"Do you want to take a break?"
His low, smooth voice in the headphones was one of the sexiest sounds she'd ever heard--his fretless bass playing notwithstanding. She sighed deeply. Sweat ran down the length of her back from the nape of her neck down into her underwear. The small fan whirling silently in the corner of the vocal booth provided no relief at all.
She may as well have been actually naked. Most singers felt vulnerable recording their own songs in the studio rather than performing them live, she knew that, but singing in a studio--his studio--with him there, sitting at the console, listening, listening to her....
She was failing. They both knew it. 'Introducing the elephant in the vocal booth, ladies and gentlemen! Wasn't that a grand performance from the unshakeable insecurity I drag with me and try to manage these many years by playing my worn-out highlight reel in my mind before every performance! And what a reel! The reel of the so very few things I actually like about my vocal abilities, spliced with the very few wins I've had since I started singing professionally 35 years ago.' Self-mockery helped. And the mind reel usually did the trick. But not today.
"Yeah I do." She focussed on the microphone suspended in front of her. It was one of the best.
Her throat was smarting from the sob stuck in it. A tear of humiliation slid from her eye and she quickly wiped it away, then prayed to God he didn't see. Fuck. So much for wowing him with her ability to deliver a flawless vocal performance on the first take. Welcome to fucking amateur hour. He's probably wanting to pull out of the project altogether now. The fact that he brought her here to his own studio to record her vocals was unheard of. Unless.... unless... he figured she would need extra help. Remedial help. Handholding. Jesus. That had to be why he wanted her there. But then why would he be interested in working with her at all if he thought she'd need that much extra work? Nothing was making sense.
"I just need a minute," she said.
She pulled off the expensive headphones and set them carefully on the music stand in front of her. A few strands of her hair were caught in the cups and she pulled them out, wanting to leave no trace of herself. Not seeing a waste basket, she let them fall on the floor. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, thankful for the dim lighting in the booth designed to relax singers and, in her case, hide flop sweat. She stared at the gold gossamer threads of her hair against the deep dark carpet, and willed herself not to cry.
Focus on the facts she commanded herself. Really, she answered? Review the facts? Now? Fine! Let's ground ourselves in the facts. The fact that he wanted to collaborate with her on the song in the first place was miraculous because only divine fucking intervention could account for that. Fact. For him to even listen to it in the first place, and then reach out to her to communicate any feedback at all was just crazy. Fact. Then there's the fact that he offered to record the song, produce it, arrange it, and play on it--nothing short of gobsmacking.
The fact she was under the same roof with him, putting her vocal on top of his fucking goddamn legendary groove was doing her in. Fact. She'd fantasized about it only a million times, what it would be like to sing and play over top of his playing. Fact. The thought of experiencing his feel first-hand was irresistible to her. Fact. Great grooves are irresistible to her--fact--but his feel was and is legendary in the music business, FACT.
Great grooves didn't just excite her musically--full disclosure--they fucking aroused her. Fact. A bass player herself years ago, she'd been lucky enough to have gigged with really great drummers who carved inescapably deep pockets; who would leave the time signature altogether during their fills and solos, trusting her to lock it down until they felt like returning. Fact. She'd be the first to admit she had zero flash or chops on bass but she knew what groove was, and she could lay it down all on her own. Fact. She had been told by musicians whom she respected that she had great time and feel. Fact. Those nights on-stage playing bass with those great drummers, pulling back on the beat or pushing it ahead, had been more sexually and emotionally satisfying than the best sex she'd had, dirty little secret fact. And, if anyone ever knew that about her, she'd simply die. Fact.
And here she was now, impossibly, in his studio, and she was blowing it. Her panties were damp under her dress, and it wasn't just from flop sweat. Those were the facts.
"No worries darling. Take your time. I'm going to send Jeff home, seeing how he's got your vocal dialed in so nicely now, and you and I can continue by ourselves."
His English charm and low, quiet voice disarmed her completely. Who talks like that? She thought she heard disappointment when he spoke, but she heard genuine sincerity, too. That made no sense because he--the musician, producer, and arranger--was well-known not to tolerate incompetent players. She'd heard that the list of artists he'd declined to work with was as legendary as he was. Still, he'd deigned to produce records for, and play with some indie bands she certainly never would have imagined. Perhaps he really did believe that when in the role of a producer, he needed to provide his artist with reassurance occasionally. But she didn't want to be an artist who needed reassurance, or coddling. She wanted the project to be successful, of course, but she also really wanted to be a joy for him to work with. For him to experience from her music the same joy she got from his, which was absurd, given the scope of his talent, but that's what she wanted.
She reached for the door and caught her reflection in its small glass window. Her mom used to tell her she looked like Grace Kelly. On her best days she thought she looked a bit like a very blonde, and very short Diane Kruger, who at 50 looked pretty fucking spectacular, she thought. Today was not one of those days. She took a deep breath, straightened herself up, and pushed the heavy door open. The cooler, fresher air in the main studio room smelled like cedar.
The small studio floor between the vocal booth and control room stretched into a football field as she made her way across it. She knew what was coming, and she knew she would hold it together while he said what he had to say; hold it together well enough so that he wouldn't notice her disintegrate from the inside out, and there'd be no scene. She'd fall apart later, when she was alone in her hotel room, and likely on the long plane ride back, too. Then she would pull the pieces of herself back together, like she always did. For her daughter.
She'd been a single parent for so many years, and never allowed herself to feel the pain of her losses unless she was alone, which was seldom. And it had become such a habit, she realized, that she didn't really experience her emotional self anymore--outside of writing or performing that is--and the older she got, the fewer the opportunities came to gig with the good players, much less, to gig at all. Performing, writing, and listening to master musicians in general--him in particular--had become her emotional lifeline.
She'd been a full-time professional musician her entire adult life. That changed when Madeline was a baby and she went back to school for her Master's degree, then started working a full-time day job. Juggling solo parenting with working, doing a few gigs, singing a jingle here and there for local radio, writing songs, and practicing in her sparse spare time, that was her life. It left little room for men. Which was convenient, she realized all too well, because she was still scared shitless, even after all this time.
Her daughter's father signed a solo record deal 20 years ago, then left her a week later; sticking her with all their debt (her credit card) and their cancelled gigs. And two miniscule royalty cheques from a couple of songs they'd written together--can't forget that. Asshole. She'd learned she was pregnant three weeks after he'd gone. She heard through mutual friends that his record label dumped him when his second record tanked, and a few years after that, she'd heard he jumped off the cruise ship he'd been reduced to gigging on. She shook her head, pissed at herself for letting the memory enter her mind.
So much for focusing on the highlights of her career.
Jeff, the engineer, had left the control room door open, and she stood in the threshold. No way a mere mortal would just waltz in there and pull up a chair next to Zeus. Not her, anyway. Especially after her grand faux-pas earlier in the day when they'd finally met face-to-face. He'd leaned in and given her a friendly little hug, and she hugged him back, then kissed him on the cheek, just like that, KISSED him without a thought. That was her affection-starved, impulsive response to his friendly hug. Instantly she'd wished for the floor to part and swallow her. He didn't appear to be too bothered by it, although he did give her a long look immediately afterward, but she was sure he was just being gracious. Why couldn't she ever just be cool?
He swivelled around in the dark leather chair away from the Neve console and looked up at her, smiling. Not Zeus, she corrected herself.
Apollo.
The Olympian god of music. And love. His were eyes an impossible combination of blue and grey, and they shimmered. She smiled automatically in response, her shoulder leaning on the door jamb, her head tilted, hip out, hands clasped in front of her. She unconsciously slid her palms down the front of her thighs, smoothing her dress in case it had ridden up as she crossed the room.
"I thought we'd take a little walk if you fancy, then have a quick bite to eat," he said.
He was leaning forward, hands on his knees. He wore a black button up shirt that was left open at the top and untucked at the bottom--sleeves rolled up to his elbows, blue jeans, and dark grey cowboy boots. She always noticed a guy's shoes when she was interested, it was always an indicator of something. She thought the boots made him seem down to earth. She couldn't remember the last time she noticed a guy's shoes.
His hair, still thick, was starting to recede in front. It was close-cropped, but not too short. She took in his handsome face and chiseled chin and tried not to stare. The dimples in his cheeks betrayed the rugged muscles of his lean jaw, the aristocratic nose, and his full lips--immediately she imagined them on hers before she shook off the image and willed off the flush rushing to her face. Then she noticed the incredibly thick muscles of his forearms and wrists that gave way to his long, talented fingers, and she looked away. He smelled sexy too, subtle leathery and woodsy notes, with just a hint of musk. The pictures of him from back in the 70s were of a beautiful boy, and bore little resemblance to this man. He had to be about 63 now, she thought. So potent. And so fucking hot. When she looked at him again, his eyes held hers for a long moment, his lids narrowing slightly. She felt the floor heave under her feet for a split second and she reached down to grip the door jamb to steady herself.
"A walk? Glad I didn't wear my stripper heels," she said. His eyes widened before his gaze fell to her feet, and she noticed a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Her feet were bare inside low-heeled, honey-colored leather sandals that revealed her high arches and the red gloss on her toes. At least her feet were still sexy. She continued before he could say anything, raising her hands. "Sorry, I tend to go for the cheap laughs," she said.
