Silent Song

by Ren Benton

  He’d never thought of himself as a storyteller before she called him one. He’d never thought of himself as anything else since. The role gave new purpose to his writing, both lyrics and music. From the day she uttered that description, he’d been trying to speak to her in her native language: storytelling.

  It paid off with a job offer that brought him back into her life.

  Her gaze slid sideways. “I feel disloyal.”

  His voice dropped like a devil’s tempting her to stray from outdated devotion. “Do you have any idea how many other ears that song has been in? It doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

  Her lips quirked at his obvious ploy, but she held up her thumb and forefinger, not quite touching. “‘Sore’ wins by this much. The violin lifts it into transcendent territory.”

  He hoarded transcendent like a jewel to admire later, when he wouldn’t have to share his pleasure with an audience.

  “She’s not openly weeping anymore when it comes on,” Ethan elaborated, “but she still gets sniffy toward the end.”

  Discomfort clawed across Lex’s shoulders — not for making her cry but because he may have exposed too much of himself in pursuit of that goal. “It’s not that deep, Gin.”

  “Not for you.” She blew wisps of steam from a spoonful of stew. “Don’t ruin it for the listener by revealing it’s about your carpal tunnel.”

  The song was about being lost, being found by something worth living for, and then destroying happiness by being too toxic an environment to keep anything good and pure alive. The lyrics, which he’d purposely omitted from the liner notes, alternated between sore and soar depending on location in the plot. Absence of written confirmation left the listener to interpret whether the story ended in bliss or agony.

  It might mean anything to Gin, though. When he chose cleverness over a bald statement of feeling, he had no one to blame but himself when he was misunderstood.

  His spoon scraped the bottom of the empty bowl — yet another good thing he’d sucked dry without a second thought right after promising himself he’d slow down to appreciate it.

  The stool grumbled across the tile as he shoved away from the island. “I should take a look at your movie before I get too comfortable.”

  His guide led him through the house, pointing out landmarks in passing but conspicuously neglecting to mention the bar dominating one corner of the living room.

  Or perhaps the omission seemed conspicuous to Lex only because his expert eye identified, priced, and ranked the premium liquor displayed like trophies on sparkling glass shelves in the ten seconds it took to cross the room.

  Gin paused in the hallway. “I put you in the master suite, not knowing about your newfound aversion to comfort.”

  An obligatory glance through the indicated doorway revealed the most spacious room he was likely to sleep in for the next year or so. “Shouldn’t this be yours, Madame Producer?”

  “I don’t need as much space as you do, stretch.”

  She took up no space at all. The sliver of bed she occupied fit cozily within his mattress-hogging sprawl.

  She reached the door at the end of the hall before the memory of how right she felt nestled against his side released him to follow. She stopped so he could catch up. “I have a feeling you won’t spend much time up here once you get a load of the dungeon, though.”

  In theater style, rows of LED lights mounted on the edge of each tread provided the sole illumination for their descent. Gin arrived at the bottom three steps ahead of him and vanished into abyssal darkness. “Brace yourself.”

  Overhead lights banished the gloom.

  His heart reacted as if he’d sprinted up and down the stairs twenty times. An eighty-channel console claimed most of the control room, ceding only a strip of territory along the back wall to outboard effects units and a leather sofa. A flat-screen TV clung to the wall, and a cart provided a mobile home for a laptop. On the other side of a window, a Yamaha grand piano reigned in the live room while lesser instruments from every family gathered around to pay court.

  He knew he wasn’t dead only because Gin wouldn’t have brought him to heaven. “Why does this look familiar?”

  “Except for lack of a rock wall, it’s modeled after Studio C at Paramount.”

  He dimly remembered being there once upon a time when the label loved him unconditionally. He’d been too wasted during that era to fully appreciate facilities that ran twenty-three hundred dollars a day, but now... “Don’t look at me. I don’t want you to see me cry.”

  She obligingly directed her laughter toward the wall. “I take it you approve?”

  Under different circumstances, his guttural response would be obscene and messy. “Why does an eighty-year-old TV producer have a pro-grade music studio in his basement?”

  “It replaced the pro-grade film editing studio that was here before Bob let a music icon who shall remain nameless use the place for a vacation. She said she’d buy it for an exorbitant amount if only it had a music studio, so he made renovations befitting a diva. Shortly after construction was completed, TMZ informed us all the diva had less money than the average kindergartner after a visit from the tooth fairy, so no sale.”

  “As long as he’s been in show business, Bob should know the money is imaginary.”

  “As long as the bank is willing to suspend disbelief, show business money is an illusion that spends just like the real thing.” She shrugged off the gullibility to which she was immune by virtue of a top-of-the-line bullshit meter. “But thanks to a series of poor financial decisions and misplaced trust, everything the soundproofing touches belongs to you.”

  His greed had its fill of the studio and returned its attention to the woman in it, quick to note that by pressing her hand against the absorber panel on the wall, she included herself in the offer.

  If he had Gin and a studio like this in his basement, he’d have no reason to ever leave the house. Tempting as locking himself in the bunker of his dreams might be, he knew the dangers of prolonged isolation.

  For starters, AA meetings would be hard to come by this far in the boonies.

  As a distraction from the chant of booze, booze, booze building in his brain, he opened the door across from the control room. A flip of the light switch revealed a gym. His traveled-out muscles rejoiced while the songwriter sulked. “I was sure there’d be an orchestra waiting in here.”

  “I’ll get you whatever you need.”

  Gin kept her promises. If he made the request, the next time he opened this door, he’d find a full symphony ensemble ready to do his bidding, no matter what kind of sorcery she had to invoke to pull it together.

  Since he had no idea what his job entailed, he should hold off on making demands just for the pleasure of watching her work. “If you wanted an orchestra, you wouldn’t have asked me. Show me what you think I can do better.”

  Gin cued up the current edit of River Bound on the laptop. Rather than rely on the small monitor and tinny speakers, she patched the audio and video through the wall-mounted TV to make the most of the viewing experience.

  Five years ago, she hadn’t felt the need to justify the condition of a work in progress to Lex if he peeked at a day’s shoot or an editing session. Now that she wanted to use his ruthless perfectionism, she feared her shabby offering would fail to meet his standards. She hesitated over the play button. “I’m still working on the title sequence, and there are color and sound adjustments pending.”

  “I’ve seen your raw footage. I know what you make of it.”

  Despite his vote of confidence, she regretted every all-nighter she hadn’t pulled to whip the film into better shape for him. “Do you want a plot summary?”

  “Surprise me.” His restless gaze swept the room. “I should take notes.”

  She rolled her chair to the effects tower and pulled open a drawer. She’d stockpiled the thick-papered notebooks and cheap mechanical pencils he favored for notation, enough to last for years — further inducement t
o convince him he’d want for nothing here.

  He accepted the bribe without a word, dropping the notebook on his thigh and priming the pencil with two impatient clicks.

  She was more interested in his contentment than his gratitude. His concentration locked on the screen, where she needed it, and would remain there as long as his environment blended seamlessly with his wants. Protecting him from irritants for the next hour and a half was her priority. “Should I leave?”

  “Stay. I might have questions.”

  After pressing the button to begin playback, she retreated to her chair, pulling her feet up onto the seat to minimize her presence. She knew every frame by heart, so there was nothing for her to do but dart furtive glances at Lex to monitor his reaction without making him feel watched.

  The timestamp at the bottom of the screen raced forward. The stone-faced focus of the man watching didn’t waver. The paper under his hand remained unmarked.

  After twenty agonizing minutes, he broke his silence. “Pause it.”

  She reached with a dread-heavy arm and touched the keyboard. The image froze on a closeup of the leading lady.

  He stared at the screen for a prolonged beat before turning his gaze on Gin. “You made Livvy act.”

  Warmth blossomed in her chest at the acknowledgment. “I insisted.”

  “I’ve never seen her play anything but a version of herself.”

  He’d dated the actress a few months before Gin cast her, so he had better knowledge than most of how little the big-screen fantasy deviated from reality.

  Olivia White-Church was a casting director’s dream — smoldering sexuality and dramatic flair softened by just enough warmth and humor to prevent her from intimidating the less bold. Men desired her. Women wanted to be her friend. Feminists declared her a role model of female empowerment. Studios capitalized on her popularity by placing the lovable siren in every blockbuster her schedule permitted. Since they required only that she show up, look stunning, and deliver her lines with her trademark velvety purr and secretive smile, her schedule permitted a great deal.

  Her bare-faced, understated performance in River Bound demonstrated acting skill for which no one gave her credit.

  Yet.

  Lex jabbed his pencil toward the TV without taking his eyes off Gin. “She’ll get an Oscar for this.”

  An Oscar-worthy performance meant nothing without the mass approval of industry insiders, and Gin’s decision to be an outsider damned every project she touched to nomination purgatory. “My movies are cursed, but this might help her land a winning role.”

  The fierce line of his brows seemed to accuse her of wrongdoing. “I thought I had a well-informed grasp of how good you are, but I didn’t give you nearly enough credit for ability to transform your cast.”

  The warmth in her chest extended tingling fronds that fanned her professional pride. Being acknowledged by a creative peer she admired and respected meant more to her than a stupid Academy Award — at least until she had a statuette in her hand for comparison. In the name of fairness, though, she had to give away some of the credit. “Liv played a small part in her transformation. Do you want to watch the rest?”

  He faced the screen once more. “Unless you plan on dragging me out of the theater, you couldn’t stop me.”

  Lex watched all of Gin’s film school lectures when they made their way to the internet, even when they were behind a paywall. He had the best filmmaking education of anyone who had no intention of ever making a film.

  In one of her screenwriting classes, she spoke about the nature of all things being to expend the minimum effort believed necessary to accomplish a goal. Only after failure did effort increase, and then by only the new minimum believed necessary. Well-told stories did not begin with the protagonist going balls to the wall after his heart’s desire but forced him to try harder by increments when his half-ass attempts weren’t good enough to win the prize.

  Watching Olivia’s performance in River Bound, it was obvious she’d been half-assing her entire career to date. She became the most in-demand actress in Hollywood by playing herself, so she had no incentive to truly act.

  Her over-the-top personality hadn’t fled from this camera and been replaced by a complex, earnest stranger through her effort alone. Gin demanded better, and Olivia rose to the challenge.

  So had Lex, but not soon enough to stop Gin from giving up on him.

  He watched the remainder of the movie in silence. He took no notes. He wouldn’t need any for what he’d known within the first five minutes he would have to tell her.

  Gin flipped her hand as the placeholder for the end credits took over the screen. “It’s not a Marvel movie. There’s nothing after this. What do you think?”

  He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Honestly?”

  Her mouth took a wry turn. “If I wanted to be lied to, you’re the last person I would have invited.”

  She shouldn’t have invited him. He wasn’t needed here. “Music would be a mistake. The silence is practically a character.”

  She touched a sock-covered toe to the ground, setting off a slow twist of her chair that spun her away from him.

  He cursed himself for criticizing her decision. Who the fuck was he to advise Gin Greene in any way about making a movie?

  When the chair’s rotation brought her around to face him again, her beaming smile made his heart dodge sideways. It surged forward when she leaned toward him as if to share a secret. “When I wrote the screenplay, I meant the sound to be stripped bare. But even while watching the dailies, I knew the silence wasn’t going to be as oppressive as in my imagination. There has to be a subtle presence of sound as the norm to make its absence crushing.”

  He looked at the ceiling because her smile derailed rational thought with a dangerous urge to please her more.

  The film’s silences made him uncomfortable. He’d assumed it was because he was an auditory creature, straining for stimulation that wasn’t there. Leave it to Gin to design that tension, to insert a well-timed swish of water or heavy breath to provide relief a split second before he begged for it. The technique already in place had a profound effect on him, but the average viewer wouldn’t make the distinction without help. “You need bookends to support the quiet.”

  She nudged his chair with her foot. “I knew you’d understand.”

  It hurt to look at her, but he welcomed the pain because he wanted to remember making her happy so easily.

  Too damn easily. She did need music, but very little. It wouldn’t take long. A day or two. Three if he dragged his feet.

  He wanted to throw something, but neither pencil nor paper would cause enough destruction to do justice to the frustration shrieking like a demon in the dark cave of his skull. Three days. It had taken longer to get to her than he’d be allowed to stay.

  He tapped the pencil on the edge of the console, wishing he knew Morse code as an outlet for the profanity he wouldn’t unload on her. It wasn’t her fault she needed him less than he wanted to be needed. “When you asked if I wanted to do this, I said I’d take a look at it.”

  Her smile faded. “It’s okay. I know how much you hate to collaborate.”

  Dammit, he couldn’t even keep her happy for thirty seconds by saying straight out, Yes, please, I’ll trade the few undamaged cells of my liver to do this for you.

  Sacrificing any amount of creative control was a betrayal of his principles, but this job had nothing to do with unwilling compromise. She was asking him to help her tell her story, not make it his. His ego had no objection to those terms. “I didn’t commit immediately only because I wasn’t sure I could do it. I didn’t want to make more promises I couldn’t keep and let you down.”

  Again.

  “Lex, I wouldn’t expect anyone to sign on sight unseen. Sometimes a project just isn’t a good fit. In your case, I also have to contend with your lone-wolf tendencies, bad timing with a tour coming up, and the logistics
of either getting you here or coming to you.” She pulled one knee to her chest and hugged it as close to her heart as any personal reservations she had about him. “Despite all that working against me, you’re my first choice — my only choice. I never doubted you’re capable, only that you’d be interested.”

  To hear her tell it, he was doing her a favor by being here. The time he’d spent editing neediness from his emails had skewed her perception of their circumstances.

  Without alcohol corrupting his thinking, he no longer took pride in a successful deception. Then, he could tell himself he was protecting her from his dark side. Now, he knew the only person he’d ever protected was himself, and that felt nowhere near as noble.

  She didn’t need to know the full extent of the stakes — professional or personal — driving him, but he could at least set her straight that it was his privilege to be here. “I’m not as confident as you are that I can give you what you want, but I feel the music waiting just beneath the surface. I want to be the one to bring it out. I’d be honored if you’d allow me to collaborate with you.”

  She took a breath deep enough to make him think she’d been holding it for a while. “In that case, welcome to the exciting world of independent film, Mr. Perry.”

  Shit, I’m really doing this. Suddenly lightheaded, he pointed at the computer. “Can anything I do send your movie into the ether where my phone chargers and sunglasses go?”

  “If you find a way around the file protection, it’s far from the only copy.” She gave him a quick tutorial on the playback and syncing functionality. “You know your way around the audio better than I do. For composing software, Sibelius is included in the Avid suite, but if you prefer Finale or—”

  “I can work with what you have.” He looked around the studio. “Somehow, I’ll muddle through with only top-of-the-line everything to work with.”