Sometime After Midnight

by L. Philips

  Everything Travis is saying makes sense. He’s totally right, of course. Everything could end really badly with Cameron, on all fronts. He could sell out my music, steal my ideas, break my heart, leave me feeling like my life is over. I know that’s the point Travis is trying to make, the one I should concentrate on, but I can’t help but wonder if it would all be worth it. Just to feel that incredible intensity with someone for once. To fall in love and create and be totally wrapped up in our music and each other. It seems like the good might be worth the bad. I mean, maybe Liquid’s music is so good because of the highs and lows Lindsay put Travis through.

  Travis speaks again, and his voice sounds muffled, like he’s off in the distance. “You okay, man?”

  I nod and try to sound sincere. “You’re right, of course. You always are.”

  “Do me a favor and tell Vanessa that when you see her again.”

  I laugh, but it peters out quickly. I just don’t have it in me right now to be anything but sad.

  Travis notices. He gives me a playful punch on the cheek. “There are other great singers. Other pretty boys. Hell, Brendon’s both of those things too, and he’s from a hick town in Ohio. They’re everywhere. The world is practically overrun with pretty boys with great voices. You’ll see.”

  “Other fish in the sea and all that?”

  Travis smiles at me. “Something like that. You’ll find your fish. And he won’t be a Pierce.”

  There are other fish, but I’m not convinced that I want any fish that’s not Cameron Pierce. And not being able to convince myself of that scares me. Shames me, even. My father is probably looking down on me, disappointed.

  I thank Travis and he hugs me in that rough, man-hug kind of way, and I make my way back to the Tank, not feeling any more confident about my options than before I arrived. In fact, I’m more conflicted.

  I know what I should do, but what I want to do is an entirely different story.

  * * *

  ***

  I feel like I’ve been in the Tank for days by the time I get back to L.A., even if it’s only been a few hours. The traffic is literally the worst—standstill on the freeway until I nearly lose my mind—and I’m seriously regretting all the Diet Coke I had to drink. By the time I roll back into town, the sun has set, and the hills are lit up neon blue and orange and pink.

  I stop at a convenience store to pee and grab some bottled water (okay, and a package of Red Vines) and I’m waiting in line when I spot the maps. Right there on the counter, being advertised as in nearly every gas station in L.A. Travis’s words roll around in my brain, but I reach for a map anyway. “Map to the Stars,” the title reads.

  “How much are these?”

  The old woman behind the counter rattles off an answer as if she does it at least once an hour, every day. “Ten bucks. It doesn’t have Brad Pitt on it,” she warns.

  “No Brad Pitt?” I ask, acting incredulous. “Too good for the tourists or what?”

  The old woman snaps her gum. “They get big heads when they get famous. He used to be so cute. Buns you could bounce a quarter off of.”

  I open it. It’s a pocket-size, cartoonish depiction of the city and some of the surrounding areas. Not sure even where to begin, I pretend to be merely curious. “Any chance Tess Pierce’s house is on here?”

  The old woman waves her hand dismissively at me. “I don’t follow her. You ask me, a young lady should carry herself with a bit more decorum than that one. Of course, if I looked like that, I think I’d be all over that Taylor Huffman too. I’d love to pinch those cheeks, and I don’t mean on his face.”

  Sufficiently grossed out, I set the map on the counter too, and pay quickly. I climb back in the Tank, tear open the package of Red Vines, and stuff a few in my mouth. As I chew, I scan the map for a clue. It only takes me seconds to find one.

  “Home of Richard Pierce, owner of Paradise Entertainment” it says in the map’s key. I follow the coordinates it suggests and it’s the biggest house in a neighborhood of giant mansions. Beverly Hills, to be exact.

  I stare at the drawing of the Pierces’ house. All that house, all that money. Travis’s advice echoes like background music. But so does Cameron’s face. And his voice. And that face. And that voice.

  In that moment I make a decision to ignore all of Travis’s well-intentioned (and probably correct) advice. I chuck the Red Vines onto the passenger seat and turn the key, guiding the Tank back to the street.

  My first week out here, Dad took me around Los Angeles. We did all the silly touristy things: the Chinese Theater, Hollywood Studios, Disneyland, pictures in front of the Hollywood sign. The whole bit. I was in awe. Not because of the massive amount of people or their wealth or even the sheer size of it. I was a New Yorker, after all. That didn’t faze me. Instead, it was the electric buzz of possibility in everything. Like everyone in L.A. had a dream, and there was a chance that every single one of those dreams could come true. There was a certain hope to the place, an optimism, that was missing from my sometimes cynical hometown.

  My dad felt it too. I could hear it in his voice when he first moved here permanently and he’d call home to check in on me and Grandma. He thought L.A. was paradise. He wasn’t so much impressed with celebrity and money but with the environment itself. He told me once that the hills and valleys and palms and constant breeze nursed creativity. There were musicians everywhere, opportunities everywhere. He was making an album; his own particular Los Angeles dream was coming true.

  But something changed. The phone calls became infrequent at best. When he did call, he often set down the phone and played guitar until we both forgot we were supposed to be talking. I’d fall asleep listening to his melancholy Stratocaster, and when I woke again, the phone was dead. After Grandma died and I moved here, I rarely saw him happy. I rarely saw him at all. My dad had changed. I knew. Just from his voice or his dull eyes or the somber music I’d hear late at night. Something dark had taken hold of him, and he wasn’t the same man anymore. The hope was gone. He could erase the pain for a while, long enough to do silly touristy things with his son, but not even all the sunny California days in the world could bring it back.

  It wasn’t until a year later that I finally heard, from a heartless classmate, that the rumor was that my dad had jumped. That it hadn’t been an accident.

  It didn’t take me long after that to figure out that Richard Pierce and the relentless Paradise Entertainment company had pushed him to it. A simple Google search told me as much.

  But now here I am, on a warm Californian night, headed to Richard Pierce’s residence, to persuade his son, practically beg his son, to give me a shot. My brain is screaming (in a voice that sounds a lot like Travis Blake) that this is a terrible idea. But my gut says something else. And maybe, if I’m honest with myself, it’s not just my gut. And because of that, I don’t immediately turn the Tank around and head home when I realize what a strange circle this is. The lyrics to “Hide” repeat in a loop in my head as I drive, in a gravelly tenor that’s tight with tears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cameron

  After the week I’ve had, there is absolutely nothing wrong with sitting in my hot tub and eating a whole plate of chili fries while I work. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. If the paperwork for Luke Miles’s final tour schedule gets a little damp or chili stained, so be it.

  I polish off the last of the fries and lick my fingers shamelessly. Then I lean back, sinking into the bubbling hot water, and drink deep from my glass of Diet Coke (hey, at least that has no calories).

  Tess, who is relaxing in the seat opposite mine, pulls a face. “I’m amazed. And jealous. You never gain a pound. Or if you do, it’s all, ‘Look, Junior’s bulking up! It’s so sexy!’ I gain an ounce, or lose one, and I have some sort of eating disorder.”

  I stick out my foot and nudge her. “It’s unfair. I agree.
Think Michelle would make me some brownies?”

  “Now you’re just rubbing it in.”

  I laugh. “I am. Sorry. Do you think we’re done with the schedule?”

  “I think Luke’s tour is going to be grueling. For him and you.”

  I look around myself. Our hot tub is built into a small hill off to the side of the pool, surrounded by stones and fed by a waterfall that drops into the hot tub, then overflows below into the heated, kidney-shaped pool. It’s all made to look lagoon-like, and it’s one of my favorite spots in the whole world. To me, whenever someone uses the word “luxury,” I think of our pool.

  “Promise you won’t tweet this?” She holds out her right hand and we pinky swear. “I will admit it to you, and only to you. I . . . might be a little spoiled.”

  Tess lies back and closes her eyes, a knowing smirk on her face. “Which is precisely why this tour is going to be hard for you. No Michelle to make you brownies. No hot tub. Not even a room of your own. You’ll share with the band.”

  I groan.

  “Start selling records and maybe we’ll think about letting you have a sectioned-off room for privacy. But right now, you are going to literally be singing for your supper.”

  I lift water to my face and splash it on my skin. “You are the worst boss ever.”

  Tess’s thin shoulders shrug. “Not your boss. Not yet. Maybe if and when Daddy retires.”

  “Nope,” I say, and Tess opens her eyes, surprised. “You are destined for greater things, sis.”

  “Speaking of, I think I’ve thought of a name for my foundation.” She pauses for the dramatic factor. “Project Paradise. What do you think? Ties it back to our family, but also women helping other women take over the world? Sounds like paradise to me.”

  “I love it,” I say, laughing, and she beams. “You know, we really can work on your thing before we work on mine.”

  For a moment she studies me in silence. Then finally, she says, “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure I love the motivation behind it. What makes you so afraid, Cameron?”

  I hate how she knows me so well sometimes. My first instinct is to deny that I’m afraid, but doubt trips it up on my tongue. What is making me so afraid? I don’t know how to even begin answering that, but luckily for me, I don’t have to. Right at that moment, Michelle bursts out of the house. She’s already in her pajamas and ready to go to bed.

  “Mister Cameron. There is someone at the gate who says he is here for you. Lucien won’t let him in. He says he doesn’t recognize him at all.”

  Tess and I exchange a look.

  “Xavier?” she asks. “He got in from London today and Lucien wouldn’t know him. He never came to the house.”

  “Why would it be Xavier?” I ask her, and she rolls her eyes. I sigh. “Okay, well, how did you know?”

  “You have to stop leaving your phone everywhere.”

  “You have to stop snooping.”

  “It’s not snooping if it’s in plain sight. It’s like you want me to know.”

  “Mister Cameron?” Michelle says, voice bringing me back to the issue at hand. I stand up.

  “Coming, Michelle. I’ll take care of it. Thank you.”

  She smiles wide and goes back inside the house, probably grateful that she can go to bed and not deal with this bullshit. I grab my towel and Tess’s, and toss it to her as we emerge from the hot water.

  Sufficiently dry, I walk inside the pool house and switch the TV from the crime drama it had been on to the security screen. In crisp black-and-white, I’ve got a view from Lucien’s tower in the gate and there, parked right in front of the massive iron structures that keep out the riffraff, decorated with a very large P so that everyone knows who lives here, sits a beat-up old Suburban. And outside of the Suburban, talking with Lucien, is Nate Grisheimer.

  “Holy shit,” Tess whispers as she walks into the pool house.

  I ignore her and press a button, turning on the volume. Nate’s explaining himself to Lucien.

  “. . . he offered me a job. I auditioned for him just the other day. To be a guitarist? I’m just here to talk to him. And see if I can audition again.”

  My heart does a little dance of joy in my chest and my smile is so wide, it hurts my face. I’m about to press a button to talk to Nate when Tess reaches out and stills my hand. I look at her.

  “Don’t make this easy on him,” she whispers. “I saw how you looked after he left. What you wrote.”

  “But, Tess . . .”

  “I know. You like him. You like how he plays. But you need to be the boss here, Cameron. Show him who’s in control. And do it now. That’s how Daddy would do it. He’s got to know you’re in charge right from the start.”

  I turn back to the screen, considering her words, and make a decision. I speak loudly, clearly, formally, and with all the authority I can muster. “Good evening, Mr. Grisheimer.”

  Nate looks around wildly for the source of my voice and, unable to locate it, gives up and calls out as if to the great beyond. “Cameron! Sorry to just show up. I—”

  “It’s nearly the middle of the night, Nate.”

  At that, I can almost see all the hope rushing out of him in a big whoosh, a deflated shell left behind, shoulders slumped. “I know. I’m sorry. You’re probably busy.”

  I look at Tess, asking if it’s okay to show some sympathy yet. She shakes her head. “What do you want?”

  On-screen, Nate shrugs. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. About the stuff I said. And I wanted to ask if it would be possible to do that audition? If you’d still want me.”

  Is he kidding? I swallow down my glee and keep my voice serious and somber. “All right, Mr. Grisheimer. Proceed with the audition.”

  Nate looks up in surprise. He has, at least, roughly estimated where the speakers are hidden in the tower. “You mean right now?”

  “That is why you came, isn’t it?”

  “I know, but . . .” Nate casts a glance sideways. “Out here?”

  “Correct,” I say. One word. Authoritative. Self-assured. Like Father. Show him who’s in charge, even if I feel like I should be the one begging.

  Nate pauses, resigned, then after a moment reaches into the old Suburban for his guitar. I have to admit, I admire his pride, the quiet dignity he shows on his face, even though what I’m asking of him is clearly meant to take him down a peg.

  He shrugs the guitar strap over his shoulder and tunes up. Then, with a nod toward the camera, he starts to play. And sing. And it’s my song, but he’s completed it. Every unfinished melody, every chord, every thought. My parts seamlessly blend into his, as if they were never separate, as if it was whole all along. It’s still my song. But it’s his song too. It’s our song.

  Nate looks back up at the camera, and I could swear he can see through it, straight to me. For a moment his last notes vibrate in the air. I can hear the quiet rumble of cars in the valley below. I can hear the Californian breeze rustling the leaves of the ivy growing over our thick, fortress-like walls. I hear our old security guard sniff.

  Then I reach over and hit a button on our security system, and with a groan that breaks the peace, the massive Pierce gates swing open.

  * * *

  ***

  The rusty Suburban circles around the fountain in the center of our driveway and comes to a stop in front of me. Nate climbs out, and even though it’s late and he’s clearly flustered, he looks even better than the last time I saw him, which is saying something. The deep V of his plum-colored shirt reveals a smooth, intriguing patch of skin. I straighten and try to look like I am anything but surprised by this new development.

  Nate lifts his face, his eyes scanning my house in awe. Then he focuses on me.

  “Um, is it okay to park here?”

  “I would say so. It’s not like anyone else will need this spot
at this hour.”

  Tess is behind me suddenly. She’s managed to change into designer yoga pants and a cute stretchy top, like this is totally what she sleeps in. She shifts into hostess mode.

  “Nate. I’m glad you finally deigned to audition. Come in. Would you like a drink?”

  Nate follows her, and I let him pass in front of me. As he does, his gaze flicks down to my bare chest and then quickly away. I was cursing fate that all I had on was swim trunks and a towel hanging from around my neck, but you know, this isn’t so bad, either.

  Nate gapes at our massive foyer and I fight to keep a smile off my face. Tess waves him in, all warmth and charm.

  “We have water, club soda, wine, beer? I’d offer a cocktail, but Michelle is already in bed and I’m afraid I don’t know how to make anything but a screwdriver.”

  “Just water, thanks?” Nate says like a question, as if he doesn’t know if that was the right thing to say.

  Tess leaves to find Nate a drink, and he goes back to staring at the house.

  “You really live here?” he asks me, incredulous. “I mean, of course you live here, but it doesn’t look lived in. It’s so huge. And so . . . clean.”

  I nearly laugh, but catch myself and nod instead. “The foyer can be intimidating. It’s meant to be. But trust me, the rest of the place feels like a real home. Would you like a tour?”

  Nate makes a noise that’s like a giggle he’s trying to keep inside. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  Tess returns with water for all of us, and a white T-shirt for me. She presses it against my chest and leans close, whispering. “Put this on so he can concentrate on the task at hand, would you?”

  “But I think I could talk him into anything this way,” I whisper back, throwing my shirt on quickly. “And so much more fun.”

  Tess rolls her eyes and then turns to Nate, voice loud now. “Why don’t we sit out back and discuss the audition? It’s such a nice night.”