by T L Dasha
Baek regarded me for a moment, then returned to his desk. “How about this. You can disregard the cleaning bill if you do me a favor.”
“A favor, sir?”
“Right. I have a somewhat… sensitive letter I need delivered. It’ll be off the clock. I’ll give you an address, and you just have to slide it under the door. Simple.”
“I don’t see any reason I wouldn’t be able to handle that.” That’s… unexpectedly easy.
“Perfect. Do a good job, and I’ll have Cynthia set you up with the unsolicited submissions. I’m not one to waste perfectly good talent. If you actually have any.”
“Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint-“
He raised a hand to silence me. “That will be all. You may leave now.”
I returned to my desk and sat down in a daze. Did that really just happen? Here I thought he was going to chew me out for the cleaning bill, when instead, I borderline got a promotion. Was that some kind of intimidation tactic? But I win in the end, so I can’t see how that would make him feel more powerful.
And not only that- all I had to do was drop off some silly love letter or something, and I’d have a chance at the slush pile. Maybe that was still grunt work, but it put me in a position where I had the chance to shine. Where I could prove myself.
He handed me the letter and an address after work that day. A greeting card sized envelope slipped under the door of an upscale suburban home in Calabasas. Then the following morning, Cynthia set me up on the shared drive, where they kept folder upon folder of submission files. Artists were separated by genre, a few shuffled into a nondescript ‘other’ folder, for those who were harder to define. I started on R&B, then moved onto Pop.
Despite my initial excitement, by the third day, everything was starting to blur together. I had heard the same basic story and structure about a thousand times now. Some melodies were so similar, I started to consider that the same guitarist was being passed around to all of the band start-ups. None of this was sellable. Maybe for a radio hit or two, but nothing that would go the distance. A one-hit-wonder might be a good start for most people, but I didn’t want anyone to think Jay McClintock was ‘most people.’
I moved on to the ‘other’ folder, hoping it might have something more off beat. I read through a couple pitch letters and listened to their respective recordings. R&B with a distinctly metal chorus. Is that supposed to be rap or polka? I think this is the first time I’ve heard a country singer fake a Scottish accent instead of Southern. This must be what it would sound like to have nails and chalkboards as your only instruments. Why would you death growl in the middle of a ska vibe?
My head hit the desk as I clicked into the next submission. Brad Ainsworth-Garza? Let me guess- Alternative Mariachi?
A simple piano melody tickled my ears. It was soft, yet enchanting. I sat up, and pressed the headphones more tightly to my ears. A low, sultry voice harmonized with the notes, sending chills down my spine.
~I keep dreaming.
Keep believing.
I’m who I’m supposed to be.
But you keep leaving.
And I keep thinking.
You’re still too good for me.~
That tingle crawled up my ears and made my heart beat a little faster. His voice built an unfamiliar heat in my body, and a tingle ran down my spine. It was provocative, yet warm. Sexy but genuine.
I hit repeat.
I hit it again.
One more time.
Then I opened his cover letter. His headshot came up first. A young, dark skinned man with an electric smile and black eyes that drew you in. An unfinished tattoo sleeve rested on his shoulder, giving a touch of hardness to an otherwise boyish face.
Below that, he had listed out some stats. Twenty years old- only a year younger than me. Five-foot-eleven, 160 pounds. Puerto Rican/American. Loves Salsa- the dance and the food. Master of scooter wheelies. Maybe it wasn’t the most professional resume, but it was just off kilter enough to keep my attention. I scrolled down further to his query:
-
Hello!
My name is Bradley Ainsworth-Garza, and I’m a singer of songs. I love all genres, and I want to believe my music will speak for itself. I hope you enjoy my sound!
With love,
Brad Ainsworth-Garza
-
… Alright, well… Not the best pitch I’ve ever read.
There was no wonder as to why his song got lost in the “other” pit. This might be a hard sell to the acquisitions manager. Maybe I could rewrite the pitch for him? They needed to hear this. How frustrating that this kind of talent would be lost over poor self-promotion.
I hit repeat on his audio track yet again. Brad’s voice filled me from head to toe, so haunting and seductive. I tapped a finger on the desk, trying to figure out how to fix his sales pitch. My eyes fell shut, and I laid my head back into my plush leather chair, trying to get a better idea of how to describe his rhythm and feel. I sank into the chorus
~I slide my love into your body, but still you shut me out.
You beg me to give it to you harder, until my name’s filling your mouth.
You’ll swallow back my passion, then leave as quickly as you came.~
Fuck fuck fuck- That heat was starting to feel like too much. Cheeks on fire, I got up with a start and made a quick bolt for the bathroom. I ducked into a stall and locked the door. This shouldn’t be triggering my libido like this. I shouldn’t be feeling this way from a man’s voice. I’d been with a couple women in high school. One or two since I had started college. They weren’t the most thrilling lays, but they had all gotten me off one way or another. That was probably enough evidence to assume I wasn’t technically gay.
But imagining looking into those eyes with that voice playing in my ears was making my heart race in a way none of those girls ever did. Not even close. This doesn’t make any sense.
… Still, there was no way I was going to be able to concentrate if I didn’t relieve myself a little. It was all quiet in the bathroom. No one else was here. It would only take a few minutes…
I pressed my back against the door for support, while undoing my belt. This is so unprofessional. What am I thinking?
My internal protests went unheard, while my fingers inched down my zipper, and slipped under my waistband.
Christ. I’ve had a woman straddling me, her whole body on display, firm breasts bouncing as she worked me to climax, and I wasn’t even half this hard. It was just a song. How was it doing this to me?
I gripped myself firmly, and ran my palm from head to base, biting my lip to stifle a moan. Every motion coaxing a more guttural breath from my lungs. Make it quick. Just get it over with.
Then came the squeak of unoiled hinges.
“Did you see the quarterly report?” An unfamiliar voice bounced off the tiled walls. Footsteps. The bang of the door falling shut. Fuck! I dug my teeth deeper into my lip, forcefully enough to draw blood.
“It’s all I’ve been looking at today- I can’t believe Parrot Marionette is performing this well, while Breanna Annabelle hasn’t even made the charts.” Another voice chimed in, which I recognized as the head of acquisitions. That’s the last person I needed to walk in on me. “I thought Baek was crazy when he insisted we sign them.”
“Just goes to show you, the boss didn’t get where he is for no reason.”
I was hoping my body would take the hint and fall flaccid out of fear of being exposed, but their presence had the opposite effect. My heart beat so loud and hard, I was shocked they couldn’t hear it, while my cock throbbed and quivered in my own grip.
I squeezed my eyes shut, building that tension with one hand, while covering my mouth with the other. The stalls beside me shut, echoing loudly enough to hide the whimper that escaped my throat. I triggered the flusher as I drew in a sharp breath and released into my hand. My knees buckled and my body quivered. I dropped to the floor and gripped the toilet seat, fighting to catch my breath and get m
yself in order before I had to go out and face my coworkers.
With another flush of the toiler, I stepped out of the stall. I splashed water over my face to try to bring my senses back to reality. A tall, thin blond approached the sink beside me, and glanced my way.
“Oh, you’re the new intern, right?”
I swallowed, hoping I was composed enough for casual conversation. Fortunately, my voice sounded calm when I finally let it escape my throat. “Yeah, I’m Jay. Jay McClintock.”
“Jonathan Chandler.” He dried his hands on a paper towel, before offering one for a shake. I washed the soap off my hands and met his greeting, trying not to think about what I was just doing with that hand. His smile was gentle. “I hear they put you on slush pile duty already. What did you do to piss off Baek this quickly?” Jonathan laughed. He had one of those demeanors that put you at ease, no matter how stressed out you were. Which made sense. You don’t make it to the head of acquisition without learning to sound calm and cordial in the face of even the most angry diva.
“I thought it was an improvement from being the coffee gopher.”
“That’s fair.” He nodded. “Find any diamonds in the rough yet?”
I paused as Brad’s voice replayed in my head. Embarrassment aside, his voice had such a powerful effect on me for a reason. I looked Jonathan square in the eye. “I… Yeah, actually. I think I might have.”
“That was quick.” His eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “This is why I like getting fresh ears around the office every now and again. How about you shoot me an email with the file, and I’ll give you a second opinion. It’ll be a good chance for you to learn how this all works.”
Really?! Just like that? For some reason, I had expected more of a hazing. More doubt and disrespect. I stood up straight and held my head back confidently. This is my chance. Don’t waver. “I’ll send it over as soon as I’m back at my desk.”
“Looking forward to it.” Jonathan gave me a pat on the shoulder and headed out of the bathroom. I returned to my desk and drafted my email.
Chapter 3
Brad Garza
“Bradley Sergio Ainsworth-Garza. Get over here right now.” My mom’s voice penetrated my earbuds, loud enough to wake the dead, yet terrifying enough to keep them hiding in their graves. I jerked the speakers from my ears, and scrambled to the kitchen of our little family restaurant.
My mother stood by the stove, the phone pressed to her ear while stirring a pot of something spicy enough to make me sweat just smelling it. Her short blonde hair was pulled tight behind her head, and a frilled apron was tied over her galaxy-print leggings and her chef’s coat. “There’s a woman on the phone for you, sweetie.”
For me? I only handle deliveries, so why would someone be calling the restaurant for me? Ugh, no. If Yesenia got my number off the internet… No- worse yet, what if it’s Monique? Please don’t be Monique. We’ve been over for a whole week now.
My speculation was cut short as she shoved the receiver to my ear.
“Hi, is this Bradley Ainsworth-Garza?” A sing song voice came through the line. Not Monique. Not Yesenia. If this was someone I dated, I definitely must not have ever listened to her actually talk. Could still be a trap though. Maybe one of their sisters or a friend. Wouldn’t be the first time.
I’ll feel her out first. “This is he.”
“Great, my name is Diana Oswald. I’m in charge of auditions and scheduling at ALIVE Records. We’ve recently reviewed your submission, and we would like to invite you to come in for an in-person audition at your earliest convenience.”
I was frozen. Her voice played on without registering in my ears, and the phone nearly slipped from my hand. I stared at my mother, mouth agape, unable to process what I was supposed to do. She just watched me with amused eyes and a catlike grin on her face, as though she knew exactly what this call would be about. God forbid she give me a heads up.
“Mr. Garza, are you still there?” That sing song voice ripped me out of my trance and back to the call.
“Yes! Yes- still here. Definitely still here!”
My mother laughed silently as she return to stirring her house-made hot sauce.
“When would you like to come in? We have openings on Wednesday the 5th, or Friday the 7th in the afternoon. Or-“
“All of those. I mean any. I mean- sorry.” Deep breath. I mouthed to my mom ‘can I get Friday off?’ She returned a knowing nod. “Friday afternoon would work best for me, thank you.”
“Perfect, I’ll pencil you in. I’ll follow-up all of this with directions and an address via email. I assume your email address on your resume is still accurate.”
“Yes, that would be perfect.” My tone had finally calmed down, and my breathing was steadying again.
“Great, we look forward to seeing you at the end of the week. Have a nice day.”
She hung up the phone, and my arm fell loosely by my side. The receiver slipped from my fingers and sprung back toward the wall mount on its coiled cord.
“Sooooo…” My mother said with an expectant look on her face.
“I got an audition.” The words sounded so impossible, they barely registered as my own.
“You got an audition.” She repeated, drilling the words in deeper.
“I got an audition.” I said again, hoping the third time would sound more real.
We both stood in silence for an extended second.
“I knew they would love you!” Her flats clicked on the floor with each excited bounce, as she jumped into a massive mom hug. I squeezed her back. I didn’t speak in an attempt to stop my voice form breaking. I can’t believe it. Am I really getting my break?
###
No matter how many times I ran that comb through my hair, it always looked the same. Slightly lopsided, like a crooked, dark brown wave, rounded by pomade and frustration. I contemplated shaving my stubble, but at twenty years old, the last thing I needed was to look any more young or inexperienced. My mom insisted on a nice white button-up, to compliment my dark complexion, while my dad insisted on blue jeans, for ‘vaquero’ appeal.
It’s not like I sing country music, but old habits die hard, I guess. He was still warming up to the idea that his son wanted to be an artist instead of a rancher, like he was, or a chef, like mom. Though I’d been tasked with enough farm-to-table butchering, that I always figured I could fall back on being a serial killer, if the music thing doesn’t work out anyways.
But today it was going to work out. I was sure of it. I hopped a bus downtown with four hours to spare, just in case someone decided to get in a fender bender that stopped the entire 101 freeway today. It dropped me off in the fashion district, and I made my way toward the ALIVE building.
“Buena suerte?” An older Mexican woman asked as I walked by, holding up a bracelet with bright turquoise beads. Despite growing up with a Puerto Rican father, I had only really learned Spanish from the ranch hands, as he refused to teach me. He wanted me to speak English, and he wanted me to blend in as much as possible. I certainly knew that phrase though.
‘Good luck?’
I don’t know why she assumed I needed it, but she was right on the money.
“Cuánto?” I examined her cart of jewelry. She held up three fingers, and I gave her a nod before digging for three singles from my wallet. Once I stretched the elastic over my wrist, I flashed her a perfect smile. She tried to act chill, but I could tell she was swooning.
Gets ‘em every time.
A couple more blocks down, passed bacon wrapped hot dog carts and knock off jewelry stores, I at long last found myself standing in front of the ALIVE Records building. It towered into the sky, with large reflective windows covering every inch of the outer walls.
I took a deep breath and went through my mental check list.
Shirt- tucked. Belt buckle- shiny. Smile- panty-dropping. Good luck bracelet- secured. Hair- Well… good enough. Let’s do this.
I waited in the waiting room long enough to nearly
lose my nerve. This is what I get for arriving so early. There were a handful of other people trying out. A three-piece band and a one-piece rapper were both ushered in before me. There was a hot red head scheduled after me. I managed to get her number so we could discuss… uh... our results. I’d definitely keep that handy for later.
When I heard my name fill the waiting room, my fear and anticipation and uncertainty bubbled up through every vein. I stood up and forced eye contact and a smile with the woman standing in the door to the stage. Then I followed her into the audition room.
A couple of executive types sat at a desk in front of the stage- a chipper blond man with entirely too much enthusiasm, a middle aged woman who looked like she spent most of her time scowling at flowers, and an older dude who was strikingly similar to my grandpa. I climbed the steps to the spotlight, trying to wipe the sweat from my palms on my jeans before my nerves became any more obvious. A few more steps to the mic.
Then my foot caught on the microphone chord. Shit! Make it look intentional! Make it look intentional!
I stumbled into position, flourishing my entrance with a swing of my boot, and catching the mic stand before it could hit the ground, as if I had intended the theatrics all along. The evaluators looked… maybe impressed? Pinche suave, Brad. Pinche suave.
I gripped the mic firmly as the sweat built up on my palms again, not wanting to make a fool of myself further. “H-hi everyone. I’m Bradley Sergio Ainsworth-Garza.” My voice sounded more like a squeak than anything that could be mistaken for manly. I cleared my throat. “I was born and raised in Oxnard, California, and I’m so excited to be here…” Ugh. The tremors just wouldn’t go away, and I could feel an unpleasant heat radiating through my nerves. It was so easy to sing for my family, and even easier to record at home. I hadn’t expected this to feel so different. I closed my eyes and took hold of the mic, trying to just focus on the song.
This is my thing. It’s what I do best. All I have to do is show them. It’ll be fine.
The tape with my background music started to play. A steady drum beat and soft acoustics. Focus on the beat. There’s my cue!
