Chapter Seventeen
I continue to pout, and flutter my eyelashes. I know this won't work, but I hang my hopes high, and try it anyways. What have I got to lose?
"Can you please tell me now?" I ask.
"No." He shrugs his shoulder.
Unfortunately, being horrible, mean, evil, and cruel runs in the family.
A few minutes pass, and I turn back and smile.
"Now?" I smile.
Dad takes a deep breath, smiles, then shakes his head. "Still no."
"How about in five minutes?"
"There's a fair chance I'll still say no," he replies.
"There's nothing fair in that," I grumble. "Are you just saying no?"
Dad cracks a smirk, shrugs his shoulders, and just smiles.
I don't know what's more annoying. The fact that he won't tell me who the guest artist is, or that he looks so smug saying no. I doubt he's going to crack under pressure. He's paid well enough not to do that.
"How about now?" I moan.
"Are you going to keep it up for the whole ride?" You're only hurting yourself," he says.
"Eh." I shrug my shoulders. "I think you just like saying no." I smile.
"No." He slowly shakes his head.
"Do you love Mum?" I chuckle, knowing he can't get out of saying no to this.
"Look, we're here," Dad comments.
Instead of asking another question, I focus on exiting the car. Before I can leave, a cold hand yanks me back.
"Wasn't the car ride punishment enough?" I groan, flopping my head back.
"Yes, but I think you might need this." He hands me a small black case. Opening it up, I grab out my silver mask. I doubt anyone is going to take me seriously if I'm prancing around as Riley Brenton instead of her.
"Thank you," I reply.
When I'm wearing this mask just by myself, I feel evil. It's as if I'm getting ready to pounce, like a robber and a bank. I'm glad that Lucy didn't suggest I wear Hannah's hocky mask.
As I walk towards the large glass building, everything starts to fall into perspective. It's like a warped dream. I can't believe I'm about to record my own album, and for millions of people to listen it.
I'm a professional musician, well, close to it.
Those pesky butterflies flutter into my stomach as my hands shake. I try clutching onto the fabric of my outfit, but the sweaty building up in my palms continue. As I walk inside, I feel like I want to run home and hide under my blanket. But at the same time, I want to be that pop star going to sophisticated parties, and being the talk of the city.
However, I know I've been thrown into the deep end without a life raft to help me float.
Dad and I step inside the elevator. He places his arm on my shoulder, and slightly squeezes the back of my neck. It's slightly comforting, but it's all me. I need to want to be confident, I need to show everyone I've got myself pieced together.
"You will be great," he says. "I believe in you."
"Thank you Dad." I smile up at him.
For the ride up in the elevator, I chant in my mind; I can do this, I'm confident, charming, and sophisticated.
"Let's do this." My weakly smile turns into a stronger one as I chant those few words over and over in my head.
When the elevator doors ping open, I'm instantly hit with the strong smell of gardenia. I have to hold myself back from sneezing. The air in New York label is stagnant, perhaps the air freshener would be better suited.
The building is far less compared to New York, which is understandable. However, the soft creamy blue walls and dark brown wooden furniture gives the place a much homier feel than the office like environment NY goes for
The room is split in half by a gigantic glass wall. On the opposite side, there's a large setup of electric guitars, piano, drum set and a microphone. Opposed to the soundboard and viewing leather couch.
"You must be the newest edition to the New York label," says Mr Cater.
He's a freakishly tall man with a thin body frame. The black slacks he's wearing seem to accentuate his long legs, along with the black company shirt making his skin pale, with a sickly tinged yellow glow from the overhead lights. His narrow face and short black spiky hair make his face look small, and somewhat like a hamster.
"Yes I am," I reply.
"Unfortunately, we could only get your manager here. The artist you will be working with is expected to be here tomorrow morning," Mr Carter says.
"Oh." I frown.
I'm more disappointed that I'm going to have to wait until tomorrow to find out who they are, I doubt Dad is going to spill the beans.
The air is an awful awkward one until the mobile phone sitting on the sound desk begins to ring loudly. Mr Carter's eye's pop open as he runs over to the desk to answer it. He tries to position his body facing away from us, but his beady eyes are closely watching the two of us.
What does he think is going to happen if he looks away? That I might steal the equipment I'm going to be working with in the coming days?
"Are you going to tell me now?" I whisper, turning my body to face Dad.
"Nope."
"Why." I frown.
"You're going to have to wait until tomorrow," he teases.
"I hate you." I pout.
"Love you too," he whispers, back with a cheeky grin.
We wait in silence for a couple of minutes so that we don't interrupt Mr. Cater's phone call. Every time my eyes wander over in his direction, the sound of his voice drops even more which makes it harder for me to listen. If he wasn't whispering and making his conversation sound so important and secretive, I wouldn't be so curious to what he's up to. It's clearly his own fault.
"Thank you for that news, I'll be sure to let them know," he concludes. Mr. Carter hangs up the phone, and then faces us.
"It turns out I got it mixed up," he explains with a worried face. "We can get started on writing the album this afternoon. Isn't that wonderful?" he says, smiling brightly. While it looks like he's shaking in he's overly polished black shoes.
My heart drops, "perfect," I whisper.
"He'll be here in a couple of minutes. Apparently his plane got in half an hour before yours," Mr. Carter explains. "Perfect timing, right?" he asks, trying to strike up a conversation.
"Just amazing. I'm excited to start writing," I mumble.
My heart sinks, I hoped I would get a chance to sit on the beach and explore for a couple of days before returning here. I need all of this to sync in before I act on it.
Instead we're waiting for this mysterious artist to appear. All of this is looking so real for me.
"While in the studio, I encourage the artist to keep a recording going, just in case they perform something out of passion. We like to make sure that things - future pieces of art isn't lost."
"That sounds like a perfect thing to do," I agree.
Mr. Cater goes to make another comment, but the elevator dinging, pulls the rooms attention to the wall behind us.
"I'm here," he calls out.
I freeze on the spot, it can't be. I quickly spin around to see the person I least expected to be standing there. There is no way he isn't going to recognize me in this. I'm going to need a mascot outfit to shield my identity from him.
"I can't explain how much I've been looking forwards to work with such a talented musician," he says.
"Just peachy perfect." I smile in agreement.
Alex Bray stands next to me, and Mr. Carter goes through and explains a few things to us about the studio, and what we will be doing.
"Today is an experimental session. You can play any instrument you like, talk through ideas. Anything that will get you to feel comfortable with the environment and the instruments you have to use."
"Sounds like a fun idea," I say, despite the sickening feeling pooling inside my stomach. I can't play a lot of instruments, and I can't write very well either. The idea of trying to piece music and lyrics together, and within a short period of time is sickening.
"But." He pauses. "You only have this week to have the first five songs written for your album and then six the following week. Mr Portman has given me strict instructions to report back about your progress."
"Okay," we both say.
I've never managed to complete a song in the seventeen years in my life, let alone a few weeks. I hope Alex is a great writer, because I need so much help.
"I think we can do it!" Alex laughs, poking my side.
It's nice to see that someone can poke and make fun of our situation.
"I'm sure we can do this." I nervously laugh.
"When can we get started?" he asks.
"You're welcome to start now. I have business to attend to downstairs," he explains. "But before I leave, I have one last rule."
Nodding my head, I wait for him to go forth and explain this final rule.
"Okay." Alex impatiently taps his foot.
"As I explained previously. I like to record all sessions, just in case. Because I have a family, and the harsh deadline, I won't always be here to help record the sessions. So just use the app on your phones."
"Record everything, got it." Alex nods his head.
"Good, I'll attend my business." Before Mr. Carter leaves, he presses a few buttons on the soundboard, and then into the waiting elevator. Once tucked inside, the doors shut, and he disappears.
Alex and I are left alone in the room.
"So," I loudly say.
"Introductions are need," he says. "I'm Alex Bray." He places his hand out for me to shake. "It's nice to finally meet you, I've seen so much of your work over the last couple of months. You're talented, it's an honour."
As I smile back at Alex, something clicks inside me. That nervousness fades away, and I feel confident.
"I never thought Alex Bray would be a fan." I smirk.
"There's a lot of things you don't know," he says. "Do you have a name?"
"I don't think so." I shake my head.
"Or a nickname?" He raises an eyebrow.
"None," that I would tell him.
He frowns, "we're just going to have to find a name for you."
Alex and I head towards the recording studio, when I open the door, I'm hit by the smell of stale air, and instruments. I assume instruments have a smell.
"So how do we actually start? Bang on a few instruments, write some lyrics?" I drag my finger tip along the top of the piano lid.
"What style, genre, or even the idea concept? We could go over my own songs so that you know my strengths and weaknesses," he offers.
"Uh," I stop in my tacks, "that's a lot of things to think about," I mumble.
The nerves spike up again, doubt flooding into my mind systematically. I need to get into the routine of reminding myself to stay confident. They wouldn't have tried this hard to sign me to their record label if I was another ordinary Joe from the neighbourhood. I have talent.
"I want it to be poppy, fun, and party like. I also like the acoustic soul sound. I want to write songs with meaning, and with concepts my audience can connect with. When I sing, I want to create a positive movement inside the person, not teach bad ideals or display unrealistic concepts. I don't want to be another fake butt," I explain.
Alex stands there with a thoughtful expression on his face. His lips tug into a small smile, and he shoves one hand into his pocket. There's something sad about the way he's smiling.
"You sound like a true artist," says Alex.
Something inside of him clicks, and then he's off rattling on about his own work.
"Would you like me to play some of my music? Or are you already a fan?" He quirks his eyebrows up in amusement.
"Fan, but I would never pass up a free concert." I gleam.
"Well." He grins madly, "any preferences?"
"There's only one I can think of."
"And?" he encourages.
Alex takes a seat in front of the grand piano tucked in the corner of the room.
"I want it to be pop, fun and party like. Though, I want my lyrics to have a deeper meaning. Even though I want fun music, I don't want to be writing useless song lyrics that have no meaning to me or to others who listen to them."
"Would you like to hear some of my material or are you already a fan?" he asks.
"Fan, but I'd never pass up a free concert with you." He smiles, as if my comment gives him some sort of ego boost to his manly deprived ego.
"Any preferences then?"
"There's one that I can think of," I say.
"And that would be?" he asks, risking an eyebrow up at me.
"I think you know." I circle around the room so that I can lean on top of the piano to watch him. Alex shifts in his seat uncomfortably and then strokes the keys.
"Why do people always want to hear that song?" he whispers, his voice slightly cracking.
"Because it's the deepest thing you've written," I offer.
"Now here I thought people liked to torture me." He sarcastically chuckles.
"Just play the song," I demand.
"Perhaps I'll call you bossy," Alex comments.
"You sound like your naming an animal." I glare.
The room falls silent as Alex redirects his attention on the piano. His fingers stroke over the keys for a minute, as if he's using that subtle movement to draw a moment to compose his thoughts.
"Are you sure you want to hear this song?" He smiles. "I have three albums packed with fun, everything you want to write about."
His nagging begins to eat away at my self-control. "Play the song, or I'll find someone else to write with. Do you want to lose an opportunity like this?" I ask.
Alex is taken back from my words. His lip quivers, but he doesn't chose to question me. His focus slips back to the keys, and he starts playing.
I close my eyes and listen to the soft melody produced from the grand piano. It's only when he begins to sing the lyrics that my eyes pop open and focus on his face.
"I want to be the person you need me to be, but there's something holding me back." I watch the creases form and disappear as his lips move, the way his eyes squeeze shut.
"I can't resist the urge to let, desire take me back." I watch as the emotion ripples across his face.
"I need, I want, I have to feel the pain. To feel alive in a world gone so cold." I expected him to stare me deep in the eyes, wanting me to feel his emotions. But his head stays hung low, eyes shut, and in a world of his own.
Despite hearing this song a thousand times before on loop, this live version expresses more emotions. So much, I feel guilty about my previous actions.
"It's beautiful," I compliment when he's finished playing.
"Thank you," he replies in a chilled voice, which has me shivering.
"Let's get started with the first song." I change the topic, "What are your other talents?" I ask.
"Mainly strings," Alex replies, "what talents do you have?"
"Just uh, the guitar." I grin madly.
I'm not that diverse in musical instruments, nor song writing. I hope he never figures out that I need him more than he needs me.
"What is the first song going to be about? Who you love, or loved if you're Taylor Swift."
Pouting, I shoot him a glare, but laugh at his joke. "Hey, you have to admit she's an amazing musician. I love just about all of her songs," I say.
"Just take away the fact that you shouldn't repeat yourself. It's a good idea to use a broad range of topics so you don't get labelled as the girl who sings about her relationships and bad break ups," Alex explains.
"So I should sing about love?"
"I think it's an easy topic to write about."
"I've never loved a guy before, do I have to make it up?"
"You should avoid that when possible. The soul element you want doesn't come from pulling ideas and concepts from experiences we see. But from inside of you." Alex points to his chest, the place where his heart is.
"Tell me more, please." I'm captivated by his passion for the art of writing lyrics. No wonder he's winning all these awards, and assigned to help me write.
"You could use your feelings from loving a family member, friends or even a pet. I know a singer who wrote about loving his goldfish, but changed it to sound like a woman." He laughs. "Her golden hair and love for water, had my heart swimming for hours."
My eyes go wide, is he being serious? I don't think I could write about a pet and pull it off. I would just feel weird talking about it with other people.
"It could even be a feeling of affection."
Blushing, I look away. I remember my last night in New York, the way Nathan recited those lyrics to me, and the butterflies in my stomach. That moment could be the inspiration for my first song. Unless that's creepy considering our relationship.
"How do we get started?" I ask.
"I have a few favourite exercises to get you inspired, and in the mood for writing," he says.