Amina

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All these singers were painfully stunning. I couldn't see inside the audition room, but I wondered if Bach was ogling them. My exes would have. Every single one of those jerks would have openly drooled over these girls, then harassed me if I dared to show a hint of jealousy.

It's your own fault for coming here, I reminded myself. No one had asked me to show up. Violet and Bach had left without me this morning. I'd wandered the huge house until the walls began to blur, then, once I'd been sure I'd go crazy if I stayed put, I'd taken the Tesla for a drive.

Coming to Beats and Blast was a strange sort of auto-pilot. I needed to talk to Violet about when she was going to set up time for me to record my own music. She'd assured me she would, but her workload was so gigantic, she’d hardly spoke to me in person since our lunch days ago.

She's in that room. When she exits, I'll have her cornered. With my back to the wall, I waited as the line of girls dwindled. They'd gather in the hallway once the audition was over, some of them chatting on their phones, others pacing nervously. I guessed no one had told them whether they were going to be signed or not yet.

Would Bach bring on only a handful? Or would he take every single one?

The door opened and a man I didn't recognize walked out. He had on sunglasses, and his hair looked like a brightly colored kid's ice cream cone. He smiled at the women, said some things, then began taking selfies with them.

Guess he's someone famous.

He did look a little familiar. Had I seen him on TV? He laughed loudly at something a girl had said, then waved and strut down the hall. As he passed me, our shoulders bumped. “Whoa, sorry!” he laughed, giving me an apologetic smile.

“It’s fine,” I said, waving my hands frantically. “I was in the way. My fault.”

He started to turn away, then stopped as he studied me closer. “Don’t I know you?”

I laughed so hard that I snorted. “Me? No, there’s no way.”

“You sure? I’m Roshio.” He extended a hand; I shook it, noticing how skinny his fingers were. It was like shaking hands with a bunch of dried pasta.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Amina.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh ho! Beats and Blast’s newest star! I’ve definitely seen you before.”

Flushing, I gave a tight shrug. “You probably remember me from the All That Glitters Gala.”

He didn’t seem entirely convinced. Just then, a voice called out his name further down the hall. We both looked over. One of the women who’d been in line—a tall, wispy girl with long blonde hair—was waving. “Gotta go,” Roshio said. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, Amina.” He cast me one last squinty-smile, then hurried off to chase the girl.

Frowning to myself, I wondered why the encounter had made my hair stand on end. Guys like him trick off my bullshit meter, I told myself.

The door opened again; Violet poked her head out, flashing an apologetic smile. “We're going to need more time to think over our choices. We'll speak with your agents soon, thank you for coming.”

There was a chorus of frustrated mumbles. As the crowd thinned, Violet spotted me. “Amina, why are you here?” she asked as she approached.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“You could have called, you know that.”

Sure, but you can't avoid me in person, I thought. “Violet, when am I going to get some time in the booth?”

Her mouth flattened into a tired line. “I know I said I'd get you in there soon, but look, there's a lot happening. I need that space so I can get some of our potential new talent in to record some tracks for Bach.”

“For Bach?”

“It's the only way to change his mind about his bad decisions,” she grumbled.  “Sorry, I know I promised one thing and I'm saying another, but you really will get into the booth soon. Okay?”

My shoulders slumped. “Yeah, okay.”

“Great!” She slipped on a faux, cheerful mask, her heels clicking away from me. “I have to make some calls. We'll get lunch again soon. Bye, Amina!”

I watched her go, with frustration building at the back of my skull. It made my eyeballs ache. The busy hallway had emptied out; I was alone, nothing to keep me company but the framed pictures on the walls. I stared at a black and white photo of a young woman holding up a shiny record-shaped award. A thirty-something Laurence grinned with pride. At his side stood a younger, friendlier looking Sherman.

My hand settled on my pocket, feeling the weight of the business card inside. Maybe he was right, maybe I’m just bait to lure better artists.

“Amina?” Bach called my name like his tongue was coated in thick honey.

He was standing in the doorway of the audition room. Our eyes locked, I wondered how such an empty, air-conditioned corridor could become so warm. “Bach, hi.”

“What’s going on, did you want to audition all over again?” His eyes twinkled with humor. “If you say yes, I’ll know you’re a sadist.”

He came to meet me, strolling in that comfortable, subconsciously cocky way of his. I was terribly tempted to play along with his flirting. Especially when he traced his own mouth, sending a phantom kiss up my inner thigh. Remember why you’re here! “Violet promised me that I could get some time in the recording booth.”

He looked around, quietly noting his VP was nowhere in sight.

I nodded and said, “She ran off to handle more pressing work. Those auditions you mentioned are taking up all the resources. It’s so frustrating,” I said, laughing bitterly. “All I want to do is record my music. It’s why I'm out here, and it's the one thing no one will make time for me to do.”

He squinted at me, like I was some curious new animal. “I will.”

I balked. “Are you serious?”

“You should be getting to work on your first album. I'd be doing you a disservice as your manager if I left you wilting here in Los Angeles, producing nothing. What good does that do either of us?”

Welling up with joy, I couldn’t control my emotions. My arms circled him in a hug before I could think it through. “Thank you! Thank you so, so much, Bach!”

He wasn’t moving. He didn’t hug me back.

I became aware of the fibers of his thin, cotton, black shirt; soft, pleasantly warm. He’d dressed casually today, as if he knew he didn’t have to impress anyone with fancy clothes. He was Bach Devine, all the women who’d lined up for him were aware of what he was worth.

Did any of them get this close to him in that room?

Did they know how amazing he smelled?

Jumping backwards, I tried to keep myself from blushing like an idiot. Bach’s hands were lifted by his chest, away from his body, as if he’d been about to return my hug. But then they slid into his pockets and I wondered if I was wrong.

I cleared my throat. “So, what's the plan? You going to kick some people out of a booth, swing your CEO fists around?”

Shaking his head, he strode down the hall. He spoke without looking back at me. “I have a much more elegant idea. Let's go home.”

****

I stared at the big building in his backyard. I'd assumed it was a guest house, but when he unlocked it, I saw it for what it really was. “You have your own private recording studio, right here on your property?”

“Yup. My dad liked to have the option to come out and work if something struck him in the middle of the night.” He walked over to the booth and began fiddling with the knobs. “I probably should've let you know about this sooner. With everything else going on, it slipped my mind.”

I was too amazed to be upset by the fact this had been in my backyard. “This is amazing. Seriously amazing. If I owned one of these, you wouldn't be able to pry me out of it. I’d be sleeping in here.”

“Dad did that sometimes too.” He said it softly, his eyes becoming hooded. “Can I ask you something?” I gave a quick nod. “Why did you pick Whispers for your audition?”

I’d expected this question days ago. “I wanted to impress you. That was the first thing on my mind. I thought singing something by your dad would earn me brownie points. But beyond that, the song is very important to me. All the music that your dad sang helped me get through some hard times. It really resonated with me. God, you’re so lucky to have grown up with him. I'm super jealous.”

He kept looking at the booth, adjusting switches back and forth. The longer the silence stretched the more paranoid I became that I’d upset him. “Bach?”

“Do you need anything to get ready?” he asked, waving at the booth. “Otherwise, it's all set for you. Go inside and I'll be right here, recording your every word.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

He gave me a weak smile. “Of course not. I'm just tired. Go on, get in there. Hearing you sing will give me energy.”

I was sure he was lying, but I didn't know how to make him talk. It’s not your job to be his therapist, I reminded myself. It’s your job to make music.

That was why I was here.

That was what I had to think about.

Taking a deep breath, I entered the booth and reached for the microphone.