Sometime After Midnight

by L. Philips

  She doesn’t wait for our answer and turns toward the grand staircase that curves up and into the balconies on the second floor, which wrap all the way around the foyer. Nate follows, taking everything in, wide-eyed, and I watch him. We walk through an informal dining room and out the glass doors on the other side, to an outside balcony with a view of the lagoon pool and the glittering Los Angeles valley below.

  “Wow,” Nate says under his breath, and I swell with pride. This doesn’t faze someone like Harry or Xavier. It’s nothing for Taylor Huffman. But through Nate, I’m reminded how special this house is, and how lucky I am to live in it.

  “This house has been in our family for three generations,” Tess says, looking around herself. She’s proud too. Not of its size or the sheer impressiveness of it, but by the hard work it represents. “Have a seat, Nate.”

  All three of us sit at the large table on the balcony and sip from our water bottles. The night sky is pitch-black, but between the glow of the city lights and the low lighting of the pool, I can see Nate perfectly. The shadows on his face highlight his cheekbones, and my pulse picks up the pace. He’d look great on an album cover. Or onstage. Or right next to me doing anything.

  “So the song you sang just now,” Tess starts, “that was Cameron’s, wasn’t it?”

  Nate traces a groove in his water bottle. “Uh, yeah. I mean, it was what he posted—you posted—the other day. I just sorta filled in the gaps.”

  “How?” I ask, genuinely curious. “What’s your process?”

  Nate shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s like I heard the rest in my head.”

  “Even the lyrics?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and there’s no trace of arrogance in it, but he’s sure as can be. “I just followed what you’d set up, tried to make it match. You know, ‘What would Cameron do?’” he jokes.

  “And so you wrote the rest of the lyrics, and the melody, and the accompaniment?” Tess asks.

  Nate starts to peel off the label. “Well, I had to write the accompaniment. That’s what comes first for me. The guitar part. Then the melody. Lyrics are always last for me. I’m terrible with them. And I can’t sing, so I never feel like I can say what I mean anyway, or say it like I mean it. I don’t know. It’s a chicken-or-egg thing. Am I bad at lyrics because I can’t sing, or do I stink at singing because my lyrics are so bad?”

  Everyone shares a small chuckle at that, then we’re silent. Nate goes back to picking at his water bottle.

  I duck down, catching his gaze, holding it in mine. He smiles shyly.

  “What made you come here tonight, Nate? Why the sudden change of heart? The other day you seemed pretty sure that there was a better chance of hell freezing over than you playing for me.”

  I can see his skin go pink, even in the low, golden light. “I had a talk with this friend of mine. Well, he’s a friend, but I also really look up to him. I mean, I hate to use the word mentor, but . . . sometimes I feel like he’s this wizened old man and I’m just this dumb kid when we’re together. He’s only twenty-four, but he’s really lived, you know? He knows a thing or two.”

  Nate uncaps his bottle, takes a swig, and continues talking. “He’s one of my favorite guitarists. Probably my favorite guitarist. When I was hiding from the paparazzi and, well, you, when that picture of my shoes came out, I joined up with his tour for a while. They needed a roadie, and I needed to get away. And Travis and I became close.”

  I blink. “Wait, Travis Blake? Of Liquid?”

  Nate nods.

  “Holy shit, you’re friends with Travis Blake?”

  Nate looks at me, his expression somewhere between surprised and very amused. “You’re impressed by that? Don’t you have the entire roster of Paradise Entertainment at your disposal?”

  I force a laugh. “Liquid wouldn’t sign with us. Travis himself seems quite . . . elusive.”

  “You can say that again. The only reason I ended up with a roadie gig with them is my best friend’s cousin works for them. So I spent a few weeks tuning Travis’s guitars and occasionally hanging out with him and the band, if that’s what they wanted to do. I feel like Travis and I bonded.” Nate pauses, then looks me straight in the eye. “I guess one good thing came out of you upending my whole life on Twitter.”

  “I am sorry for that,” I tell him. He nods once.

  “Me too,” Tess says. She leans forward, putting her hand on top of Nate’s. “I really am. I was stupid to think they wouldn’t dig up info on you. I know better.”

  Nate shrugs. “Like I said. It wasn’t so terrible. I just wish they hadn’t brought up my dad.”

  Tess gives me a meaningful look, telling me to say something, so I clear my throat. “Me too. If I had known, I would have tried to control it, but they got there before I did. Long before.”

  “But you did control some of it, didn’t you?”

  Tess gives me another look, this time a warning to tread carefully. “Being in the position I’m in . . .” I start.

  “The position of heir to one of the top entertainment companies in the business, you mean?”

  It’s a little acerbic, the way he says it, but it’s not wrong. “Yes,” I say. “Because of that, I have some connections, a few get-out-of-jail-free passes, I guess you could say.” Nate looks at me, expectant. I clear my throat again. “It’s just that, if the paps ever want something from Paradise again, they’d better not piss us off. They do a good job of trying not to piss us off, and we do a pretty good job of telling them, in no uncertain terms, how to not piss us off.”

  I can see the wheels turning in Nate’s head. “So you can tell them to kill a story if they ever again expect a picture or interview with, say, Harry Garrett?”

  I’m certain he chose that name on purpose, but I don’t let my face acknowledge it. “Exactly.”

  “So,” Nate says, leaning back, “are you going to tell me if I got the job?”

  Before I can say anything, Tess speaks. “I tell you what, Nate. I have to be up early for a photo shoot, so I need to excuse myself and get to bed. But Cameron has the day off tomorrow, and if you aren’t doing anything, why don’t you two see if you can take tonight and work together a little bit? Perhaps if you get to know each other more, and work with each other too, both of you will be able to get a better idea of if this will work or not. What do you think?”

  I think I sort of hate it. I mean, nothing like your sister trying to fix you up, romantically and professionally, but Nate doesn’t seem bothered by it. He looks at me, lips curling into a fantastically handsome smile.

  “Sure. I’m not tired yet. You?”

  I shake my head. “Not tired yet.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Tess stands and gracefully slides around the table, giving Nate a pat on the shoulder as she walks by. “Glad you came by, Nate. My brother’s been distraught without you.”

  I cringe and grit my teeth at the same time, which I’m sure is a fabulously sexy look for me. “Good night, Teresa Marie.”

  “Ugh, I deserved the middle name. I’m going. Good night, boys. And good luck.”

  And with that, Nate and I are alone together. Wonderfully, blissfully, terrifyingly alone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nate

  Cameron is giving me a tour, like his house is a regular tourist destination, and it’s kind of cute how proud he is of it. I guess I expected him to be all, “What, this old thing?” about it, but he mixes family history right in with showing me each gigantic room. I can almost feel the presence of the past few generations of Pierces looking down on us. Haughtily perhaps, but there’s a presence in the place.

  “So it’s just you and Tess and your parents here?” I ask, interrupting some speech about a sculpture that was given to his grandfather in the sixties. Could have been a Picasso for all I know.

  “Yes,” he answers, unperturbed by my s
erious lack of attention span. “Sometimes my grandmothers will visit. My mother’s mom is more frequent. She lives right up the road in Malibu, but my father’s mother retired to a gated community outside of Miami. It’s like pulling teeth to get her here. She says she spent far more than her quota of time in Hollywood and she doesn’t feel any need to come back now. I’m not quite sure she ever really loved Paradise. My grandfather, for sure, but not his job.”

  He stops by a random table, whose only purpose seems to be to hold up a giant vase of real calla lilies and to take up space in the never-ending hallway we’re in. There’s a framed photo next to the lilies, and Cameron gestures to it. “That’s Grandmother there. With my grandfather. At some award show. Maybe the Grammys. Grandfather Pierce found a lot of talent. He was talented as well. He won a Grammy for a song he wrote for Neilson Pearl. Remember him?”

  “The country singer?”

  “Yes, or country and western, as it would have been in those days.”

  I turn to Cameron, studying his handsome face, the bronze in his hair, his large, wide-set eyes. He has just a few freckles on his nose that I’m not sure I noticed before, but maybe they’re from the sun. “So songwriting runs in your blood?” I ask.

  He shrugs, embarrassed. “I’m not sure I inherited any of that talent, but I’ll claim it.”

  For the moment, I let his remark pass, though I mentally take note of him selling himself short. I look back at the photo. His grandfather looks terribly stern, but his grandmother is all heart. She reminds me a bit of Lucille Ball. Same shape of the face, same naughty look in her eye, like she’s about to get into trouble or burst out laughing.

  “She looks really glamorous. And funny.”

  Cameron’s mouth curls up on one side. “Sharpest wit I’ve ever seen, and the sharpest tongue. She can cut right through you if you ask for it, or make you laugh so hard, your stomach hurts the next day. And she doesn’t hold back. She’ll tell you exactly what she’s thinking.”

  I chuckle at that. “Sounds like maybe Tess takes after her.”

  Cameron groans. “Tell me about it. But it’s also where Tess gets her smarts. Grandfather had an ear for music and a talent for business, but Grandmother was the brains behind the whole operation, to hear my father tell it. He says he learned as much from her as he did my grandfather.”

  “Seems like maybe she’s where you two got your looks too.”

  Cameron turns to me and studies me for a moment, surprised. He opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a sweet, rich alto voice. “Richard’s mother? Goodness no, dear. Tess got her looks from the other end of the gene pool.”

  I turn toward the voice and nearly gasp. An older version of Tess is walking down the hallway, her smile knowing, her eyes glowing with laughter.

  Cameron’s smile is so warm and bright, it rivals the sun. “Nate, this is my mother, Melinda Pierce. Former Miss California and runner-up for Miss America.”

  “I was one leaked nude away from the crown,” Melinda says, accepting my hand in introduction more like she’s expecting me to kiss the royal jewels than to shake. “Pity that girl was so moral.”

  “Never mind that. You had quite the career after,” Cameron says.

  “Annie Leibovitz photographed me on a tiger-skin rug once,” Melinda brags. “Dear old Hef tried to talk me into the centerfold, naturally, but he never managed. I was much more interested in wearing gorgeous clothes than taking them off. The runway, darling. That’s where fashion lives.”

  I look at her and feel like I’m caught in some old Hollywood movie. She’s in a black silk kimono, a strand of pearls around her neck and a few hanging from each ear, and she’s wearing heels. At nearly one in the morning. I half expect her to have one of those long cigarette holders. I can see her getting drunk on champagne and talking about all the movie stars she had affairs with when she was younger. Her glamour, her confidence . . . she oozes attractiveness and I instantly love her.

  “Definitely my mistake. Now I see where your children get their looks. And their charm.”

  She cups my cheek in an incredibly soft hand and then gives me a pat. “I like him, Cameron, dear. Keep him around, okay?”

  Cameron fixes a roguish gaze on me. “That’s the hope, Mom.”

  “Good.” Melinda turns back to her son. “I’m leaving in the morning to be with your father in Dubai. He says there is a spa at his resort that I just have to try, and you know I could never pass up a good spa. I’ll nest there for the month and then come back to your father when he finishes his business there. I told Michelle to make sure you are eating well, although of course your sister will keep an eye out too. I’ll miss you, honey.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Mom. Tell Father hello, and that everything is fine at Paradise.”

  Mother and son exchange cheek kisses, she squeezes my hand one more time, and then she drifts down the hallway, a vision in black silk and pearls, leaving the soft scent of powdery perfume behind her.

  I look at Cameron, incredulous. “Okay, why have I never seen her before? She’s gorgeous. She should still be on the runway. Or designing her own clothing line. And you’re going to be alone for a whole month? Isn’t that . . . hard?”

  Cameron resumes walking, quiet, and I follow. I can tell he’s trying to take his time with answering, putting thought into everything I’ve asked.

  “My mother rarely attends public events anymore and hates being photographed, but it wouldn’t take much digging to find some old stuff if you wanted to. She hates the spotlight now and, if I’m being honest, I think she has a terrible fear of the scrutiny of celebrity nowadays. It’s not like it was when she was young. She could hide a little then. Keep things private. These days, every wrinkle is analyzed, and if you don’t wrinkle, then there are rumors about plastic surgery. I think she just wants to stay out of it.”

  “I can’t say I blame her. I was terrified the paparazzi were going to photograph me with spinach in my teeth, or something green hanging out of my nose,” I say.

  Cameron chuckles. “They caught me once first thing off the plane, completely jet-lagged and hungover to boot, after being in London for a week.”

  I can feel my smile falter, and try hard to keep it in place. “Seeing Harry?”

  “Back when we were dating,” Cameron says with a nod. “And to answer your other question: I’m used to being alone, although I’m never really alone. I’ve had nannies and maids and cooks all my life. If my parents weren’t around, there was always someone to answer to and to make sure I did my homework and cleaned my room.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “Totally normal childhood.” My eyes get wide and I slap my hand over my mouth.

  Cameron just laughs. “It’s all right, Nate. I’m not sure anyone has a normal childhood anyway. But mine was happy for the most part, and most of that had nothing to do with money.” He shrugs. “I mean, I know I have a lot more than most. Don’t get me wrong. But it didn’t define my childhood. Tess did. My family did. All the awesome people around me did.”

  I realize in that moment, studying him, that even with all that privilege, perhaps maybe in spite of it, there’s something genuine in him. I expected him to be quite spoiled, so maybe it’s just the shock, but I have this feeling (maybe hope?) that months from now he’ll still be showing me something genuine, and I’ll still be pleasantly surprised by his candor.

  If we make it to months from now.

  “Would you like to see the awards?”

  His question pulls me out of my reverie and I nod. “Please.”

  We go through a very formal dining room, a table set like it’s going to be on the cover of a Martha Stewart magazine: beautiful and untouched. Then we move into a room that looks like an art gallery, but instead of art and sculptures, the space is full of awards. I recognize the sleek gramophone shape of the Grammys, the sharp edges of the American Music Awards,
even some Moon Men. The walls are nearly covered in gold and platinum records.

  I’ve been in Hard Rock Cafes that have fewer bragging rights.

  “So, when a Paradise artist gets an award . . .” I ask as I walk, observing each award or piece of memorabilia in turn.

  “They keep it, for the most part, though some of our artists get so many, they start giving them away as Christmas presents,” Cameron says with a snort. “Sometimes they give one to us as a thank-you. Most of these, though, are for charts. We get all of those. And most of my family members have songwriting or production experience, hence some of the awards. So, I guess you could say the answer is all of the above.”

  “I can’t even imagine having so many awards I would give them away. Of course, some of them are pretty worthless, considering the quality of music they honor.” I clap my hand over my mouth yet again. “I didn’t mean your awards, specifically. I just meant that lately . . .”

  Cameron laughs. “You don’t have to explain. Taylor Huffman took home six Grammys last year. Six.”

  “He’s the worst. Don’t tell your sister I said that.”

  “I think they’re on the outs again, so no worries. Also, he’s a Paradise artist.”

  I cringe. “I keep stepping right in it. I’m sorry.”

  “No. Don’t be sorry. Say what you mean. We can’t work together if you’re a sycophant. And quite frankly, I like you because I can tell you care about making something truly good.” Cameron holds me with his gaze, and oddly, I feel myself relax. “I mean it. If you think Taylor Huffman sounds like shit, great, that’s a good place to start with us. We can work with that. No Taylor Huffman covers.”

  I laugh. “It’s not that he sounds like shit. His voice is actually good. But it’s so overproduced.”

  “Which is Paradise’s fault more than his,” Cameron says. “And I agree. He just did an acoustic session for a TV special that will come out around Christmas. That boy sounded like solid gold without all the Auto-Tune and drum machines.” Cameron wrinkles his nose. “I suppose I could have a chat with his management. See about dialing his next album back a few notches, productionwise.”