by Love Belvin
“Wynter won’t like it. She ain’t with that secret shit,” he warned.
“Shit, do I know.” The door opened, and I saluted my uncle-in-law. My charming smile warmed my face, hiding my inner-torment. “Welcome to my family, Van.”
You can do it! Less than five minutes to go…
My legs rotated, thighs burned as they pushed hard in cycling. I was being lazy. The elliptical should have been my cardio down choice, but my thighs felt like rubber from the work I put on them during my workout today. I started off with weights and squats then ended here on the bike. Sweat dripped embarrassingly everywhere. I was grateful no one utilized the gym here. I was sure I looked a sight. Sheldon used to tease me about my excessive perspiration. I’d sweat moving furniture around, running down to the local bodega, during sex. He said sex with me was like a pre-shower, he’d always walk away wet all over except for when we had quickies.
I got used to his jokes but being here at a multi-million-dollar home felt like an intrusion. The team at L.I.T. Music spared no expense for this boot camp, as they termed it. They rented a nine-bedroom ranch style home to house seven candidates for their label. The program began a week ago and already I’d learned more about music and creating a track than I thought possible. I was in way over my head and fought like hell every day to not let those around me know just how much.
We were hosted in a plush and rather capacious ranch in Paradise Valley, an affluent neighborhood just outside of Phoenix. The house was huge—no estate in the middle of nowhere in Sparta, New Jersey, but…—and trimmed with contemporary fixings. I didn’t feel stifled from living on top of strangers. In fact, it seemed the red carpet was rolled out for me. Most days I didn’t feel worthy of sitting amongst such talented and striving artists, and each day I was grateful for the distraction.
Just a few more to go… I encouraged myself.
I didn’t feel movement behind me until someone appeared at my side. At first I noticed the can of Red Bull he sipped on as he rounded me on the stationary bike. Those green eyes gleamed with approval, though his face looked a bit tight and wrinkled. I could tell he’d just woken up.
“Damn!” he croaked. “How could you get up so early after last night?”
Trying to focus my breathing, I answered, “I went to bed at a decent hour. I didn’t stay up to play around.”
For a while, Teke didn’t speak. My eyes moved to the mirror ahead, keeping my head up this time.
“You’re really dedicated to this?” I watched his hungry eyes brush against my legs, ass, waist, and arms, making me feel self-conscious in my tank and shorts.
I was fully aware Teke was attracted to me, although he hadn’t pushed too hard since I met him at the start of the camp. I figured it was out of respect for my spouse. Lately, I’d been feeling he’d been testing me out, something I wasn’t fond of. He would ask questions, seeking some sort of answers. It was all good, because I had shit to give.
Teke was one-third member of R&B group, B City that hit the scene last summer. They were cute, lively, and talented. He and his bandmates, Jon and Irv were coincidentally from Jersey. Jon and Irv were from Newark hence the group’s name. B City was short for Brick City, one of Newark’s nicknames. I learned since being here, Teke was from suburbia Cranford. It helped understand his gregarious personality. To the young girls across the country it was charm. To most of who shared the room with him it was assholeness to the max. The biggest heartthrob of the trio was Teke. Not only was he handsome, charismatic, and could hold a note, he was also talented instrumentally. He played the piano and guitar. I was sure the girls’ focus, however, was on those captivating green eyes and roasted almond skin. He wore his hair in short twists, similar to someone else I knew, but shorter and all around his cap. And he knew how to squint his eyes to give the false impression of deep interest.
Bottom line was Teke thought a lot of himself. So much, I believed his bosses at L.I.T. Music sensed it. I remember the first day we reported to camp. It was at a studio in Phoenix.
There was a total of nine of us the first day—two dropped a few days into it. Though in drib drabs, we were all present to report in at our appointed time of seven o’clock. Most had said they were able to stop at the ranch to drop off their things before coming. Some even had time to grab a bite. But all showed on time.
Except Teke. His bandmates were all there, waiting in the circle we’d seemed to have formed, which included the L.I.T. executives, minus Young Lord, at the top. We waited in silence, I was sure most, if not all, as anxious as I was to find out what was next. Then Jackson Hunter, the only black founder of L.I.T. Music, spoke up.
He moved into the circle, eyeing everyone around. He was handsome, stylish, and stately in his apparel and presentation.
“We’re all here for two reasons.” He gestured to himself and his partners. “For us, it’s to make history. For you, it’s to be a part of it. During this three-week period, everyone will be on the same playing field with learning how to create music, but not everyone will have the same learning curve. We were supremely selective with our pickings.” I questioned that. I had no experience! “Even if you thought you made the cut with a lack of merit, I can assure you, you were carefully and strategically vetted.” He was intimidating, this one.
Young compared to his counterparts, good looking, and articulate, this Jackson Hunter guy upped my anxiety as he strolled around, inside the circle. “Some of you have experience in producing, vocal arrangement, instruments, writing—hell, even artist and repertoire. Some of you are engineers and others are orchestrating tracks. But are you good enough to be a part of the L.I.T. Music hit factory? Because that’s what you’ll be tested for. We’re going to give you the tools to learn the game, but you’re going to have to spit out what we give you with a remixed version.”
He sauntered around with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes often on the floor. “Your slot may be secured on this farm we’ve created for you, but your name isn’t locked on our roster. At the end of this boot camp, we’ll either thank you for your time and send you back home, or offer you a compelling, exclusive contract to be a part of our hit factory. It’s that simple, ladies and gentlemen.”
Sounds of flip flop tracks captured our attention. The group turned to the back to find the culprit. Jackson, I noticed, did not. Then the group made way for a tall figure with sandy blonde tips on his twists. His smile was charming and his exotic eyes beamed with mischief as he regarded Jackson and his partners. The room remained quiet as Jackson circled. He stopped at Irv, the beautifully bronzed member of B City.
“Irv, what was your motivation for requesting to be a part of this boot camp?” Jackson asked, his back now to Irv as he continued his leisurely stroll.
With an expression of nervousness, Irv’s mouth moved wordlessly before he spoke. “Uh… To make good music for band groups. I wanna bring them back. Make hits and do hardcore A&R’ing, especially in R&B.” Irv’s response ended with a proud smirk.
He likely didn’t know how he’d make it to the other side of that surprise question. I caught when he nodded haughtily at Teke, across from him. Teke flashed an enchanting smile and winked in return.
“Interesting,” Jackson remarked, head still toward the floor. “We’ll touch on A&R a little during the time you’re here, but I can cut to the chase and tell you the reason why groups are a high-risk concept with a short shelf life is because of the lead singer.” Huhn? I watched the expressions of a few others representing the same sentiment. “See, the lead singer is usually the most alluring. Sometimes they’re the most talented and can quickly sense their own value to their group members and label. They throw hissy fits, want to control the image of the group, often remind everybody they’re the lead…even show up late for events.”
All eyes flew to Teke, whose enchanting gleam waned. His forehead wrinkled, too.
“I can also tell you”—Jackson continued—“the first to show for studio times, interviews, and m
eetings are the members with the most to lose. Eventually the label has enough with the prima donna bullshit and stops pouring money into their marketing and shelf them legally. All because of that one pompous, bratty ass lead singer. The other subpar members probably never did anything wrong. Their livelihood depended on that group…they handled their business. What’re they gone do now? Me? If I was a part of a group, knowing my talents were inferior to the lead and I wasn’t the moneymaker—probably ain’t even all that good looking, I’d do a Mike Bivins.” He finally glanced up to Irv as he made it back to him around the circle. “I’d use my head and intuition to compensate for not being born with lead qualities.” He raised his palm, offering it to Irv. Confused, Irv slowly lifted his and tapped his boss’. “Welcome to the L.I.T. Music boot camp, Irv. I think you made a wise decision to come.”
Winded, I blinked hard, trying to process what had just happened. It took the next few days to understand.
“I got a regimen, too,” Teke huffed, playfully defensive. “You ain’t the only one. I wake up early in the morning, gotta thank God…” His eyes twinkled, telling of his remix of Ice Cube’s “It Was a Good Day.” “…grab grub, get my energy on, and right now, as I’m talking to you, I’m checking my social media for comments.” He waggled his phone in the air.
My time sounded on the bike. I was done. “Okay,” I breathed out, planting my feet on the floor. “You really check it? What do you look for?” I reached for my towel to wipe down my face.
“Once in a while, I’ll entertain the hecklers,” he hummed, studying his phone. “Like this one. I took a pic of me in the booth last night. And this one asks why was I wearing that whack old school jersey. So when I get stuff like this…when people are bothering me, coming to my page to clown me, I have the time to respond back in the mornings. So,” his voice hiked, emotionally removing himself from the situation. “I’ll click on her handle to get to her profile.” He tapped the phone. “Lucky for me, her page is public. So I can get a clear view of my opponent. And as we can see here, she’s in no position to come at me about my appearance when she’s big as a house—no, a big ass university. So let me tell her.” He placed his energy drink on the floor then returned to his phone, thumbing away.
My face fell. “Really? You have the time to do this?”
Do celebrities really have the time to devote their mornings to stuff like this?
With pinched brows, I asked, “What are you typing?” I grabbed my water bottle.
Still writing away, he shared, “I’m calling her every fat, hippopotamus bitch I can spell in the moment.”
“And what good is that going to do?”
“Welp, I’m also telling her this’ll be some motivation for her to lose weight. After all, I see her in some kind of nurse uniform, she should know the importance of being fit and looking good.”
“That may not be a nurse uniform. It could be a home health aide’s. They don’t make nearly as much as most nurses. She may just be an everyday girl who can’t afford what it’ll take to lose a substantial amount of weight.”
“Yeah, but you were an everyday girl. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“And I see you’re taking out the time. You’re working out.” His brows hiked suspiciously.
“Yeah, because I was taught how to work out and lose weight by someone in the industry, who has the resources to share with me.”
“But no one’s making you do it.” He continued to fight. “You’re doing it on your own now. In here every damn day, it seems like.”
“Yeah!” I sang with sarcasm, tickled by a man conversant with petty. “But there’s a huge eating component in this, and I was able to learn that from someone in the industry and able to implement it because I have a personal chef at home, who cooks my meals. And there’s a state of the art gym for me to learn in and use at my leisure. And not to mention, I don’t have to get up at five in the morning, fix my kids something to eat, get them on the bus, and then make it to work on time myself. Then get off at six o’clock—six-thirty after working a nine-hour day, resume my responsibility with my kids, and end the day.”
“Because you don’t have to—”
“But I am a representative of that community, who knows nothing about yours in terms of fitness and ‘looking good’ as you said, because we don’t have the benefit of time and resources.”
“Oh. Look at this.” He rolled his neck playfully. “You know the best of both worlds.”
“No. I only really know one. I’ve just gotten a taste of the other. And I think it’s inconsiderate and snobbish of you to judge her on her appearance alone.”
“Shit! She judging me on my appearance. That’s how we met!”
“And that’s when you should pretend to have too much on your plate to even notice. The best response is a non-verbal one.” I gave him a fake smile and took off.
Teke was on my heels as I headed toward the door to leave the gym.
“Anyway,” he grumbled behind me. “I came looking for you to see what you got in that poem book. Even got outta bed earlier than usual to look for you.”
“You mean to tell me you do your admin social media work even later in the day?” I spat quietly over my shoulder.
I could hear him chuckle at my dig. “I wanted to know if you wanna lay out a few of them against melodies before we hit the studio tonight.”
That offer stopped me in my tracks. The studio we’d been using was a rather large one in Phoenix. Dave Munsnick, one of the L.I.T. Music executives owned it. He was actually a resident of Arizona, though he traveled a lot. That was why they opted for this to be the “farm” as they referred to it often, where the camp took place. It was isolated, and Dave had the studio with multiple rooms, equipped for recording and engineering.
Everyone knew I was a composer-aspirant. I shared how I kept a book of poems inspired by love and intimacy. I didn’t think it would be wise to reference it as fucking in this professional setting. Though these folks had colorful languages and lifestyles themselves.
Teke referencing my poems struck interest immediately. He must have detected it in my eyes.
“You down?”
My regard fell to my misted frame. “Yeah. Just give me time to get washed and make a smoothie.”
“Cool.” He smiled. Green orbs sparkling. “Meet you in the dining room?”
My smile surfaced. A big one. “It’s a bet.”
Anticipation and excitement danced in my belly as I trekked up the stairs to my room. It was a long haul and away from mostly everyone else. For the first time, it didn’t matter. I’d been working on music. My music. I’d done this a time or two back in Sparta. I couldn’t wait to do it again.
“When my mind was fried, baby…
You opened up and said come inside…glide, baby.
Now, I don't wanna just slip and slide, baby.”
Jemah, a producer from Chicago, sang from the printout to a catchy cadence while snapping her fingers. My heart pounded with anxiety. Teke’s head bobbed with her, seeming to keep up.
“I wanna get lost and hide, forever stay inside...of...you, baby.
High off your ecstasy, I almost died, baby.
To...come...down...I really tried, baby.
But you became the drug I need, baby.
My...addiction...forever feed, baby.” Her arms went into the air as did her one knee as she stretched back in her seat and squealed. “That is fucking hot, shortie!”
Jemah stretched across the table and high fived me. I couldn’t help my blush. I’d written that piece two years ago during a crazy bout of loneliness and horniness.
“Where’d that one come from?” she asked excitedly. “There are so many ways we can spin it. We can even slow it down,” she argued to Teke, who was unusually quiet.
“You don’t like it,” I observed, not taking it personally.
Teke wrote most of B City’s music. He’d also written for Jasmine Sullivan and Fantasia. Like Jemah here, who had
her own impressive list, he knew his business.
“I do,” he mumbled, pulling out another sheet I printed for them. I chose to bring three down for us to choose from. “I’m just looking for something less…” He stalled, reading. “…sexual and more passionate—maybe even sensual. Maybe.”
When my eyes shifted to Jemah, she was wearing the same baffled expression I knew I was. If he didn’t like any of these, I could print more. I had close to a hundred of these babies with me.
“Yo, I gotta track on my Mac right now for that “Baby” piece,” she tried to argue.
Not convinced, Teke pulled up a paper, laying it on top of the rest. “Like this one.” He lifted his guitar and positioned it, so he could read from the printout.
At first, I was mesmerized, unable to identify my ownership of the words. His timber was soft, melody delicate as he added his own adlibs. What he made of the first verse, slid from his lips with such ease. It was when he created the chorus that I snapped out of the rawness of emotion he’d cast me into.
“If you wanna change the rules…
Baby, I’mma play it cool.
I never shunned, and I won’t start now.
I could’ve loved you and I can’t stop now.
Your pain is my muse…
It’s your love that I choose.
But if you wanna pull the plug…
I’ll release you for love.”
His head bobbed though he stopped singing. “The bars from ‘your pain is my muse’ is where the bridge can start.”
Then he went to finish with the lyrics. When he was done, I didn’t realize he was gazing at me.
“What do you think?” he asked. I glanced up at him then my eyes skirted to Jemah. “You don’t like it? Should it be up tempo and not a ballad? Or more of a ballad?”
Taking a deep breath, I decided to gain a hold of myself. I was giving off the impression there was something wrong with his translation. It wasn’t that. The energy they were picking up was because hearing those words shot back to me reminded me of how tender I still was since leaving Sparta. I’d been numb from those feelings, refusing to acknowledge them. In fact, I buried them and put my focal point on this camp…other than hyper-checking social media for any signs of the lover I’d known briefly. These thoughts of mine—experiences—being converted into lyrics burned.
