CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I’m standing in front of the group of men again, still without Ty, but I have a lot more confidence now and newfound hope that things just might work out. “Okay, so that was a good little meeting.”
Cash looks over at Red. “And he’s only missing part of his ass. You failed to chew it all off.”
I smile. As if I could ever chew these guys out. “Ha, ha. Very funny. But seriously . . . let’s talk about Ty while he’s not here.”
“He’s gonna love that,” Paul says, rolling his eyes.
“No, he probably won’t if all he hears is that we talked about him behind his back. But when I have a chance to tell him what we discussed, I don’t think he’s going to be too upset.”
“I’m not sure if you know him well enough to say that,” Mooch says. “The kid is pretty sensitive.”
“Maybe because you keep calling him a kid and treating him like one.” I give him the look that my mother gives me when I’m being sassy.
He presses his lips together and nods slowly.
“From my perspective, which is totally coming from the outside looking in, I think the problem is that you guys are treating Ty like he’s just a temporary member of the band, when what you should be doing is treating him like he’s going to be here for the next twenty years. It comes across in everything you do and say, and your fans are absolutely picking up on that, and so is he.”
“I’m not even sure we’ll still be here in twenty years,” Paul says, getting a laugh from the rest of the band.
“Well, my job is to make sure that you are, or that you have the option to be.”
Now I have their attention. “So . . . the first thing to do is to fix this rift in your relationship. I really think Ty is good for the band. Not only is he talented and completely dedicated to the music, he’s got the look that you need.”
Cash uses a falsetto voice. “Oooh, somebody’s in love.”
I glare at him. “If I had something to throw at you right now, I would.” I look behind me at the mixing boards.
Jed holds up a hand like a stop sign. “Don’t even think about touching my stuff.”
I turn back to the band. “Okay, fine, no projectiles. But seriously. He has the look women like and men wish they had. Old or young, his appeal is undeniable. The problem is that there’s too big of a gap between what he’s got going on and what you’ve got going on.” I try not to squirm, because here comes the big truth.
Cash frowns and looks at his buddies. “I think we just got insulted.”
They all laugh.
“No, it’s not an insult. It’s just an observation. You guys have the same look that you had over twenty years ago, but you’re not in your twenties anymore. I get why you’re doing it; it’s your thing. But the problem is, you’re enjoying a resurgence of popularity and there’s a whole new generation of people out there.” I point to myself. “I’m a part of that generation, and I know how these people think. I know what they’re looking for.”
“And we’re not it?” Red asks.
I’m no idiot. His question is a challenge; I can see it clear as day. And I can also see everyone hanging on his words and my future answer. It’s make-it-or-break-it time. Okay, no more playing around. I’m going to handle these men like I handle my bees. I’m going to blow a little smoke in their faces, mesmerize them, and then take what I came for: one hundred percent cooperation. I’m gonna get the honey, baby.
“Listen . . . You can keep doing what you’ve always done, and you may pick up some new fans here and there because they like the music and they heard it when they were younger. But face it . . . your existing fan base is getting older. And maybe nostalgia keeps them hanging on to the music, but if you want this new generation of people to be singing your songs and buying your albums for another twenty years, you need to give them what they’re looking for. Something they can identify with.”
“Maybe we should’ve hired a different guitarist,” Cash says. He looks at his friends. “Remember? We could’ve had . . . uh . . . that other guy . . .” He looks nervous, like he’s said too much. I think he’s avoiding making eye contact with me.
Red shakes his head. “No, not that guy. Never that guy.”
I brush off the part of this conversation that’s interfering with me meeting my goal. “If you don’t want to make a complete change, I get it. That’s cool. I don’t want you to become different people. I just want to update the look a little bit. Like Bon Jovi did. He doesn’t wear the mullet anymore, right? There’s still some hair-teasing there, maybe a little product . . . but he keeps it at a bare minimum.”
Mooch looks over at Cash. “You realize this means you’re not going to be allowed to wear your jogging shorts to work anymore.”
The engineers snicker. Paul hides a smile behind a cough.
I shake my head with my eyes closed. These guys are impossible. Maybe I should be mad that they’re making fun, but all I want to do is laugh at them. God spare me from middle-aged rockers hanging on to the past.
“No, wear whatever you want,” I say, coming back to the conversation. “I mean, if you don’t mind your fans seeing you look like that.”
Cash looks down at himself. “Looking like what? I went running this morning.”
Everyone else smiles behind their hands, but I don’t bother hiding my reaction. “Where did you run from, the donut shop?” I point. “You’ve got some powdered sugar right there.” I point to his chest.
Everybody bursts out laughing except Cash. He looks down and brushes it off as he frowns. “Hey. That’s not nice. It’s not powdered sugar . . . it’s dust from my apartment. We’re remodeling.”
I walk over and put my hand on his arm and shake it a little bit. “I’m just kidding. Sure it’s dust. But honestly, Cash, you’re wearing what I would wear when I’m lounging at home with a pair of fuzzy slippers to match.” I place my hand on my chest. “Even I, hippie chick extraordinaire, wouldn’t be caught dead outside the commune in that outfit.”
He looks down at himself. “But these are my favorites.”
“And you make enough money to buy a big estate somewhere with a tall wall all the way around it where you can walk around in whatever short-shorts you want to. But you really shouldn’t do it in downtown Manhattan.”
Mooch looks over at him. “She has a point, man.”
Cash makes a face at him. “Traitor.”
Red takes charge. “So, other than no short-shorts, what exactly are we talking about here?” He looks at his fellow band members. “You know the new label wants us to do this stuff. Do you remember what that wanker said?”
“Yeah, but we’re never going to do that,” Paul says.
“What did the wanker want you to do?” I ask, super curious. Hopefully, he wasn’t pushing for a Ziggy Stardust look. There’s no way I could stick around for that.
Cash looks like he’s in pain, which, when paired with his current wardrobe choices, is enough to make me nearly kill myself trying to not laugh. “He wanted us to do the punk thing. He was talking about mohawks and fauxhawks and stuff like that.”
Mooch frowns and shakes his head. “I will not be wearing a fauxhawk in this lifetime.”
“Oh, Jesus. Fauxhawks?” This guy, whoever he is, really is a wanker. “No. I agree with you guys. A fauxhawk is a bad idea for anyone over the age of thirty. But may I remind you that you all walk around with teased mullets?” I wait for them to make the connection, but all I get is confusion on the faces around me.
“What’s your point?” Paul asks.
“I’m just saying . . . you have no problem with the mullet but you’re complaining about the fauxhawk . . . This illustrates my point exactly.”
Cash slumps down on the arm of the couch. “I’m starting to feel like I’m in school again and I’ve pissed off my teacher.”
I walk over and give him a hug, patting him on the back. “I’m not that mean, I promise. I want to make this as painless as possible.” I stand up with my hands on his shoulders and stare him in the eye. “Do you trust me?”
He nods wordlessly. I think I surprised him with the physical contact. Heck, I surprised myself. Not in a bad way, though. I actually like these guys, and back home, we’re always hugging and stuff, so physical contact is just a regular part of my day. I’m happy that I’ve brought that piece of me to the city.
I back off and look at the group with my hands together. I’m on the edge of victory; I can feel it in my bones. “My first act as your official consultant is to suggest that you get haircuts.”
I wait to see what they say. They all look at one another, mystified and maybe a little afraid.
“Since none of you are Sampson, I promise that cutting off some of that long hair in the back is not going to cause you to lose your strength or your musical talent.”
“How much are we going to cut off?” Paul asks.
“How about we let the professionals decide?” Surely there’s someone here in Manhattan who knows how to cut hair and do it well. That will be my next mission after I leave this place . . . to find that magician.
“As long as I don’t look like Lister when you’re done,” Cash says, pouting.
Everybody laughs and nods, even Jed and Pete.
Victory is mine! “Okay, I got it. I promise you, nobody is going to have to walk around looking like Lister. Except Lister, of course. Poor guy.”
We all have a good laugh at that. The more I picture them wearing suits with business haircuts, the harder I giggle. By the time Ty walks back through the door, we all have rosy cheeks and the mood is much lighter.
Ty stops just inside the room and stares at us suspiciously. I’m trying to decide if I should go over to him in front of all these men, when Red stands and does it for me. He walks over and puts his hand on Ty’s shoulder, forcing him into the room in a friendly way. “We’re sorry, man. We weren’t laughing about you. Come on in. We owe you an apology.”
The rest of the band stands and the engineers go over to their mixing boards, quietly turning their backs to the group.
“What’re you talking about?” Ty asks. He still hasn’t lost his suspicious air.
“We haven’t been fair to you since you joined us, and that’s on me.” Red holds his hand out. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that bullshit.”
I almost feel like crying watching this happen. Ty is getting exactly what he deserves—an apology and some respect. I’m so proud of Red for being a bigger man than he was being before. He actually listened to me and now he’s following through on a promise he made. It’s pretty heady stuff, knowing how powerful this guy is in the music industry and that he trusts me enough to act on my advice. I know if I weren’t a blast from his past, he probably wouldn’t have, but still . . . I’m going to take my successes where I can get them.
Ty slowly reaches up and shakes his hand. “Thanks. But you don’t need to apologize for anything.”
“Yeah, we do,” Cash says, walking over and shaking his hand too. “We were assholes. We should’ve done better.”
It’s Mooch’s turn next. “Yeah, you can thank your girlfriend over there for setting us straight.”
I stare at the ceiling, wishing Mooch hadn’t called me that, but loath to bring any more attention to it. Ty is probably going to hate me forever for being labeled his girlfriend. I can’t even look at him right now, imagining that he’s thinking he finally got what he wanted only because this hippie chick who showed up on the scene as the bastard child of a band member demanded it. Talk about an ego punch.
Paul speaks next. “You’re an amazing musician and you have every right to be here and in on every decision we make. We shouldn’t have blocked you out. It was stupid and senseless . . . something we should’ve known better than to do.”
There’s a funny tone to his voice when he says that. I look down from the ceiling in time to see everybody exchanging glances and nodding at one another. I can tell that Ty is just as out of the loop as I am about the significance of Paul’s words. He’s on the outside looking in, like I am.
I’m getting the impression that they have a lot of secrets I’m not privy to and probably never will be.
“How about we start this day over?” Red asks, distracting me from trying to read any more of their body language. He rubs his hands together. “Anybody here ready to play some music?”
Ty glances over at me with an unreadable expression before answering. “Are we working on new material?”
“That’s the plan,” Mooch says, walking over to the small booth that I had my conversation with Red in. “I’m just gonna go bang out a couple rhythms I was working on this week.” He disappears into the room and shuts the door. Pretty soon we hear his drums going; the sound is muted but not completely gone. The engineers are busy with headphones on, watching lights blink on their mixers and computer screens as they make adjustments to different dials and sliders.
“What about you?” Red asks Ty. “You got any new material?”
Ty shrugs. “Maybe. I’ve been playing around with some stuff.” He doesn’t sound very confident.
“Great. Maybe you can show us.”
“Sure.” He turns his attention to me. “Can I have a word with you for a minute?”
I shrug. “Sure.” I wish I could be excited about this private meeting, but the truth is, I’m dreading it. He’s pissed, I know he is. I fought his battle for him—one he was losing for months before I got here—and won. What guy would like that?
I follow him out of the room into the reception area. There’s still no one there. As soon as the door shuts, he turns to face me. “I’m sorry I was rude earlier.”
I’m more than a little shocked that his first words weren’t I don’t ever want to see you again.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, relief flooding through me. “I understand why you were.”
He shakes his head. “No, don’t forgive me that easily.”
I smile, entirely charmed by the self-torture he’s administering on my behalf. “Why not?”
“Because. When I’m acting like a dick, you need to hold me to it. Don’t let me get away with it.”
“Why not?” I can’t imagine why he’d want me to extend his torture by forcing him to pay for his sins every time he makes a mistake. I’m not that much of a wench.
“Because . . .” He moves his lower jaw around and flares his nostrils, wrestling with his emotions for a few seconds before he answers. “That’s what my mom did with my father all the time, and he railroaded her.” Tears are threatening but he’s fighting valiantly against their escape.
I nod, getting it now . . . understanding why he reacted the way he did to his own behavior. Some of the things I saw in those films are starting to make sense. I’m touched that he’s looking at our interactions and measuring them against those between his parents. It tells me he sees me as more than just some woman he slept with.
I sigh and stroke his arm gently. “You don’t know me very well, Ty, but I promise . . . if you spend enough time with me, you’ll eventually figure out that it’s not possible to railroad me. There’s no need to apologize for having emotions and needing to express them.”
He looks at me funny. “You were ready to forgive me without even an apology?”
“That’s what people do sometimes.” I reach up and stroke his cheek. He looks so sad, I just want to wipe it all away and make him smile again. “Just because you’re experiencing an emotion, it doesn’t make you a bad person. And if you lash out at somebody you care about in the process, well, that’s life. It happens. You did apologize, and I already knew you weren’t happy with yourself for doing it, so we’re good.”
“But I never want to be the kind of person who doesn’t regret it and doesn’t apologize after he does the wrong thing.”
My hand drops and I shrug. “Then don’t be that guy. Like I said to you last night . . . you choose. You choose how you react to the things that happen to you and the things you do. You take step one and then you decide what step two is going to be, not me.”
“So, what you’re saying is . . . it’s all on me.”
“Yeah. No matter who I am in your life and whether or not I’m still in your life two weeks from now, I can’t force you to be who I want you to be; and I wouldn’t want to do that anyway. You are who you are, for better or for worse.”
His smile is weak, but at least it’s real. “I hope it’s for better.”
“Me too, but that’s not very realistic.”
His face goes dark. “What are you saying? You don’t think I can be a good person?”
I get closer and take his arm, shaking him a little bit. “Hey . . . leave your bags at the door, Ty. I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying, you are not perfect. You are human, just like me and all those old farts in the other room. You’re going to have emotions, you’re going to experience them, and you’re going to express them . . . and those emotions aren’t always going to be pretty. You have to be okay with that. I’m okay with it. I think the guys in that room are okay with it. But you can’t bring your baggage everywhere you go, assuming the worst of everybody and assuming everybody hates you or is angry at you all the time.”
He looks up, his eyes watery. He starts tapping his foot and then clears his throat. “This isn’t easy for me. Feelings . . . aren’t easy for me.”
I pull him up against me and hold him, rubbing his back. “I know. But the good news is, you’re normal. Life wasn’t meant to be easy. In fact, from what I understand, it’s supposed to be incredibly unfair and difficult for everyone.”
He puts his arms around me and hugs me tightly, leaning his chin down to rest on my shoulder. “Who told you that garbage?”
“Two people who I’m learning to respect more and more every day.” I pat him on the back a couple times and then pull away. “The band is going to give you a fair shake now. Don’t blow it.”
An adorable lopsided grin comes across his face. “Don’t blow it? That sounds kind of ominous.”
“It’s not meant to be. But this is your real chance. They’re going to give you a real shot this time. You’re a hundred percent in. Don’t forget to voice your opinion and say what needs to be said. You are the voice of a new generation.”
“That sounds like the name of a song.”
“If it isn’t, it should be.” I wink at him.
He leans in and kisses me on the forehead. “Thanks. Thanks for everything.”
“Don’t mention it.” Mission accomplished! Yeah! Who’s the superhero? I’m the superhero! There’s a total fist pump coming as soon as I’m around the corner and no one can see me do it.
He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “Are you gonna come in and listen?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ve been assigned a new mission. I need to find the best hairdresser in Manhattan.”
“You might want to talk to Lister about that. He’s got a contact list that could fill an entire room if it were on paper.” He reaches up and touches a lock of my hair. “I hope you’re not going to change this, though.”
I look at the hair he’s holding. “What?”
“At the hairdresser’s . . . I like your hair the way it is. Wavy. Soft. No fake color on it.”
My face goes warm with the compliment. “No, it’s not for me. It’s for the band.”
His eyebrows go up as he releases my hair. “That’s going to be interesting.”
“You’re not kidding.” I sigh, imagining visiting Lister once more.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing. I just don’t want to have to see Lister right now, is all.” He’s the chief of the fun police.
He laughs. “Well, you don’t have to. It was just a suggestion. If you have other contacts in the city, go for it.”
“Okay, fine. Go have fun making music. I’m going to go talk to the stiff shirt.”
I start to walk away, but he grabs my hand and pulls me back. At first I’m surprised and confused, but then when he leans down, his eyes falling closed, I know what he intends to do. I should tell him not to, that we’re at work and there’s no room for kissing when you’re on the clock, but I can’t. I don’t even want to. I’ve been missing the touch of his lips on mine since the moment I left his penthouse last night.
When we connect, that Fourth of July sparkler lights up in my chest again. We’re just getting into some awesome tongue action, too, when the door behind me opens all of a sudden and a slight gust of air hits me in the back.
“Oh, shit . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” It’s a female voice.
We quickly pull apart and I turn around to face a girl about my age with a bag over her shoulder and a pile of folders in her arms. She has a nose ring, an eyebrow ring, and a strip of purple hair down the middle of her head, like a punk rock Pepé Le Pew.
“Oh no . . . it’s no problem. I was just leaving.” I squeeze Ty’s hand before I turn around to go.
“I’ll call you,” he says.
“Great.” I nod at the girl on my way out as she sets herself up behind the reception desk. She waves goodbye as the door shuts behind me.
Phew. That girl walking in was like a cold shower but without the water. It’s probably a good thing that it happened, because there’s a couch in that reception area, and Ty was looking way too hot—and that vulnerability he shared with me made me want to tear his clothes off and make him forget how sad he was. Damn . . . I’ve got it bad.
I need to call my sisters stat and tell them what’s going on. Maybe they’ll be able to help me get control of my libido . . . or at least help me relocate my common sense that’s missing in action.
I leave the recording studio office and head to the elevator. I guess I’m going over to Lister’s office whether I like it or not, since I don’t know anybody in this town other than Ray the not-so-sexy hot dog man, Mr. Blake the grouchy limo driver, Jeremy the elevator boy, and . . . wait! James. I can ask James the concierge for the info.
I smile, so excited that I actually have a contact in the city and I don’t have to waste any more time hanging out with the most boring man on the planet, aka Greg Lister.
I’ll call my sisters after I have the hair stuff figured out. I’m going to need at least a half hour of private time to catch them up on everything. I shoot off a quick text telling them to expect a call later and that everything is going really well.