Rocked Up

by Karina Halle

  As usual I just sit there at the meeting without saying a word while a team of people shout back and forth about this or that.

  “We need more poolside shots.”

  “Sex tape.”

  “He should make an appearance at a global warming protest. That is so hot right now.”

  “For fuck’s sake, we need more talk shows. Has Corden replied?”

  “Let’s piss off Australian Customs, that news goes global.”

  “How about some shots of him leaving that sex club? Madeline’s, is it?”

  So I sit and eat the sushi while they play with my life like I’m just a product. No wonder it’s increasingly rare that I’m invited to these nasty brainstorm meetings. It’s also rare that Ronald would attend, but there’s Ronald at the opposite end of the table with his elbows on the desk and his hands making a triangle shape just under his chin. He looks stoic, seemingly unimpressed with what’s happening, but it’s also his default face.

  “Okay, that’s enough for today,” he announces. “I want Brad’s face on the cover of every magazine when his album comes out this spring. That’s still a few months away so don’t exhaust your resources. Stay focused on the tour, only play your games in the cities he is playing. Brad, stick around, I need to talk to you.”

  Shit.

  The crew shuffles out of the room exchanging looks that only exist in the competitive corporate world. They look like wild animals in nice clothing, completely willing to kill the person they were holding the door open for if it suited them. I preferred when they ignored me—whenever they did speak to me through their smiling teeth, I knew it was trouble.

  “How was the duet with Lindsay?” Ronald asks from across the long boardroom table covered with a mountain range of sushi. It’s strange being so far away, and I anxiously do a quick drum roll with my chop sticks before setting them down.

  “Good. I felt like we made a real connection,” I shout at him.

  Ronald smiles and stands up, flattening his tie over his rounded belly, slowly walking toward me as he speaks to the ceiling.

  “Look,” he says. “I am sorry about Nick. I know you got along. It’s not about who threw the chicken, and I don’t care about that lady’s car. It’s his attitude. No one wants to work with the guy, I knew he had to go.”

  “He threw the chicken.”

  “It was never about the chicken.”

  Nick, our now ex-bassist, was involved in a bit of an incident.

  I sit there looking up at Ronald standing next to me and we share an awkward pause that seems to last for days. The room is so quiet I can hear him breathing.

  “I hear you still won’t work with the song writers. That’s okay,” he finally goes on. “As long as you’re writing hits you won’t have any problems from me. It’s just that we haven’t heard anything from you lately and we need that album ready for spring. We need a summer hit, a summer love song,”

  “Okay. I’ll call it Summer Love Song,” I answer sarcastically

  “I like it,” Ronald answers, choosing to ignore my sarcasm. He sits down next to me and says earnestly, “We don’t need another one of your avant garde projects. I don’t care if those hipster magazines love it, it doesn’t pay the bills. That shit doesn’t pay for your fancy condo in the hills. What the fuck did you call that album again?”

  “Stomp Box,” I answer.

  Stomp Box was an album completely comprised of analog guitar effect pedals swirling and driving ambient sounds for an hour and a half. Not a single chorus or hook, just one long track of me manipulating twenty effect pedals and playing my guitar. By the end of the track I had every pedal on. I’m not usually into smoking pot but after that session you could barely see the instruments through the smoke.

  “Yeah, that fucking shit, enough with that,” he says. “Now, look. It wasn’t easy, but you don’t have a single flight for this tour so you are in for quite the road trip. This means you will be living on your bus for over two months. I expect big things on this tour. Really big things. The venues are getting bigger, and we are selling out faster. You need to step up to the plate. When you get back it’s straight to the studio to get that album ready for spring, so I need you to be ready for that, too. I told you the day I met you, over ten years ago, there will be times when it’s hard and you will want to give up. I’m just reminding you, it’s not going to be easy over the next few months. I promise you that. I need to know you won’t give up. I need to know you will see this through.”

  “This is what I do. You have nothing to be worried about,” I assure him.

  He clears his throat, avoiding my eyes. “We have a new temporary bass player for you. She’ll be with you for this tour while we look for someone to fill the position full-time.”

  “She?” I question. What the hell is he talking about?

  Ronald looks uncharacteristically defeated.

  “She wants to be a musician,” he says quietly, almost wincing. “I think she’s caught up with some kind of romantic idea of what life on the road is like and there’s nothing like two months on a bus during winter to get it out of your system.”

  “Uh, who are we talking about, Ronald?”

  Ronald stands up and stalks over to the door. He opens it and sticks his head out into the hall, bellowing, “Come on in.” Then he turns to look at me. “Brad Snyder, meet your new bass player.”

  Lael Ramsey steps into the boardroom.

  No one says a word. Ronald smiles, looking back and forth between Lael and me.

  What the fuck is going on?

  I know I should say something, and it has to be the right thing or else I’m dead. This is his fucking daughter here.

  “I didn’t even realize you played bass,” I manage to say to her.

  Her fake awkward smile breaks for a moment and she opens her mouth to say something.

  “She’s a fantastic player,” Ronald says, cutting her off. “And I think she will be a great part of the team. She’ll have her own bus to travel on and her own security. Other than sound check and the actual shows, she won’t be bothering you and Twitch.”

  “Switch,” I correct him on the name of my bandmate.

  “Sure. Look, this is really a non-issue. Lael is very capable, and there is no reason you, Mitch, Calvi, and her can’t have a professional working relationship. You guys will travel together as usual and Lael will meet you at the venue at the appropriate times.”

  Ronald looks at Lael and puts his hand on her shoulder.

  Lael gives him an awkward smile and nervously whispers, “Yay…”

  “Good,” he says with a nod, happy with her fake enthusiasm. “I think we’re done here. Lael, darling, I know you have somewhere to be so I won’t keep you. Your assistant will let you know when the first rehearsal is. You’ll see Brad, the other guy, and Stitch there and I am sure it will be great.”

  I exchange a look with Lael, trying to let her know everything’s fine. She returns my gaze with fear in her eyes. I can’t blame her. Perhaps I look the same.

  Ronald ushers her out the door, closing it behind her, and once again Ronald and I are alone in the boardroom.

  He sits next to me with a grave expression. “I’ve invested more in you than any other artist in the history of my company. I’m not going to say I own you—that wouldn’t be right—and I’m not even going to say you owe me anything. You’ve held up your part of the deal quite well. But, young man, I want you to know, I will take it all away if you let anything happen to Lael. You and anyone else from the crew are not to socialize with her, okay? This is a working relationship. In fact, I’ve told Lael that you are basically her boss. And I have eyes and ears everywhere, so don’t fuck this up. She doesn’t belong on the road, I don’t want that life for her. It just has to be this way for now. Remember, it has nothing to do with the chicken.”

  And with that he smiles, stands up, and heads out of the room, leaving me alone at the big table.

  I can only sit there, dumbfounded,
trying to make sense of this. I don’t like this situation being forced on me. The boss’s daughter following in her own bus for a two-month tour? Nepotism at its finest. Or perhaps at its worst.

  “Hey,” says Lael, her voice soft and concerned. I look up to see her poking her head in the door.

  “Hey,” I tell her, not sure what else to say. Shit, this is awkward.

  “Look,” she says, “I just asked my father if I could audition. I didn’t want things to be like this.”

  She seems embarrassed, and I have no doubt she’s telling me the truth. This is one hundred percent her father’s doing. It has nothing to do with her.

  “Are you my ride home?” I ask with a sigh.

  “Uh-huh,” she says warily.

  “Well, all right then, take me home,” I say, giving her a small smile, and together we walk out of that miserable office building.

  I like being in her tiny car. It’s very much an extension of her, at least the her that I know so far. There’s teal everywhere and it smells like coconut sunscreen.

  We glide away without a sound. She’s concentrating on driving through traffic so I take the opportunity to stare at her profile without being noticed. Her long blue-green hair is pushed back by her sunglasses, completely revealing her face and neck. She has a profile that is hard not to stare at—a perfect nose, full lips, young, sunkissed skin. By any standard she is beautiful, but she does not look like the next bass player of And Then.

  “Like I said, this wasn’t my idea,” Lael says after a while, keeping her eyes on the road. “And I know you’re upset about it, so I’ll go to my dad’s office tomorrow and tell him I won’t do it.”

  I don’t have the heart or energy to respond. I’m suddenly so tired of dealing with things like this. So I put my head back against the seat rest and watch the city pass by.

  I have to admit, I’m strangely comfortable with Lael. When I first met her she was just a kid who used to stare at me with heart eyes. She’s still a bit younger than me but miles away from that kid that used to hang around me so shyly.

  Her words are still hanging in the air, prompting me to say something.

  “Good idea. Talk to your dad tomorrow. Call it off,” I tell her, still looking out my window.

  Now it’s my words that hang in the air. I was probably a little harsh, but it needed to be said. I’m not going to take this girl on tour when there’s someone out there better suited for the gig. We strive to be one of the most bad-ass bands in the world and Lael is too…pretty.

  “I will,” she says. “Like I said, this was not my idea. You don’t have to worry about taking care of the boss’s daughter for your entire tour. Not that I need taking care of, but it’s a stupid idea and you don’t have to worry about me being around.”

  Lael’s tone is that of a teenager’s toward an authority figure. I give her a side eye and don’t entertain her with a response.

  We’re not far from my old stomping grounds. The theater that I used to call home is just minutes away. I haven’t been there for a while, and with Mr. Robson having passed away, it feels like it’s time to walk down memory lane and say goodbye to my dear friend.

  “Do you mind taking a little detour?” I ask.

  “Where?” she asks with total attitude.

  “The theater where it all started.”

  “We can do that,” she says in a calm, sober voice, her expression softening as she puts on the turn signal.

  We don’t speak on the way to the theater. It’s been ages since I’ve been on this street in the afternoon, and it looks different with the sun high in the sky. It’s quiet too. This part of the city comes alive at night and sleeps during the day. Lael’s able to park on the street almost directly in front of the theater’s main doors.

  “Hungry?” I ask.

  “Starving.”

  We cross the street and get a couple Dilallo burgers. To my surprise, the couple working there are as lively as always. They remember me immediately, offering their condolences for my loss. Lael seems less than enthusiastic about the greasy white bag that they hand her, but I can tell she’s charmed by the hard-working couple.

  Burgers in hand, we cross the street to the theater. The moment I enter the foyer, the smells instantly bring me back to my late childhood.

  Then, stepping into the theater area I see it: Mr. Robson’s sound booth, looking painfully empty, flowers laid out all over his equipment.

  I run my hands over the flowers that were obviously left by the crew but I know Mr. Robson would have hated having them near his equipment.

  I let out a deep breath and close my eyes. I can hear his voice in the depths of my mind: Did they let you out of your cage?

  “Are you going to be okay?” Lael asks.

  I meet her eyes, warm and filled with concern. I make a promise to myself not to break down on her again.

  “I will be. C’mon over here. These are the best seats in the house.” I direct her to the seats where I always sat at with Mr. Robson.

  We sit down and look at the beautiful empty stage, save for an old friend, Ross Duncan, who’s on a ladder fixing some lights, the sound of his tools clanking filling the room.

  We eat in silence for a while, though my mind can’t seem to focus on one thing.

  “That is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Lael says with a little laugh after she scrunches up the empty burger wrapper and drops it into the bag.

  “Right?” I say, amused by the grease around her mouth. I pause. “So, what’s it like being the daughter of a tyrant?”

  My question doesn’t seem to shock her.

  “I don’t know, what’s it like working for one?” she replies, arching a brow.

  I clear my throat. “It just surprises me that you want to be a working musician. Aren’t you supposed to rebel against your father? Become, like, a doctor or something?”

  “My father hates that I want to be a musician,” she admits. “He sees them as the bottom of the food chain. No offense.”

  I gave her a crooked smile and a thumbs up, supporting the claim.

  She continues with a sigh. “It’s like I’m an extension of him rather than my own person. Sometimes I feel like a ghost—a guest in someone else’s life.”

  I’m thinking of how Mr. Robson gave me a chance. I can’t imagine where my life would be if he hadn’t mentored me. And even though Lael and I grew up on different sides of the tracks, I can see we have some things in common. Most obviously, we’re both trapped under the spell of Ronald Ramsey. She’s bound by blood and I’m bound by legal contract.

  Honestly, I’m not sure which is easier to break free from.

  And yet, I know she’s sincere about being a musician. I can feel her youthful drive, know what she’s feeling by the way she’s gazing at the empty stage.

  “The only time I can be the person I need to be is when I’m onstage,” she says. “That’s when I’m in control. I can self-destruct or I can shine.”

  I finish chewing before saying, “Self-destruction is very nineties. I would shine if I were you.”

  “I was born in the late nineties, so I missed that stuff,” she says with a shrug.

  I imagine how Mr. Robson might react to Lael if he were here with us. He would have done everything he could to encourage her.

  Suddenly I feel the weight of responsibility, as if Mr. Robson is standing over my shoulder.

  I know what I have to do.

  “Alright, young lady,” I say to her, and she scrunches up her cute nose at my choice of words. “Why don’t you come for an audition? I won’t tell Switch or Calvi who you are. You’ll be just another bass player auditioning. And I’ll go with whatever they say. That way this has nothing to do with your father. It’s based on your talent. It’s what’s fair for all of us.”

  A smile slowly crosses Lael’s face, her eyes still looking at the stage. In an easy, confident voice she says, “I can do that.”

  Chapter Four

  Lael


  “I can’t do this.”

  Christy turns around from the stove, stirring the giant pot of cabbage soup she made last night. “You can do this,” she says calmly. “Why are you getting all freaked out now? You were as cool as a cucumber an hour ago.”

  “Because,” I tell her, standing in the kitchen doorway, unsure of where I should go, what to do with myself. “An hour ago I wasn’t an hour closer to my impending doom.”

  Christy snorts and goes back to paying attention to the soup. “You’re so dramatic, Lael. What happened to the positive, confident ball-buster that I know?”

  I sigh and look down at my legs where Baby Groot has wriggled his way in between them, staring up at me with big eyes. He wants food. He always wants food.

  I scoop him up and give him a kiss on the nose. “But what if I do get the job,” I say, more to Baby Groot than to Christy. “Then what am I going to do with you?”

  “Aunt Christy will look after him just fine,” Christy comments. “We have a ball when you’re at work.” Christy works from home as a graphic designer so when I’m out waiting tables, she’s keeping an eye on him. Sometimes I feel we practically share the dog, which makes me feel only a little bit better at the potential of leaving.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. An hour ago I was blisteringly confident, totally convinced that I’m going to have the band eating out of the palm of my hand. Now I’m just twisted nerves, thinking I’m going to mess this all up.

  No, I tell myself, putting Baby Groot back down on the floor, you won’t mess it up. You know what you’re doing. They just might not want all the baggage you bring, the Ramsey name.

  And that’s so true. I felt so mortified the way that my father just sprung all of that on Brad, as if he didn’t have a choice. What makes it worse is I don’t think Brad does have a choice. What my father says goes. I’ve heard him say in many different ways that he discovered Brad and he owns Brad and knowing my father’s team of henchmen and lawyers, I’m sure it’s completely true. I just hated that my father would impose me on the band like that.