“Do you need breathing room from me?” asked Daisy teasingly.
“No, but you do take my breath away,” I said cutely. Both of us leaned in and kissed one another.
“That’s so corny,” she said in a soft murmur. I could feel her breath against my lips.
“I just mean that I think it’s important that we have our own spaces, a bit of distance,” I said. “Even though I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other now that I live here.”
“Whatever it takes,” said Daisy, kissing me again. “I’m just glad to have you here in the City for good.”
“I think you might be the only one,” I said.
“You made the right decision,” she said. “You’re bound to get recognized here, of course, but there are so many celebrities milling about, New Yorkers are used to it and will generally leave you alone.”
“I don’t think I was quite prepared for this,” I said. “Or, prepared for how it would make me feel.”
“I understand,” said Daisy. “It’s a jarring change, going from being totally anonymous to being someone recognizable. You’re a lot braver than I am,” she said through a laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“I could never be famous,” said Daisy. “Oh my God, I’d probably pull my hair out. I like my privacy, I like being able to make a mistake and not have tons of people judging me for it.”
“Now you’re scaring me,” I said.
“Oh no!” she said, trying to backtrack. “No, I mean… ugh. I don’t know what I mean. It’s different for you. You’re a musician, an artist. The dream is to get your work out to as many people as you can, right?”
“Right.”
“It just comes with the territory,” said Daisy. “It’s a concession you have to make.”
“I don’t want people judging me,” I said. Once the words came out of my mouth, I felt really naive. And the expression on Daisy’s face made me feel even more naive.
“I know,” she said softly. “Let’s not worry about any of this right now.”
“Okay.”
“Are you happy with what you’ve been working on?” asked Daisy slyly, her finger inching toward my notebook, motioning like she intended on opening it up.
“Yes,” I said, pulling the notebook away and smirking at her.
“I bet you’ve got some lyrics in there about me,” she said. “Don’t you?”
“You?” I asked, feigning confusion. “Why would I write anything about you?”
“Because I totally blow your mind in bed,” Daisy said matter-of-factly. “Because once I’m done with you, you’re writhing uncontrollably and praising a God you don’t even believe in.”
“You’re something else,” I said, leaning forward and picking up my coffee. I brought it to my mouth and took a sip.
“You love me.”
“I do.”
“And I love you,” she said.
“Do you love me for me?” I asked. “Or because I’m a trendy rock musician?”
“A little of both,” Daisy said, grinning wide.
“So it gets you off that I’m the singer in a band?” I asked. “And you get to fuck me, while everyone else just has to live in their lusty dreams of me?”
“Yep.”
“I guess that’s my life now,” I sighed. “Groupie city.”
“Oh stop!” said Daisy, lightly smacking my arm. “I’m just messing with you.”
“I know,” I said. We both had tender smiles on our faces.
“I think you just have to realize, Layla,” she said. “That you’ve got some special gift in you. And whether you want to or not, you’ve got to share it with people.”
“What’s my gift?”
“I think you’re going to show a million little girls out there that…” Daisy said, pausing, tilting her head slightly, and looking at me. “That it’s going to be okay.”
“That’s a lot of pressure,” I said.
“It won’t be that bad,” she said with a smile.
We kissed once more and I felt the weight of what she said. With this new found freedom I had achieved came great responsibility. Was I ready for that? No, I wasn’t. But I don’t think I had a choice any longer. I had to embrace it. I had to embrace all these things people were saying about me. And I had to do my best to live up to them.
Our kissing grew more heated as we pressed against one another there on the couch. Before long, my hands were exploring Daisy and my heart rate started to accelerate. She squeezed my side affectionately and the two of us mumbled moans into one another’s mouths as we made out.
“Let’s go back to bed,” Daisy said breathlessly, taking only the slightest respite from kissing.
“Okay,” I agreed.
And so we did.
“Thanks for coming in, Layla,” said an older guy, probably in his 50s, who had introduced himself as Barry. He reached out to me and we shook hands.
“Yeah, no problem,” I said.
“I think I speak for both Barry and myself,” said the other guy. “We’re just so keyed up to have you in here.” His name was George, and both he and Barry were very similar. Both balding, both in glasses. Though George had a beard and Barry was clean shaven. Neither were dressed particularly nice, but nor were they slobs. Just two, regular looking, 50-something men.
“I’m pretty excited, too,” I said.
“Sit, sit,” said Barry, motioning for me to come further into their studio. The whole setup was very high tech, much like I’d seen in the recording studio for the album but even nicer, if that was possible. They had a huge mixing board, about a half-dozen computer monitors, keyboards and guitars around the entire room. Following Barry’s lead, I sat on a swivel stool as the two men themselves sat down in high-backed leather chairs.
“Thank you,” I said.
“First,” said George. “We love Audition. Killer record. The sound feels like what would happen if Creation and My Bloody Valentine had a baby.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s an interesting comparison.”
“Well, it’s like… garage rock with a hint of darkness,” he continued. “Crunchy, evil guitars. You know?”
“I know,” I said. “I’d never heard of Creation before I heard their song on the soundtrack for Rushmore.”
“Great band,” said Barry. “Great garage rock, early punk band. The Stooges would be another great comparison.”
“Oh yeah,” said George. “The style you guys are marrying, it makes sense. It’s like the Who, but it’s not a lot of dick waving.” Once he said this, George covered his mouth. “Oh God, I don’t mean to be—“
“No,” I interrupted him. “I’m not offended. I’m serious about this and you don’t need to censor yourself around me.”
“Oh Layla,” he said. “That’s good to hear. It can get a little blue in here,” said George, his eyes darting over to Barry.
“Dark blue,” corrected Barry with a chuckle.
“But what we’re trying to say,” George went on. “Is that we love your sound and we’ve got some real hot ideas for a potential solo record. We want to create a sound that’s both wholly unique to you, but meshes well with Cast Party, and mixes with what we know about successful pop hits.”
“Okay,” I said skeptically.
“You brought in some lyrics?” asked Barry.
“I did,” I said. Reaching down into my bag, I retrieved some notebook pages that I had ripped out, the tear obvious along the edge. I had written out seven songs of lyrics, each of them with varied options, and with sweaty hands I passed the pages on to Barry.
“Terrific,” he said, adjusting his glasses as he looked down into my notes. “Mm hmm. We can work with this stuff for sure.”
“It’s important to me that I get the writing credit,” I said.
“Of course,” said George with a grin.
“I don’t want to get screwed out of royalties,” I confirmed. “And I made sure to work that out in the contract with the lab
el.”
“Oh, we know,” said Barry, still looking into my lyrics.
“Layla,” said George. “I just want to assure you that you’ve got nothing to worry about. We write hits, that’s our job. We want to work with you — pursuant to your contract, of course — and we want all parties to be happy. Right Barry?”
“Right,” said Barry. “You know, why don’t you tell us a little bit about what you had in mind for these songs?”
“Well, I can tell you what I don’t want,” I said. “I don’t want bubblegum. Nothing too cutesy. I can’t lose my edge. I want to speak up, you know? I want to have something important to say.”
“Pardon me if this is a little forward,” said George. “But Arnie and some of the execs upstairs have told us that they want to… sex you up a little bit. So we may have to compromise a bit with some of these songs.”
“I know,” I sighed. “Just… be gentle, okay?”
“Call him ‘Gentle George’,” said Barry, pointing at George and laughing.
“No. We get it, Layla,” said George. “It’s a fine balance between your counterculture sensibilities, your authenticity, and mainstream pop music. We’re sensitive to that and we’re keen to do a good job.”
“I still want to be punk,” I said. “You have to know that my doing this, agreeing to this, has already slightly alienated my band. I can’t have you turn me into Britney.”
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” said Barry. “Not even on our radar.”
“I think we have a unique opportunity here to create something completely different than anybody has ever heard before,” said George. “And I think, Layla, that you’re going to be thrilled by it.”
“Okay,” I said. “I trust you guys.”
“We’ve written some of the biggest songs out there,” said Barry. “And we always stay true to the artist. Always.”
“How long does this all take?” I asked. “I mean, when will I get to hear these songs?”
“We’ll definitely have something for you to listen to by the New Year,” said George. “The holidays always get in the way of productivity, of course, but I imagine we’ll be getting you into the studio for some rehearsal time before you and Cast Party head out on your next tour.”
“Okay,” I said. “It might also be helpful that I’m living here in the City now. If you need me to stop by, just get in touch and I’ll be here.”
“That’s helpful,” said Barry. “No playing phone tag or any of that.”
“Oh!” said George. “And we do have something here for you.” He turned around in his seat and toward the console and mixing board, atop which he had a stack of papers. Fishing through them quickly, he came back with a burned CD. All it had written on top of it was ‘4LB.’
“Ah yes!” said Barry, watching as his partner handed me the CD. “That’s just some early demos we wrote with you in mind. Some have lyrics we already wrote overtop. You’ll notice that George sings like an angel.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the CD and looking down at it. “4LB?”
“For Layla Bean, of course!” said Barry with a smirk.
“Nothing’s set in stone yet,” said George. “Take that, listen to it, let it bubble around in your brain. We’ll get together in a few weeks and share notes. Cool?”
“Yeah, that’s cool,” I said. I slipped the CD into my bag.
“This has been a real pleasure,” said George, standing up. Barry followed, and then so did I. We all shook hands again. And, in a rehearsed joke, like they’d done it a thousand times before, Barry and George shook each other’s hands and laughed.
“Hey,” I said, interrupting the conviviality for a moment. “You guys think this is the right decision for me, yeah? For my sound?”
“Of course!” said Barry. “Hey, it’s our job to do this. But I also really think you’re going to hit it big. I can just feel it.”
“Whenever we’re in the presence of a star,” said George. “Barry can feel it in his left knee.”
“And boy is my knee achy!” Barry chuckled. The two continued on laughing.
I took a deep breath, eyes wide, and I nodded.
“I guess I signed the contract already anyhow,” I said. “Kinda too late to have second thoughts.”
“Very true,” said George. “But I wouldn’t worry about it anyway. Municipal is throwing big money behind you. They like their odds. And we do, too.”
“Okay guys,” I said, hefting my bag up onto my shoulder. “I appreciate it.”
“We’ll be in touch, Layla dear,” said Barry, ushering me toward the door. “We’re going to make beautiful music together.”
“Send us over any new lyrics you come up with,” said George, waving at me. “And don’t forget to listen to that disc!”
We all said our goodbyes once more and then I found myself on the opposite end of a closed door, standing in a bright yet nondescript hallway with tightly knit carpet under my boots. Everything was silent but for the almost inaudible hum of the lights above me. I knew there was no turning back, so it didn’t make sense to think about it. I was in too deep, but deep could be good. I was in a place a lot of musicians would kill to be. Though it still made me feel funny.
I pushed down the feelings and I held my head high. I smiled. Why not?
It was late November, and New York was beginning to get really cold. Being from Michigan, I was familiar with my birthday pretty much always being cold. Most years, I spent my birthday locked up in my room, no interest in going out or seeing anybody. I used it as a time to reflect on my year, to reassess my goals, to write in my journal, all that usual introspective stuff you would expect from an introvert like me.
But this year, Daisy insisted we go out. I didn’t want to argue with her. I wanted to be with her always.
After just about the nicest dinner I’d ever had, a French restaurant that was a favorite of Daisy’s, we walked through the East Village to my building. I was renting the top floor of a brownstone that had recently been rehabbed. It was gorgeous, just immaculate, and the price reflected it. I was paying more in rent every month than I earned in three months back in my old life. Now, though, the money didn’t seem like that much when I compared it to what my bank account looked like.
“This place is amazing,” mused Daisy, looking around as we entered. “Every time I come here, I’m just blown away.” She removed her long coat, designed in a blue and grey plaid, and pulled her scarf off along with it. Daisy knew her way around my place and hung up her outerwear herself.
“I told you I cheated,” I said. “I just hired someone to put it together for me based on what I like. It’s still a work in progress.” I removed my black wool peacoat and hung it up alongside Daisy’s coat. Underneath I was dressed in my usual style, but I had updated my clothes with slightly fancier versions. I had on a black leather skirt, white dress shirt with a black cardigan over it, black tights and boots, and a black choker around my neck with a small ruby in the center of it.
Daisy, on the other hand, was dressed like she’d just stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. Dark brown leather heels to lighter brown tights, a brown herringbone knee-length skirt, and a cream turtleneck sweater. Her blonde hair hung effortlessly down her back. Her cheeks were slightly rosy from the cold outside.
“I don’t care what it took,” said Daisy, stepping closer to me and planting a sweet kiss on my lips. “This place makes my apartment look like a shit hole.”
“No!” I protested with a laugh. “You’re crazy. You have an amazing place.”
“I know,” she grinned. “But I love your place, too.”
The apartment was indeed decorated in my style. It had a vintage aesthetic, very wooded and ornate, with blacks and burgundies and whites dominating the color scheme. I hadn’t really brought anything with me from Michigan, and I didn’t really own much to begin with, so my apartment had been a clean slate for the interior designer I had hired to make it all work for me.
Daisy and I got out
of our shoes, cracked open a bottle of wine from the kitchen, and sipped from our glasses back in the living room. With a wine glass in my hand, an unlit cigarette in my mouth, I pulled open one of my street-facing windows and flicked my lighter aflame.
“Do you really smoke in here?” asked Daisy gently as she came closer to me, holding her glass in both hands.
“Yeah,” I hummed, exhaling a cloud of smoke outside.
“You really ought to think about quitting,” she said. “You know they’re trying to ban it in bars around here.”
“I know,” I said.
“And it’s not really healthy for you,” she went on. “Or your voice.”
“I know,” I said again.
“I shouldn’t bug you about it,” Daisy said, chastising herself. “On your birthday, no less.”
“No,” I countered. “You’re right. I’ve just been smoking since I was, like, 15 and it’s become a security blanket of sorts.”
“So you’re going to quit?”
“It’s on my mind,” I said.
“Good,” she said, smiling.
“And I promise I’ll wash my mouth out twice with mouthwash tonight,” I said. “Before we start really kissing.”
“You’re sweet,” said Daisy, her smile converting into a knowing grin.
“Smoking just reminds me of the capriciousness of my youth,” I said. “It reminds me of driving around in busted up cars, listening to mix tapes, ditching class, doing what I pleased. You know?”
“I understand.”
“But now it is just sort of a habit,” I admitted, taking another puff. “It’s a love-hate relationship.”
“Don’t worry,” said Daisy. “I’m going to rock your world tonight.” She took another step closer to me, and another sip of wine. “No judgment from me on your birthday. Just love.”
“You better,” I said, flicking my half-smoked cigarette out the window and blowing out my last cloud. I, too, sipped from my glass and moved toward Daisy. “I don’t want to waste the fresh wax job I got on my… nether region.”
Daisy laughed at me and quickly, teasingly, turned away and stepped back toward the coffee table. Picking up the wine bottle, she refilled her glass to the top.
Rise From Rock City: A Lesbian Rock Star Romance (Revolving Record Book 1) Page 17