Bad Girl: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Lisa Lace

  Jane starts singing about a man who’s lost his way, then I jump in at the chorus to sing about the people’s midnight missions. I take the lead for verse two. We’re together again at the chorus and in a contrasting harmony for the final bridge and chorus.

  When we finish, there’s a pause before Lucas’s voice comes over the speaker. “Sublime. Perfect. We’ve got that in one take.”

  Jane bristles with glee and squeals, “You hear that, Ivy? We were made for this place.”

  I laugh. “I think you might be right.”

  We record two more tracks, and Jane is right. It comes so naturally and feels like where we’re supposed to be. By the end of the session, all my guilt about my dad is far in the back of my mind. I’m simply ecstatic to be in my own element.

  I come down to earth with a bang the second we step back into the mixing room. Lucas gives me a matter-of-fact nod and nothing more. “Good. I’ll play this for my father, and we’ll go from there. I’ll be in touch.”

  We step out into the hall to leave the studio.

  Jane raises her eyebrows and sucks in breath between her teeth, letting it out in a long, slow, dramatic whistle. “Wow. He’s giving you the cold shoulder, sure enough.”

  “I started it. I told him I didn’t want things to go any further with us after we spent the night together. He was disappointed, to say the least.”

  Jane touches my arm and smiles at me comfortingly. “To be honest, Ivy, I think it’s for the best. I didn’t want to start an argument the other day, but honestly, I was pretty pissed you went home with him.”

  “What? You told me I should!”

  She holds up her hand. “I know, I know, but I was drunk. The thing is, you don’t trust him as it is, and it’s a huge double standard to hold him at arm’s length when it comes to music but be all over him in the bedroom. It’s messy, it’s unprofessional, and it won’t do us any good.”

  “Wow. You’ve sure changed your tune. I thought you wanted me to wrap him around my finger.”

  Jane winces. “No. I don’t like it. You were right. We need to stick together. This whole thing is about us and nobody else. Let’s not make things complicated. Let’s work hard, keep our wits about us, and, hopefully, we’ll come out on top. No more getting carried away by all the hot men who are going to be hanging around, for either of us.”

  “I agree. No more men.”

  Lucas

  My father listens to the demo with his usual unreadable expression, his hands clasped under his chin and his eyes narrowed. His left foot taps slightly on the floor, but I don’t know if he’s keeping rhythm or getting impatient.

  I wait a few feet away in an armchair at the far side of his office, waiting for Caesar to give his thumbs up or thumbs down. At last, the demo ends, and he leans forward to turn off the player.

  “These girls…you know only one has any talent, right?”

  “I know. But they come as a duo.”

  He frowns. “Don’t be soft, Lucas. You know what needs to be done.”

  The same thing that’s been done a hundred times before. If it were up to my father, he’d snap his fingers and make Jane disappear, but I know Ivy would never betray her best friend.

  “I don’t think either of the girls would go for it.”

  My dad barks with laughter. “Of course the untalented one is going to say that, but the one who has half a shot should be less foolish. She’s got a golden opportunity here.”

  “I think she’s talented enough to carry the other one.”

  “What’s their names again?”

  “The Row Girls.”

  He rolls his eyes impatiently. “Not the band name. I’m not senile. The girls’ names. Which one’s the talented one? Which one is the dud?”

  “Ivy and Jane. Ivy is the one with the good voice.”

  “An exceptional voice, in fact.”

  I have the opportunity to tell him she’s Gregory Evan’s daughter, but I choose to hold my tongue. The last thing I want to do is risk pulling the rug out from under Ivy’s feet now. What my dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

  “Their voices complement each other, don’t you think?”

  My father raises an eyebrow. “Don’t be a fool, Lucas. You’re better than that. You know as well as I do that this Jane has as much chance of dragging Ivy down with her, as Ivy has of carrying her along.”

  “If we don’t do things Ivy’s way, I know she won’t sign, and I think we’re sitting on a gold mine.”

  Speak in the language he understands: money.

  He drums his fingers on his knee and rolls his head to one side until his neck cracks loudly. “You think she’s worth it?”

  “I do.”

  “If we were to sign them as a duo, things would have to change. Otherwise, they won’t stand a chance with that nanny goat hawing in the background. We’ll have to gloss over Jane’s lack of talent with other things that appeal.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “First of all, Jane is about the dullest name a woman can have. I won’t represent someone named Jane.” He actually shudders. “Call her something else. Something snappy.”

  “How about Holly?” I suggest.

  My father groans. “Are you a music producer or a Christmas card writer?”

  “I thought Holly and Ivy had a ring to it.”

  “They’re going to be singing chart hits, not ‘The Little Drummer Boy.’ Don’t be a moron. Jesus, sometimes I wonder if you’re really mine.”

  I clench my jaw. I can feel the tight muscles spasming with the effort it takes to stay calm. “Fine. What would you suggest?”

  “Let’s put her in the twenty-first century. Skye. Alexi. Harley. Fuckin’ Daenerys. Something that rolls off the tongue and lets people know she’s fresh and in fashion.”

  “Right.”

  He picks up their demo CD, which is in a placeholder case with a photograph pulled from the girls’ website as the cover.

  My father points to the picture. “Is this how they dress?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s ugly and cliché. Let’s get them in something that will get heads turning. Especially this Jane. Let Ivy be the honey to the ears, and Jane can be the eye candy. Find her a pair of booty shorts or something. Jesus, a pair of implants couldn’t hurt. I’ve seen bigger tits on twelve-year-old boys.”

  Sometimes the urge to punch my father is almost overwhelming. My fingers twitch with the desire to curl into a fist. “The world is changing, Dad. Modesty is once again a virtue.”

  “Bullshit. Tell her to show some skin or get the hell out my studio.” He stretches out like a cat and relaxes back against the leather. “One or two of these sappy downer tracks is okay, but I’m not producing a whole album that’s only going to appeal to artsy intellectuals and angsty teenage girls. Let’s get them singing something with wider appeal. Throw some pop in there. A bit of tempo, for Christ’s sake.”

  “The girls write all their own stuff.”

  “Well, they can either get on board and write something that will get onto the charts, or we’ll throw them something from the wastebasket.”

  “The wastebasket” is what we call the endless number of songs we’ve purchased the rights to but never produced. We have hundreds of them stored to give to an artist at a moment’s notice, so we can roll out a new release quickly in case of emergency. They’ve been selected based on a set of baseline criteria—catchy and on trend, even if they are inane and a dime a dozen.

  I let out a long, slow breath, leaning back in my chair. “I don’t think they’re going to go for it.”

  My father shrugs. “They don’t have to. It’ll be their loss. Any other producer will tell them the same thing.”

  “Why don’t you let me take the reins on this one? I know I usually run these things by you, but maybe it’s time I make some calls of my own. I think there’s room in the market for what these girls are doing. I think people want to hear something authentic. What they writ
e is classic. It means something.”

  “The only thing that means anything is money in the bank, son. Sure, you could take a chance on every starry-eyed nobody with a cause, but for every Johnny Cash or Joni Mitchell, you’re going to get ten singers nobody ever hears from again. I’d rather back a sure thing. They can record two tracks of this depressing stuff, but it gets released on the album. We’ll start off promoting one single. Pop.”

  “I really think I should take the lead here, Dad—”

  He silences me by raising a hand. “Lucas, just because you’re screwing one of the singers doesn’t mean you get to change the rules.”

  He laughs at the expression on my face. “You think I don’t know? It’s my job to know. If you want to do right by this girl, put her in a position where she might actually succeed. Dreamers don’t get far in this industry. Ambition and the willingness to do whatever the hell it takes to claw your way to the top—that’s what works.”

  I invite The Row Girls to meet me at an uptown bar to break the news to them, to deliver my father’s ultimatum.

  I’m nervous to have to face Ivy. Even though I’m annoyed by the way she acted the morning after the masquerade, I know her music is everything to her, and I know that to ask her to change would go against everything she believes in. It goes against everything I believe in. The music she makes is more than music; it’s art, a statement. To water it down to basic riffs and crappy lyrics is a travesty.

  The bar is a swanky and trendy establishment in the heart of Hollywood. It’s set up almost like a nightclub, but it’s quiet inside, and the guest list is exclusive. Music plays softly in the background, but people come here to eat, drink, and sign contracts—not to dance.

  Either side of the venue is lined with low, gray suede sofas, opposite rows of small round tables and free-standing chairs. The tables are dotted with lamps that bathe each seating area in its own personal glow. Instead of overhead lighting, the place is lit from below, with LED strips that line the floor and shine blue and white upwards. The only other illumination comes from the neon behind the bar and the screens displaying artistic fish swimming through multicolored waters.

  We find a spot at the end of the room farthest from the bar. The girls are seated together on the sofa. I sit opposite them on a chair, leaning forward on the table. It takes me a while to start the conversation—I can’t find the words—but Jane urges me to tell them what’s going on.

  “Come on, Lucas, spill. What did Harvey think? Are you going to sign us? I can’t take the tension anymore. It’s killing me.”

  She’s wearing a long sky-blue dress that has ruffles where the sleeves meet her wrists. It is a bit Heidi looking, but I can’t imagine her shaking her ass in a leather miniskirt, either. The appeal of The Row Girls is their authenticity. I’m about to tell them to strip all that away.

  “He likes your sound, but he wants to make some changes in the way you brand yourself.”

  Ivy frowns. “Like what?”

  I lift my hands. “Now, don’t take this personally. We’re talking business here.”

  Jane groans. “Just get to it. What does Harvey want?”

  “He wants you to have a wider appeal. Right now, you’ve got your folksy, artsy, political thing going on. He thinks that whole image is too…niche.”

  Jane narrows her eyes, then lets out a long breath and nods slowly. “Okay. I can accept that. What does he think we need to do differently?”

  “Your style, for one,” I tell them. “He thinks you should be a bit more…daring.”

  “He wants us to put it all out there, you mean?” Ivy interrupts with impatience. She frowns, folding her arms across her chest. “He wants us to dress like Playboy Bunnies so men can leer at us, right?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.” I accept my drink from the waiter who has just arrived with our cocktails. I take a deep swig of dry gin and bitter tonic. “The music industry is as visual as it is auditory. You’ve got to look the part.”

  Ivy scowls. “It’s demeaning, that’s what it is.”

  Jane lays a hand on her arm. “Come on now, Ivy, not necessarily. Just because you show a bit of skin, doesn’t mean your talent won’t get recognized. Look at Beyoncé, Madonna. They’re sexy and brilliant. We could maybe be a bit more daring. We are kind of tame, to be honest.”

  “We’re not ‘tame.’ We’re us. I don’t see why we should have to change.”

  “Tell us more,” Jane says to me.

  “He wants you to broaden your sound.”

  Ivy scoffs, but Jane shoots her a glare that makes her hold her tongue.

  “As I said before,” I continue, “you appeal to a niche market. He wants you to appeal to everyone. He wants to keep a couple of your own tracks just as they are—they’re great—but he also wants you to throw in some new stuff. Something a bit more upbeat and contemporary.”

  “The homeless down in Skid Row aren’t contemporary enough for you?” Ivy says. “I can take you down there right now if you like. I promise you, they’re as contemporary as it gets.”

  I breeze past her complaints. “There’s one more thing.”

  “What?” Jane leans forward.

  I clear my throat and look Jane in the eye. “It’s your name.”

  “My name?”

  “He thinks it’s a bit too ordinary.”

  “Oh.”

  “Going back to those greats you mentioned—Beyoncé, Madonna. You say those names and everybody knows who you’re talking about. Nobody says, ‘Which Beyoncé?’ Or ‘Madonna who?’ That’s what he wants for you. A stage name that the world will recognize.”

  Jane perks up. I can tell she kind of likes the idea. Smiling, she nods eagerly. “Okay. Something like Harley?” She turns to Ivy with an excited smile. “Harley Quinn is really in right now. Or someone from Game of Thrones, maybe. Sansa. I like that one.”

  I smile a wry smile. “He suggested Daenerys.”

  She laughs lightly. “If you put me onstage, you can call me anything you want.”

  Jane is completely up for this, but when I turn my gaze to Ivy, I see there are tears in her eyes. And when she speaks, her voice is choked up.

  She turns to Jane with a pleading expression. “This isn’t what we’ve worked for. This isn’t who we are.”

  Jane squeezes her friend’s hands tight, her own eyes just as pleading. “Who are we, Ivy? We’re nobody.”

  “You’d rather be whoever the hell it is they want us to be? Letting it all hang out and singing about getting wasted and getting laid?” She blinks and the tears roll down her cheeks. “My dad will be ashamed of me.”

  Letting out a long sigh, Jane shakes her head. “Your dad will be proud. Everyone will be proud. We’ll be stars.”

  Ivy

  I wait outside the studio the next evening until I see Lucas exit. It’s just about ten o’clock. I’ve been waiting for hours, but I didn’t want to go inside. I worried if I saw Harvey Fox, I might just have a few choice words for him. As it is, Lucas’s the one who’s going to be getting an earful from me.

  When I see him come out, I pick up my pace to catch him before he reaches his car. When he catches sight of me, he looks around like he’s looking for an exit before he straightens up and strides toward me as if he hadn’t been about to run away.

  “Ivy. Good to see you. Everything okay?”

  “I think you know it’s not,” I reply, placing my hands on my hips. “What was all that bullshit about yesterday? Telling us to hitch up our skirts and change everything that makes us who we are. Why would you even think we’d be alright with demands like that?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Jane didn’t seem to have a problem with any of it.”

  “Jane’s sick and tired of being invisible. We both are. The difference is, when I’m seen, I want them to see me, not some mannequin you and your father have prettied up and shoved onstage.”

  “We should talk.”

  “Yes, we should.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t think the parking lot is the best place for it, though. Will you come for a drink somewhere?”

  I hesitate. The last thing I want is to be alone somewhere with Lucas. I know if I get too close to him in a dark corner, I might not be able to resist temptation. And right now, I need to be pissed with him, not trailing my fingers across his firm, muscled chest…

  “Fine. But I choose. I don’t want to go back to that weird, futuristic, underground sci-fi cave.”

  “An unusual way to describe one of LA’s top nightlife venues.”

  “I couldn’t see my drink in front of me, and the waiters were terrifying. They were all dressed in those white straitjacket things. I felt like I was going to get abducted and experimented on in a UFO.”

  “Fair enough. Where does Ivy Evans go to unwind?”

  “Downtown. Skid Row.” I lift my chin in defiance. “Or is that too rough for you?”

  I gasp when he circles his arm around my waist and starts to lead me toward his car, pressing the fob button to open it remotely. The lights of his black Lamborghini flicker.

  I laugh. “Oh no. We’re not going in that thing.”

  “Why not?”

  “You take that to Skid Row, and you’ll come back to a car with no wheels and a stolen stereo.”

  “So you’re driving?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “We’ll take the subway.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  I’d suggested Skid Row as a way to make Lucas uncomfortable. I wanted to see him object and show his true colors as a whiny rich boy under his father’s thumb. Instead, he once again surprises me by cheerfully following me toward the subway. No matter how much I want to dislike Lucas, he doesn’t make it easy.

  “You’re angry with me,” he says as we walk to the station.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You know I’m not the one who makes the calls.”

  “Oh, really? What happened to ‘I can do big things for you,’ ‘I’m a good person to know’?”

  “What can I say, Ivy? I don’t meet many artists with as much of an identity as you have. Most singers will do anything for their five minutes of fame. You break the mold, and it’s up to you whether you conform or hold out for something more on your own terms.”