Sometime After Midnight

by L. Philips

  “Yeah,” I say, voice thick. “I try my best to avoid it, or not let it get to me. But yes. Someone is always watching me.”

  I look back out the open doors, past the soft lights of the pool and into the valley below. I love this city, but sometimes I can’t stand it.

  And then, over the rustle of the breeze through the palms, and the distant motors of cars speeding down Sunset, Nate starts to play. And he plays my song, exactly like I hear it in my head.

  Nate

  It’s a quarter past four in the morning, and I’m on Richard Cameron Pierce Jr.’s bed, and although nothing has happened between us, this has been, hands-down, the sexiest night of my life.

  All we’ve done is write and play and sing. His bedroom has transformed into a haven for creativity, a retreat, a fortress, a cocoon. Here, safe from interruption and prying eyes and the negativity of the world, I’ve felt a type of freedom I’ve never had before. After the first cautious attempts at writing together and sharing our ideas, we quickly dropped all pretense. Nerves and embarrassment melted away. And something between us shifted, like suddenly we snapped into total alignment, and we began to think with one brain, feel with one heart, play and sing one melody.

  He’s humming now, in that light but rich, strong but breathy, raw but smooth voice of his. He’s been singing to me all night. Singing with me. Every note of his perfect voice wraps around the strings of my guitar, coaxing the harmonies out, and in return I give him a solid foundation from which to jump off and fly.

  I watch him. He’s lying next to me on his stomach, copper hair shining in the dim lights, head bent over his notebook as his pencil scratches out words with mind-blowing ease. He could write words all night, he has been writing words all night, and all I can do is play, running after him, a few steps behind, desperate to catch up to his mind.

  The humming stops. “Tired?” he asks.

  My eyes are drooping and dry, but I don’t care. “Yes but no. Cameron,” I say, my mind moving on from sleep and to our song, and yes, somewhere in the last few hours his name has settled, somewhat precariously, into my vocabulary, “what if at the bridge we take it into an A minor chord, just for that high note you’re suspending, then we both drop it down to G for the rest of the phrase?”

  He considers it silently for only a second before trying it out. I catch up and play the minor chord like I suggested, and his voice follows my guitar down a step after the high note. He grins.

  “That’s good. Really good, Nate.” He scribbles the change in the notebook, using a notation only he can understand. Someday soon, very soon, I’m going to have to teach him to read music.

  He continues to scribble more lyrics and I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes. I hear Cameron chuckle softly next to me.

  “Nate, you’re exhausted. Let’s call it a night.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, but don’t open my eyes. He laughs again. The bed dips as Cameron shifts, and I open my eyes. He’s sitting up next to me.

  “There’s a guest room down the hall. Let’s catch a few hours of sleep and maybe we can pick up where we left off after?”

  I’m not quite ready to surrender to sleep yet. Moreover, I’m not ready to give up this feeling yet. I shake my head. “Let’s play this whole song one more time. Then maybe my brain can work on it while I sleep. That happens sometimes.”

  He smiles. “Me too. I often wake up expecting to find lyrics in my notebook because I wrote them down in the dream, but they aren’t there.” He flips a page back, then looks at me expectantly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Tired as I am, I straighten and balance the guitar in my lap. I’m not using a pick, just so the music is quieter, but it’s also lent a certain feeling of secrecy to the whole night. Like we’re whispering our deepest desires or plotting a coup. I start to strum the opening bars, just a little introduction before Cameron’s voice comes in. He’s trying to keep it quiet too, but I hear that same promise of power that I did in the video of him singing. I cannot wait to see what he’ll do in a studio.

  “I want to do this thing right, because there’s nothing about us that’s wrong,” he sings. Neither of us is particularly sure yet what to do with the song. We have the basic melody, but the harmonies are coming slowly. Mostly because we haven’t settled on a particular style. The song could be upbeat, or slow. It could be retro soul, or it could easily go in a folk direction. We’re a bit at a loss. But he sings it mostly straight, not putting anything stylistic into it, and I play it the same way. Then Cameron stops singing, shaking his head.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should drop this one. I don’t know if I’m feeling it.”

  “The others have been too easy,” I say, giving Cameron a slight smile. “There are going to be more difficult ones too. We’ve just spoiled ourselves by being pretty damn good at writing together.”

  He chuckles, then fixes me with a serious look. “This is going to work, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I say, and that agreement hits me with all the shock it should. Cameron is actually good at this, and when I’m with him, I’m good at it too. And we are good together.

  What kind of cruel fate is it that Cameron Pierce would end up being the best co-songwriter I could have asked for?

  “This whole night has been . . .” Cameron says. He makes a circular motion with his hand while he searches for the right words. Like me, he’s drained. Mentally and physically and creatively drained.

  “Sexy,” I say, before I can stop myself. I blame the lack of sleep.

  Cameron looks surprised and a little too happy with himself at my answer.

  “Don’t look so proud of yourself,” I tease him. “I just meant the songwriting. The being-on-the-same-wavelength thing.”

  “No, you’re completely right. Sexy is a good word for it. It’s a connection, isn’t it? Even if it’s through music. Maybe especially if it’s through music. That kind of connection is sexy.”

  I agree wholeheartedly, and close my eyes. I feel like a sleepy cat, warm and sated and ready to curl up and snooze all day.

  “Hey, why don’t I try the verses up an octave?” I hear Cameron say.

  I open one eye. Over the past few hours I’ve gotten to know his range pretty well, and bringing the verse up an octave would make it hard for him to go full voice, but it would lie perfectly in that soft, gliding falsetto of his.

  “Up in your falsetto?”

  Something passes in Cameron’s hazel eyes, acknowledgment that I now know his voice well enough to figure that out. “Yeah. Then in the chorus, which is lower, I could go all out.”

  “So definitely more of a retro soul thing.”

  “No,” Cameron says. “Straight-up alternative ballad. Think Radiohead meets Muse.”

  I know it’s right. And it’s what the song needs. And I knew we’d get there if we just kept working together on it. But I don’t say any of that.

  “Try it,” I say. But I don’t move to play. I let him sing to me and close my eyes again.

  * * *

  ***

  I wake slowly. Judging by the bright sun streaming through the set of windows to my right, I’d guess I’ve been out for hours. I sit up slowly. I’m under the covers somehow; my guitar is leaning in the corner. Cameron is nowhere in sight.

  I rub the sleep out of my eyes and try to figure out what to do. Wander the house and try to find a familiar face? Go back to sleep? Take my guitar and sneak out?

  Just as I’ve made the decision to at least put my shoes on, the bedroom door opens with a slight knock. Cameron’s standing there, a mug of strong-smelling coffee in each hand.

  “Thought we could use a cup,” he says, slightly sheepish. He sits next to me gingerly, not spilling a drop.

  I accept my mug and drink deep. He’s put just enough cream in it to make it the color of milk chocolate, and no sugar, which
I never take in my coffee. I notice his is the same shade of brown.

  He sees me eyeing the cup and says, “Need sugar? You didn’t strike me as a sugar-in-my-coffee kind of guy, but I’ve been wrong before. It’s seldom, but it’s happened once or twice.” He chuckles into his mug, sipping slowly.

  “No, not a sugar guy, but at this point I’d drink mud if it were caffeinated.” I take a sip, and though I would have preferred a lot more cream, it’s good. The kind of coffee that’s so high quality, it doesn’t need dressing up.

  “Like waffles? Michelle’s got some going, and bacon and sausage.”

  In answer, I look again at the sun coming through the windows. “What time is it? Noon?”

  Cameron shakes his head. “It’s only nine.”

  “Wow. I must have slept like the dead, then. I was sure it was later.”

  He chuckles again, and sets his coffee on a coaster on the nightstand. Right, because he’s from a family that not only uses coasters, but actually has them in convenient places.

  “I barely got a few words out of that song before you were snoring.”

  “I snored?” I ask, voice horrifyingly squeaky.

  “It was cute.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  Cameron smirks. “Don’t worry about it. You were exhausted.”

  The coffee seems to be working. My brain is less foggy now. I swallow more and eye the bed. It’s not very mussed on the side I hadn’t occupied. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Me? No.” He picks up his coffee again and swigs. I study him. He’s in fresh clothes, and casual as they are, I’m jealous that they’re clean and unwrinkled. Gray joggers with industrial-strength-looking zippers on the pockets, a black tee, and a black ribbed cardigan over that, with giant wooden toggle buttons. It’s very cozy and comfy looking. His face shows no signs of being up all night, the only indication being his hair. Without product and its usual perfectly styled low pompadour, it curls at the ends naturally.

  “Are you planning on sleeping today?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” he says, as if it’s perfectly normal for a human being to go without sleep for nearly twenty-four hours. “I had to finish our song last night. Then I wrote some more. But today I should get to the office and draw up your contract, go over the schedule for recording, and tell Luke’s guitarist I don’t need him anymore. Although maybe I should book some studio musicians? Maybe a drummer or something?”

  “No,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. “I mean, considering it’s a demo, I wouldn’t go overboard. It seems like the more you add, the more it closes off possibilities. Plus, we don’t want to bury your voice. It helps that we’re writing some good stuff, but it’s your voice that’s going to sell this to your father, I think. Or, you know, anyone else.”

  “You mean if my father doesn’t like it?” he asks, and I hear insecurity in his tone.

  “I mean, if your father’s not the only one who likes it,” I say with a smile. “Maybe someone will outbid him.”

  Cameron laughs loudly at that. “Oh shit, he’d explode. Not only would I be the black sheep, I’d be the black sheep who ran off with another herd.” He laughs again, then turns to me. “So, does this mean you’re in?”

  “I’m in,” I say, and oddly, there’s only a slight twinge in my gut in protest. “But I want us to be partners.”

  “We are, aren’t we?” Cameron asks, his brows coming together.

  I shrug. “Are we? I mean, what will the contract say?”

  “Ah,” Cameron says, sitting back against his headboard. “Business talk. You want to discuss money.”

  “No,” I say. “I want to discuss creative input. I’m writing half this music. I want at least half a say in the direction we take artistically. I want us to agree on everything from which chord to use in a song to where we go on tour. Like I said, I want to be partners. Equals.”

  “Equals,” Cameron says, thinking, neutral.

  I nod. “Equals. I don’t want a boss here, Cameron. Not when I’m writing half the music.”

  What I don’t say is that I don’t want him as a boss. Maybe with some other singer I could have happily sat back and let him take the reins. Let him sing the music I’d written with him on tour while I stay at home twiddling my thumbs. Not with Cameron. Not with his company.

  And I’ll admit, not after last night. We birthed these songs together. I won’t let him be the only one to perform them. I won’t let him take all the credit. It would be like giving up my children.

  “Simon and Garfunkel,” Cameron says, and I laugh.

  “Exactly. Well, maybe not exactly. Let’s not fight all the time and abandon each other for solo careers. At least not for a while.”

  Cameron looks down at his hands. “Here’s what I can do, Nate. I’ll write the contract up today like that, fifty-fifty creative input. Partners. If my father decides to let me do this, I will fight my hardest for that same contract to follow us into the deal.”

  “You don’t think your father will go for it?”

  “I think my father will probably try to protect me and his assets, and really, I’d be an asset here too.”

  “But you’ll fight for it?”

  Cameron looks me straight in the eye and there’s no trace of dishonesty. “I will.”

  I give myself a minute to pause and think. Although I’m not sure of what happened exactly between my dad and Cameron’s, I know the main fight was over his contract. Dad wanted out. Whatever Paradise was doing to him was making him suffer, down to his very soul. He wasn’t able to make music the way he wanted. But had he been given so much input? Had he been partners with someone who had a huge stake in Paradise? Yes, that might work to my disadvantage, but I have a hunch that Cameron is actually a decent human being, so I have certain advantages here. I have to believe that.

  “Fifty-fifty?” I ask, holding my hand out.

  “Fifty-fifty,” Cameron agrees, and shakes. His hand is so smooth and soft, his grip firm. Decent or not, he is the guy whose bedroom is bigger than my whole house, who has a collection of awards given to him by people he employs, who has a guard at the gates of his house so that only those he deems worthy can enter.

  “There’s something I’d like to ask you,” he says to me, and my attention snaps back to the present, and to Cameron’s soothing voice. “Are you busy next weekend?”

  My heart skips a beat or two. “Working, maybe. Why?”

  “Think you can get out of it?”

  Is Cameron asking me on a date? For a whole weekend?

  “Probably,” I say, tone dubious. I don’t want to commit until I hear the plan. “I work for my stepmom. At the Dairy Barn. It’s this ice cream shop.”

  Cameron must find that quaint or something because he smiles amusedly. “Really? I don’t think I could work at an ice cream shop. I’d weigh a thousand pounds.”

  “Not with Tonya as your boss. She catches you eating product and you’re gone.” I shrug. “Well, not me. I’m family. And I guess not Victor either. He’s also kind of family. And you saw Victor. He doesn’t go easy on the Icy Typhoons.”

  Cameron laughs and, damn, even his laugh is musical. Maybe especially his laugh. “My family owns a house on the beach, just north of here. It’s not much but it’s secluded. We could spend a few days writing with no one bothering us. No commitments. Just us and music and whatever.”

  And whatever.

  I take a deep breath, steady myself, because I feel like my whole body is shaking. A weekend with Cameron at a secluded beach house. Writing music. Singing, playing. All that time with just his voice and my guitar. Just him. After only a few hours in a cocoon with him, writing, I felt like it was the sexiest night of my life. How on earth could I handle a whole weekend?

  Does he have any clue what he’s asking of me?

  I feel his hand close over m
ine. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. It’s a lot to ask. And it might be uncomfortable. I understand.”

  I flip my hand over, under his, enfold his into mine. “If you’re sure that this is what you want, that this is what you think would be best for us . . .” I begin, hoping to put the responsibility back on him, to challenge him the way he’s challenging me.

  He strokes his thumb over my palm. “I think it’s what we need.” He looks pointedly at his notebooks, one of which is nearly filled now after just a few hours. “Look what we accomplished last night. With a whole weekend, we could do something truly remarkable.”

  Remarkable indeed.

  I nod to Cameron, and his smile is like a summer sunset.

  “Great. I’ll clear it with my staff and with the office, if you can check with your stepmom. And I’ll get that contract drawn up today.” He stands. “Ready for some waffles?”

  I had forgotten all about the waffles, the coffee. Eating in general. I pick up my mug and finish the lukewarm coffee in one long swallow.

  “I should go. Victor will want the Tank back.”

  “Is that what you call that thing? Appropriate.”

  I stand and begin gathering what few things I brought. It only takes a minute. Cameron walks me out, lingering by the driver’s-side door as I pack my guitar.

  “I’ll call later, and whenever it’s convenient, you can come in to sign the contract,” he says to me once I’m ready to go.

  “All right. Do you need my phone number?” Cameron just smiles, and damn him, he really shouldn’t be smug about knowing all my personal info, but he looks downright proud of himself. “Right. Of course. Well, can I have yours?”

  He hands me a card, Paradise’s sunburst logo in soft black at the top, the card itself tastefully gray, the script modern yet vaguely reminiscent of Art Deco designs. Naturally, Cameron Pierce is the type of person to keep business cards at the ready at all times, even in his own home. “Richard Cameron Pierce Jr.,” it reads, with only a phone number, no other contact info.