xavier Conrad are fighting over Cameron now. They’re both claiming the song in the video is about them. They’re probably jealous. Cameron’s song is better than anything Harry or Xavier wrote for the London Five.”
I lean over and look at Victor’s phone, and sure enough, Harry and Xavier are in an outright war with each other. Harry says Cameron wrote the song while they were vacationing together in Italy last year. Xavier says that Cameron sang it to him on his yacht when they went sailing in the spring. Their profile pictures are both gorgeous, Harry with his long shag of blond hair, and Xavier bare-chested, dark skin gleaming over ripples of muscle.
“I can’t believe Cameron’s been with both of those guys. Must be freaking nice,” I mutter, more to myself than Victor. “Silver spoons and hot guys just because your last name is Pierce.”
“Yeah, and the guy with the silver spoons and hot guys wants you. We both know that song wasn’t about Harry or Xavier.”
“He could have anyone,” I say as an argument to Victor.
“Probably. He’s rich and superhot, and I say that as a straight guy. Of course he is. His twin is Tess Pierce. And he’s also smart because he wants the best guitar player in the world to play for him.” I start to argue with that, but Victor cuts me off. “And stop selling yourself short. Of course he wants you. You’re hot too. God, that was painful to say, and I’ll never say it again. I hate giving you a big head. But seriously, do you know how many times I have to disappoint girls at school when they ask about you, and I say you won’t be interested?”
“Maybe you should ask me out.”
“Dude, this is so why I didn’t want to talk to you about it.”
I laugh and Victor crosses his arms over his chest. I reach out and pat his arm. “Thanks, Vic. I don’t quite believe you, but thanks.”
Miraculously, the traffic starts to move again. Victor pockets his phone, so I take mine out. I don’t look at Twitter. I don’t particularly care to see famous guys fighting over Cameron, or imagine what it must have been like to have the kind of intimate moments with him where he sang a song for me. But maybe Victor’s right. Maybe I don’t have to imagine.
I press play on the video again, and Cameron’s soulful voice fills the car. One side of Victor’s mouth curls up into a smile, and I smile too, and I let Cameron sing to me, all the way home.
Cameron
Even though my phone is on vibrate, it interrupts every thought I have during the meeting about Luke Miles. The video of me singing has gone completely viral, due to my ex-boyfriends’ little spat over the inspiration of it. And also due to the fact that I won’t respond to any of it. It’s making the paps bonkers. There were some outside of Paradise Tower this morning, begging for some scrap of knowledge about the story that they could turn around and sell to the highest bidder.
Instead, I’d teased them more and got in a bit of Paradise promotion while I was at it. “Who says I even wrote the song? Maybe it’s a Paradise artist. Can’t say just yet,” I’d said in answer to all their shouted, rude, and prying questions. I have to admit, maybe Tess is on to something. Playing with the paparazzi is really fun, and it’s so damn easy.
I get up from my seat as Tess talks to the rest of Luke’s team and look down at the entrance twelve stories below. Only a few parasites remain, perhaps the most stubborn or desperate of them all, I can only assume.
Tess is handling the meeting just fine, so when my pocket vibrates again, I take my phone out and finally look at my messages. Hundreds from Twitter, but among them there’s a text from Xavier.
Morning, babe. Can’t wait until we can get together and . . . talk.
My ears burn. I was in a weakened state the night before, having been rejected both personally and professionally by Nate Grisheimer yet again, and perhaps I’d sent a bit of a suggestive text to Xavier. Perhaps I’d sent one to Harry too, maybe to kind of fish around for attention, if anyone was willing to give it. Harry had been willing too. But the London Five were actually in London at the moment, not L.A.
I briefly wonder if Xavier and Harry had been in the same room when I’d cast my net and am totally amused by the thought.
“So unless Cam has anything to add,” I hear my sister say pointedly, interrupting my thoughts, “I’d say we’re done with Luke’s touring schedule.”
I turn and give her a look. I’m very good at multitasking on occasion, and I’d listened to every word. “Sounds like it,” I say. “As long as we can hammer out those Canadian dates. Canada will love Luke, so we don’t want to make a cluster out of it.”
The PR people for Luke nod and my sister looks somewhat relieved to see I’ve been paying attention. “Now, one last item on the list. Luke needs an opening act.”
I scrunch my face up. This wasn’t on my agenda, or at least it wasn’t on the one Tess had sent to me this morning to approve. But there’s no way in hell I’ll look unprepared in front of my father’s people. “Let’s throw someone in with him who the same crowd will love, of course, but has a different feel. We don’t want anyone too similar to Luke to open for him.”
Luke’s producer speaks up. “Cameron, we were thinking you.”
I blink. “Me?”
Tess nods. “It makes sense. You have a similar sound but different enough not to be a Luke Miles wannabe. You’ll have a single to promote by the time the tour starts, and there’s already a ton of hype around your music career thanks to the London Five. Go out as Luke’s opener so that people think you’re paying your dues, not just there because your dad got you the gig. Prove yourself, but do it by riding this little wave of attention right now. It makes sense to you, doesn’t it?”
There’s a murmur around the table in agreement. I’m still a bit lost, though.
“This is all assuming that I get a demo done and that our father actually signs me.”
Tess smiles. It’s somewhat cold, or maybe calculated is the better word. “You’ll get the demo done. It turns out Luke was willing to lend his own guitarist to the project—after a bit of persuasion from me, of course. Now we just need to get it done. As for Daddy, I wouldn’t worry too much. Your video is so popular right now that if Daddy doesn’t give you a deal, someone else will. Soon.”
“I . . .” I start, but don’t finish.
Tess waves a graceful but dismissive hand around the table. “Meeting adjourned. We’ll talk again soon.”
Everyone gets up to leave, but Tess and I remain seated. When the door of the conference room shuts behind the last person, I find my voice.
“Tess, this is too much pressure. It’s too fast. I’m not sure I can—”
“Well, you’re going to have to, if you actually want this. And you do actually want this, right?”
I take a deep breath and exhale with a whoosh. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything. You were right about that.”
“Then you need to go for it. Now. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that. With or without the cute talented guitarist who has a bad history with our family.”
She gathers her things and makes to leave, but I call to her before she gets to the door. “Tess.”
She turns. “Yes?”
“I don’t like this.”
“Me being in charge?”
“Yes.”
“That’s pretty sexist of you.”
“It has nothing to do with you being a woman and everything to do with you being my twin. I don’t feel like we’re on equal footing rig
ht now, and we’ve always been equal.”
Tess comes to me and cups my cheek in her hand. I can smell her expensive French perfume. “Cam, you know I love you, and I respect you. You are always in control and good at all the things you do. You’re confident in all the things you do. Except for singing, for some reason, and the only thing I can figure is that it’s the thing you most want, so it scares you to fail. So I push, because I’m afraid that if I don’t, you won’t push yourself. When I don’t have to push anymore, I won’t.”
She slides a paper in front of my eyes. It’s a rehearsal and studio schedule for the next couple of weeks. I eye it and let it sink in, let what she’s saying sink in.
I say nothing, because she’s right, and I hate when she’s right. For some reason, maybe fear (she’s probably right about that too), I haven’t pushed myself to do this. And maybe it’s because it’s the thing I most want in the world. What happens if I’m not good enough? What happens if I somehow am, and I have to keep being good enough? I bury my head in my hands and stare at the schedule on the table.
I can almost hear her smirk. “You’re welcome,” she trills, and turns to go, a flurry of perfume and self-congratulation.
“Wait.”
She turns back, disappointed not to have her dramatic exit.
I raise my head and meet her gaze. “I want to push you too. If Paradise isn’t what you want, then you have to tell me what is. Let me support you. Let me push when you need a push.”
Tess considers this silently for a moment, then nods her consent. “All right. I suppose that’s fair.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m starting a foundation, Cameron. To help lower-income women get an education. We’ll provide books, tutors, pay testing fees, supplement tuition. We’ll provide a nice outfit for interviews, even. And then, when those girls get out into the workforce, we’ll continue to help them. Like a return on our investment in them, in a way. These women will help other girls like them. They’ll write legislation, provide health care, cure diseases, fight in courts against discrimination. They’ll teach and mentor and shelter, if need be. It’s going to be a charity, but a think tank too. Helping women to reach their potential, then helping them help other women.”
