Six weeks later, Gibson had had time to absorb me leaving, and I closed the heavy metal reinforced door on my new penthouse apartment. Gibson, Chloe, and Melody—Gibson’s daughter from a one- night-stand eight years before—had only just left, and as soon as I heard the soft click of the lock, I turned my back, leaned against the cool metal and let out a deep sigh of relief.
Moving out was harder than I envisioned. Chloe wept openly, and it was clear I meant a lot to her. My heart ached for inflicting misery on all of them by going to live in Santa Monica on my own.
Melody clung to my body like I was facing an executioner and she was never going to see me again, while Gibson had checked and double-checked the window locks, alarms, and reset the alarm entry codes again so that the guys who had undertaken the re-model couldn’t regain entry.
Purchasing the top-floor apartment in a high-end block overlooking the beach was incredibly extravagant, but Gibson insisted the gated community property was necessary in the event I became known. I took his comment as a mark of confidence in me, but in truth Gibson always left very little to chance.
From the ten-minute journey to the studio, to how my essential groceries would be delivered, his team had ensured my transition to my new living arrangements would feel as smooth as possible.
Earlier that day he’d taken delivery of a shiny red mid-ranged SUV with full breakdown and valet services and handed the keys to me as a ‘house warming’ gift.
I was overwhelmed by the Barclays’ generosity. In my mind, their kindness only made me thirstier for success because I wanted to pay them back.
“It’s all yours,” Gibson said, smiling affectionately as he held out the keys after attaching the spare car fob to the apartment keys. Overcome with emotion, I felt awkward about accepting everything.
“It’s a loan. I’m gonna pay you back someday, just watch me,” I replied, meaning every single word. Gibson immediately pulled me into his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around me, then placed his chin on my head.
“Sweetheart, we love you. There’s no charge. You owe us nothing except to have the best of everything life offers you. Choose wisely, think long and hard, but be impulsive and spontaneous whenever you can. Have fun, be safe, and always remember we’re more than blood.”
For an alpha male who had a bark that could cut any man down to size, his gentle way with the women in his life made Gibson somewhat of a mystery. He had a heart of gold, but a tongue of the hardest leather when he was crossed. I knew I’d never want to be on the receiving end of that side of him.
Ruby, a close childhood friend of Chloe’s, had a new job that had brought her to live just a couple of towns over from where my place was, and I promised to call her if I ever needed anyone urgently. Surprisingly enough, Chloe was a lot less uptight about my change in living conditions than Gibson was.
Then again, Gibson was a guy, and from what Chloe had told me there was an incident from when he was dating Chloe which had given him reason to be overly protective at times.
Deciding to move out had been the easy part. Moving all my possessions from home to my new apartment was the end of one emotional journey and the birth of another. Hanging my most precious gift—a silver-framed picture of my mom singing on stage—I spoke aloud softly and asked for her guidance over me.
This is what she had wanted for me. It was the new beginning we should both have had that I was taking on my own. Although I’d miss her for my whole life, I had finally come to terms with the trauma of my past, lived with the grief I had no control over, and I had the will to do better. What better testament to her life than to live the life my mom wanted for me, and to find my own personal identity.
Wandering over to the balcony, I slid the sliders open and stepped out onto the amazing little outside space with the wicker hanging chairs facing out toward the beach. I leaned slowly on the railing.
The huge amber Californian sun was low on the water, casting an image of burnt coppers and shades of silver and brown over the ocean. My gaze wandered over to the multi-colored Ferris Wheel lights in the distance and my heart ached. I’d never ridden on one.
Standing up straight, I filled my lungs with the balmy evening air, and I couldn’t describe the feeling that washed over me. I suppose that was because I’d never really recognized it before and I guessed it was the feeling of being safe and home.
Stepping inside, I made my way through to the master bedroom of my three bed, three bath, penthouse apartment. Although extravagant, I knew it was the Barclays’ intention to visit regularly and therefore the size made sense.
Kneeling in front of the four huge boxes I had yet to unpack, my mind turned to little Melody, Gibson’s daughter, who stayed at home with us every other week. It felt cruel to leave her because she was the one who had suffered the most change.
Gibson had no idea she existed until after they’d taken me on, but they loved her, and Melody took all of us in her stride. She had gained a whole new family, only to lose me from it a couple of years later.
By 8pm I had unpacked all my comforts of home and stamped my mark on the place with my own soft furnishings, small ornaments, and the precious vinyl record player the Barclays had given me.
Chloe and I had spent hours trolling through the thrift shops in the small towns close to their home in Colorado; making me a collection of albums from artists my mom had introduced me to.
Selecting an Eagles album, I showered to the apt tune of “Hotel California” then slid into some cotton shorts and a tank top before climbing into bed. It was only when I snuggled down on my side that my tears fell. I was sad for the life my mom had missed out on and I promised her in my prayers to make her, Gibson, Chloe, and Melody proud.
Several times in the night I woke with the searing heat and quickly realized living near the Pacific Ocean was going to take some acclimating after my time in the mountains. I even got up and showered to cool myself down, but when I woke in the morning with my cell vibrating, my hands felt wet when I picked up my phone.
“Good morning, baby. Did the move go all right?” Otto, the producer from Gravity asked.
“Yep, all settled in,” I confirmed and found myself smiling sleepily at his upbeat tone.
“Want to meet me for lunch? I have a couple of sessional musicians I’d like to introduce you to.”
Sitting up, my heart fluttered excitedly, and I was instantly fully alert.
“Sure. What time? Where? Do I need to bring anything with me?”
“Whoa. Cool your jets, baby. Breathe,” he told me, chuckling down the line, and I shook my head.
Does anyone even say that anymore?
“Sorry, I’m just keen to get this going, you know?” I said, as I tried to tone my excitement down.
“Indeed, I can’t wait to get that sexy-as-fuck voice of yours on a few tracks in the mixing room.”
I grinned at the way he openly shared what he thought. All he’d had was one demo, and he’d called me minutes later. Inspired by my voice, he’d taken a shot on a total unknown when they only had funding for maybe three artists a year.
Otto’s confidence and his small budget meant more to me than the millions Sly Records had at their fingertips.
The way I saw it, the smaller fish was willing to spend more of their budget on me. If that didn’t express their belief in me I don’t know what did.
“Want me to pick you up?”
“No,” I said a little too quickly. I didn’t want any of them to know about my connection to Gibson. For the best part of two years I had managed to keep out of sight. I was also afraid Colin may come to find me if I made it onto TV or some other form of media.
Some may have thought me mad, but I had gone to great pains to hide the rock royalty that surrounded me, to remain anonymous.
My determination was set in stone. I wanted to make it alone or not at all. If Otto knew where I lived, he’d surely know by the address alone that I had access to someone with money to burn.
&nb
sp; Armed with the latest technology in my bells-and-whistles little car, I found the address of the sports bar they hung out at. It was right across the street from the studio.
I’d already been there once when I signed the contract and toured their facilities, but Jerry, one of Gibson’s security guys, had come with me and pretended to be my dad. It felt daunting being back there on my own.
Noise from the rowdy sports bar could be heard in the car lot. The outside was packed bumper-to-bumper with trucks, cars, and SUVs.
Every spot was already in use. I had almost given up hope of parking, when a waitress came out, drove off in her old beat-up truck, and I managed to snag her space.
Grimacing at my hair when I looked in the mirror, I tried flattening it. My hair hated the humidity more than me. Heaving in a huge gulp of air, I reached for the door handle and muttered, “You got this, Piper.”
The blazing hot sun seared into my skin as I hurried across the hot, dark-gray asphalt, as the stifling heat burned my nostrils and lungs when I breathed. Finally, I reached the covered porch doorway and stepped inside.
A blast of cold air from the air-con above the door felt most welcome, and I stood there a few seconds longer than I intended before I shoved my large sunglasses up on my head and tried to adjust to the dark, crowded surroundings of the noisy sports bar.
Glancing around, I noticed everyone was totally enthralled by the football game that was in progress and stepped up to the counter to see where Otto may be.
“ID?” I stared unblinking toward the balding hulk of a man standing behind it and gave him an innocent smile. “I’m not drinking, just looking for someone—”
“I got her Randy” Otto said, as he approached me. His hand settled possessively on the middle of my back. “This is Piper, the fabulous singer I told you about. Piper, this is Randy. Be nice to him, his bar food will feed you most days. Don’t want him spitting in your grub if you piss him off,” he joked.
Turning to look at Otto, I wasn’t too sure what to say. I mean I knew it was a joke, but when you’ve been where I’d been in my life, joking about someone fucking with my food wasn’t funny to me.
“Isn’t she lovely?” Otto asked, addressing Randy like I was his fresh newborn child, and fortunately for me he didn’t tap into my awkward anxiety surrounding his earlier comment.
“Beautiful,” Randy agreed. I felt myself blush at their scrutiny. “If she sings like you tell me she can, she’s a real find.”
“Can we not talk about me like I’m some classic car or something?” I asked, hiding my irritation behind my tone playful. It was embarrassing when Otto spoke about me like I was some commodity, but I felt I handled it fine.
“Sorry, baby, I’m just stoked you’re here. Thanks for doing this afternoon. You’re not too tired from your journey?”
“Nope, I’m fine. Dying to get started,” I replied honestly.
“Okay, come meet the sessional guys I’ve found for you. Two of the guys I’ve used many times and I’ve got a pianist coming into the studio first thing tomorrow from Utah. He lands a bit later tonight, so he’ll be here at 8am sharp.
Your sessions are 8am to 11am, and 2pm to 4pm. Another artist is recording outside your times with another producer. We run a tight ship but allowing others to use the studio gives us more in the bank for the artists on our label.
“Makes sense,” I mumbled, calculating in my head I’d be expected to sing for five hours a day. I wasn’t used to stretching my vocals for that amount of time and had followed Gibson’s advice of a maximum of three hours a day.
Still, I figured with the break in between, plenty of fluids, and minimum conversation to rest in between I’d be fine. Singing for two more hours a day would be fine.
Leading me back to the large booth, he introduced me to Jeff, who he informed me was the lead guitarist on my tracks; and Grunt, my drummer for the album. I nodded my head, looking first to Jeff, who flashed me a welcoming smile, then to the deadpan face of Grunt. I couldn’t help noticing they were like chalk and cheese.
Jeff was in smart but casual dress of a white linen shirt and cream, cropped Chino pants. Almost as young as me, I guessed him to be around twenty-three years old at the most. He was very attractive with his bright sky-blue eyes and shiny blond, shoulder-length hair. Taking in his strong physique and dark customary Californian golden tan, I smiled back.
Flashing me another perfect smile that reached his eyes, I was instantly taken with him because he radiated a friendly, laid back vibe. Definitely a picture ad for the classically healthy-looking California beach boy.
Grunt’s appearance was entirely the opposite. His thin and weedy looking frame was slightly hunched as he held his beer in both hands. His bony fingers made his hands look older than the rest of him, although I’d have put him in his mid-forties at a guess.
Grunt's greeting was much less enthusiastic. He gave me a curt nod as he took his hand off his cold beer glass just long enough to grant me a small salute gesture with two fingers over his forehead and a small noise in the back of his throat, which explained the name he’d been given.
His welcoming attention drew my notice to his lank, thinning mousy-brown hair, with a small bald patch at his crown. Giving me a forced smile, he then yawned, and I tried hard not to dislike him.
I figured he probably thought of me as talentless bubble gum pop music wonder. That thought made me determined to impress him. My stomach tightened a little in his presence and I found myself trying not to do what I’d done with Jeff and judge him on first appearances alone.
“Well, hello,” Jeff said, dismissing the fact that Grunt had nothing to say, and he gave me a wider grin as he stood from the booth to greet me properly. His friendly approach had a calming effect on my nerves and I sighed, realizing I had been holding my breath while being introduced.
Sliding my hand into his outstretched larger one, I felt genuine warmth at his touch. Our eyes connected, and I saw his pupils dilate when he looked at me. I wondered if mine did the same. His warm welcome meant everything to me and I immediately felt relaxed in his presence.
Chapter Three
Otto gestured me into the booth and sat down beside me. I felt a little apprehensive but excited at the same time. Appearing pale, Otto looked like a man who spent no time in the sun. There were no outstanding features about him and he seemed so ordinary; almost nerdy of average height, medium build, with mid-brown hair, and brown eyes. The most notable thing about him was his old iconic ZZ Top t-shirt.
Glancing around the table at Jeff, Grunt, and myself, I’d never have described us as a dream team for setting my music career on fire. But that’s the thing about music…it has the ability to bring out hidden talents in the least expected people.
When Otto became animated about the sessions and drilled into us how important punctuality was, I felt fortunate to have a manager to oversee everything because as a concession to Gibson I'd let him put me in touch with a mutual friend of his, Thomas.
The formal part of the meeting ended a couple hours later, when Grunt told us he had a gig that evening, got up, and left. The atmosphere around the table became far less intense from the second the bar door closed behind him.
“I know what you’re thinking. He’s an Oddball, right?” Jeff asked, his eyes sparkling mischievously when Otto left us at the table to grab some food menus.
Feeling my nose wrinkle despite my thoughts to keep my opinions to myself, I shrugged.
“Everyone’s different. I try not to judge people without knowing them,” I replied, taking care not to voice what I thought.
“Great answer. Very diplomatic. I don’t blame you for being guarded. If I were in your shoes, I’d be the same. By rights that guy should be at the very top of his game. Missed out on several huge band spots in the nineties,” Jeff said, and smirked ruefully.
Suddenly I had empathy for Grunt, still toiling so hard doing bar gigs after twenty years or so.
“I kid you not, Grunt h
as incredible talent on percussions.” He shrugged helplessly, and I could feel his sincerity. “Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t have the ability to present himself very well.”
“That’s so sad,” I said, a wave of sympathy for the musician who had missed out because of his social awkwardness.
“It truly is. When you hear him play, you’ll know what I mean,” he advised me, plucking a small packet of brown sugar from the condiments box on the table.
“What about you?” I probed, clasping my hands together on the table.
“What about me?” he echoed my question back.
“I know you’re a sessional artist at the studio, but have you auditioned for many bands?”
“Nope.”
“No? Why not?”
“Too lazy,” he replied and slumped down in his seat.
I hid a grin and raised an eyebrow, thinking he was toying with me. “And what happens when you get too old to be lazy?”
“That’ll never happen,” he replied eyeing me. Then he shrugged again and his facial expression was one of resignation. “I love my life, Piper. Not everyone needs aspirations to be more than they are,” he replied flatly. Huh?
It was the least expected reply to a question I’d ever asked of anyone. I didn’t know how to respond to it, so I said nothing. I blinked, my mind unable to form something else to say as I continued to watch him for any signs he was joking.
For someone who didn't appear much older than me, and who looked like God’s gift to girls, I found it hard to believe he had no personal ambitions. I wasn’t sure whether I should admire him or slap him in the face for his lack of drive and being so contented.
Until this point I had directed my sympathy toward Grunt who had tried all his life to be more, but now wondered if my pity should be aimed at Jeff, who at the tender age he was, didn’t have it in him to aspire to be more.
An uncomfortable silence fell between us and I turned to look for Otto. Unfortunately he was deep in conversation with Randy, the barman, and I somehow knew he wasn’t going to return to the table anytime soon.
Piper: A Last Score Spin Off Page 3
