At the end of a five-hour session, Christina Aguilera's talent rep phoned the studio and told Cal to call it a day. None too happy, Cal shut the session down and signed Christina out. Then he went out back to smoke, leaving me in the booth to burn back-ups. I was there for a while with my back to the glass, listening to the tracks we'd put down through cordless headphones. When Cal didn't come back, I shut off the lights in the studio, thinking Christina must have left through the fire door with her agent.
As I pulled the phones back over my ears, there was a knock on the booth door. Before I could get up, Christina poked her head in from the dark studio.
"Hey." She said. I stared, stunned. "I'm in the dark here. Are we done?"
"Yeah," I looked around for Cal. "Your rep called and told us to shut down for today. She didn't call you?"
Christina came fully into the booth now, closing the door behind her. She was wearing a sleeveless midriff top and tight cotton pants with pinstripes. No bra straps showed on her shoulders. Her hair was short and dirty blonde; no extensions today. She was dressed for comfort.
"She probably assumed one of you would tell me." She crossed her arms. Her fingernails were painted black. Her hands pressed beneath her round tits. I hoped she didn't notice me staring.
"I'm sorry," I managed, "I was probably supposed to do that. The producer left and didn't tell me anything. He was pretty steamed."
"Will he be back?"
"I . . . I think so. I don't know when."
Christina arched her eyebrows and walked toward me. She sat down in Cal's chair and wheeled close. I met her intense gaze as she came forward; her lips were parted in a small, suggestive smile. Sweat beaded on my neck; I grew instantly hard when Christy laid her hand on my thigh and leaned in to speak to me.