I'm alive.
xoxo,
Q.
Devon:
"I'm sorry, what did you just say?"
If Hazel's eyebrows go any higher, they're in danger of disappearing into her light brown hair.
"I said, he's actually kind of cool." I mumble, as unintelligibly as I possibly can, but Hazel still hears me. A small grin crosses her face, her pink lips turning up at the edges, mischievously.
"Hah!" she says, loudly, and then leans her head back and cackles. "You were wrong! You were wrong and I was right!"
I roll my eyes, but can't help it when a smile appears on my face.
"You are such a nerd, Hazel O'Dell, I swear to god." I say, shaking my head incredulously. She just grins wider.
"Yes, I am, and you love it." She responds proudly, and I'm beginning to think I'm off the hook about Kyle, but then she narrows her eyes at me and says, pointedly, "But stop trying to change the subject."
I groan. "Hazel, I don't know. I mean, he was acting like a total prick at first, you know, implying that I had everything handed to me on a silver platter, but then he was..."
"Was what?" Hazel pushes.
I shrug. "I don't know. Apologetic? He said he was sorry, at least. And it felt genuine. Hell, I didn't think there was anything genuine about him at first."
"Mhm-hmm, see I told you, first impressions can be wrong." She sings, in a superior, I-told-you-so kind of tone.
I scowl at her. "Yeah, yeah, I get it, I might have misjudged him. Maybe. A little. You don't have to rub it in."
"But that's my favorite part!" Hazel whines, and I unwillingly laugh out loud. We grin at each other and Hazel grabs her water bottle to take a drink, while I reach over and grab some more pretzels.
"My sister still thinks we're banging, by the way." I say, casually, as I toss a pretzel in my mouth. Hazel chokes on the water she's drinking. I wait patiently as she coughs enough to make her face go red and then regains the ability to breathe.
"What?" she gasps out.
"Don't worry, I told her we weren't." I assure her.
"Jesus, Devon. Trashy tabloids and your crazy fans are one thing, but your sister..."
"Hey!" I warn her. "Don't call them crazy."
Hazel makes an apologetic face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But you're not the one getting death threats."
I sigh. "I really am sorry about that, Hazel."
She smiles it off. "It's okay, really. Some of them are fun to read. Very creative. Real ingenuity."
The grin finds its way back onto my face and I roll my eyes at her, elbowing her in the ribs playfully.
"Nerd." I say.
"Teenager." She retorts.
Kyle:
Tay and I haven't really talked since our argument over the phone, which is kind of ridiculous. I mean, Tay and I barely ever fight as it is, and when we do, it lasts maybe five minutes before we move on and act like it never happened. The big fights are reserved for the important stuff.
Which is why this makes even less sense.
I mean, Devon Pine? Were we really arguing over Devon freaking Pine? Of all things that could get between me and Tay...
I shake my head, trying to clear it of all thoughts of Tay and Devon and everything, and instead walk into the photo studio, where I know Powell is waiting for me.
We're doing a photo shoot to promote my new line of sneakers, the Edgers, which are coming out in a couple months. They're fucking rad, too, I'm insanely pumped about them. I worked with this incredible designer, K-Lin, and she let me have all the creative freedom I wanted. She basically took all of my rambling thoughts and ideas and sketches and turned them into these really awesome shoes. I will never fail to be impressed by the talent I come across in this industry.
When I get there, Powell spots me and makes a beeline straight for me.
"Kyle! Welcome, welcome, I assume you know how this is going to work?" he asks, with that obnoxious grin on his face.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Not like I've been doing this for six years or anything. This photo shoot has been booked since I was back with Rachel and Blue Banana, Powell just managed to swing a way better studio and crew.
"Yeah," I say, instead. "Dressing room?"
He points and I give him a nod before heading over. I know he's a music business mastermind, but I get this overwhelmingly creepy vibe from him. He's just not my kind of person.
"Oh, and Kyle!" he calls after me, "A friend of yours is waiting on you in there!"
I nod, to signify I heard him, and continue to walk in the direction of the dressing room. It's probably Jax.
Jax is this ridiculous story of athlete-turned-rapper, and he's one of those 'he-can-do-anything' people. He graduated from high school at fifteen and college at eighteen, because he's also a genius and skipped a bunch of grades. Then he got recruited by the Lakers when he was like nineteen and did that for two years before he busted up his knee and couldn't play professionally anymore. Everyone thought his career was over, and he went under the radar for about a year. But then, when he was twenty-two, he released an album and everyone freaked out because, shit, that kid can rap.
He's also probably one of the funniest people I've ever met. He's the one who shows me all these crazy LA hangouts and has a different girl on his arm every time we go out. Rachel absolutely hates him; she always thought he "distracted me from my goals". This was, and is, of course, absolute bullshit.
I'm glad he's here; he makes everything a laugh.
But when I walk into my dressing room, it's not a cocky, lanky black kid sitting on the counter. It's Tay.
I sigh and expel a "hey".
"Hey," she replies, her voice much quieter and softer than usual.
It's awkward. Normally, after a fight or an argument, we just pretend it never happened and go back to our usual antics. But this time, it's different. And neither one of us knows what to say. Since I notice neither my stylist nor my clothes are in here yet and I have nothing to occupy myself with, I sigh and casually say, "So what're you doing here?"
She shrugs. "Thought I'd come and say hey."
"Thanks." I reply shortly, not knowing what else to say.
"Clara coming?" she asks. "Or you replace her too?"
I clench my jaw. I know she's not trying to be aggressive, but sometimes it just comes out of her. It's just part of her personality.
"No, I didn't. She's probably on her way."
As soon as I say it, my ditzy stylist bursts through the door, clutching what looks like ten hangers of clothing in one hand and dragging a mid-size suitcase with the other.
"I am so sorry, Kyle!" she exclaims, immediately, hanging the clothes up and dropping the suitcase to the ground. "Traffic was a bitch and a half, and then Kiki was out of gas and the attendant was being an absolute jerk—"
I cut her off. "No worries, Clara, I only just got here."
Clara Glass has been my stylist for about a year now, a fresh graduate of the New York School of Design. She's chatty and enthusiastic and energetic and has a ladybug-red Mini Cooper that she's christened 'Kiki'. You'd think she would drive me up the wall, but I actually love her. She's a total breath of fresh air, especially after all the stylists I've worked with in the past. She may talk a lot, but she always listens to my ideas and is always willing to alter something I'm uncomfortable with—she's overall incredibly easy to work with. She's also absolutely tiny—she's barely a hundred pounds soaking wet—so it's really impressive seeing her hauling around all her equipment.
"Okay, thank god. Are you pumped about this? Your wardrobe is a-freaking-mazing, I'm almost jealous!" she chatters, her bright blue earrings twinkling as they reflect the lights around the mirrors. She begins unzipping the suitcase and pulling stuff out. "And I know I've said it before, but seriously, your sneakers are on point, I can't believe you got to work with K-Lin; I swear, I could kill you."
Tay and I grin as the pixie-blonde frets around in front of us, and with that, we know that the fight is all forgotten.
Devon:
"No J-Pow today?" Mike asks, for once actually facing me in his swivel chair.
"Nah, I think he's doing some photo shoot with Carter." I say, putting my guitar back in its case.
"You mean your new best friend?" he grins and successfully ducks when I toss a capo at him.
"Shut up." I grumble and Mike just laughs in response, before turning back to his mixing table.
Reluctantly, I shuffle over to retrieve my capo and stick it in the pocket of my guitar case.
"See you later, man." Mike calls after me.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." I mutter and leave the studio.
I'm actually really excited about all the progress I've been making. I have more than enough demos to bring to Freddie Junior when we start working together in a few weeks and I'm eager to see what he thinks of them. It's not every day that you get to work with someone that highly established.
And I definitely think it's time for some new, fresh music. Earthquake feels like it was so long ago, and I've changed so much as a musician and as a person since then that it's a little weird to me how people still see me as that happy-go-lucky kid from Kentucky.
I guess that's just part of the business.
I head back to the first floor of Razor, where I know Kirby will be waiting for me. Sure enough, when the elevator doors open, there he is, standing against the wall, still as a statue.
Sometimes I wonder if he really hates his job. I know I would if I was him.
"Hey Kirby." I greet him and his eyes flip up to me. Without a word, he begins to walk with me towards the door.
I try to think of the longest conversation I've had with him, but nothing comes to mind. Strange how you can work with someone for so long and still know nothing about them. To be honest, he kind of reminds me of my dad a little, only he speaks even less.
My contemplative thoughts about my relationship with my bodyguard are quickly interrupted, however, when a loud group of people walks through Razor's front doors.
The loudest of them is easy to identify—I don't even have to look to know it's J-Pow. I recognize Kyle Carter walking next to him, along with two girls I don't know: one with cropped platinum blond hair and wearing what I can only call a very brave ensemble and the other with messy dark hair and a loose-fitting flannel shirt.
I'm instantly curious, because Kyle's got this ridiculously large grin on his face. I may not have known him for that long, but I know that smiling is definitely not something Kyle Carter does often.
"Devon!" J-Pow calls when he sees me, extending his arms the way he does, like he's presenting someone on an old-timey awards show. "How did my favorite pop superstar do in the studio today?"
I snort a little. He can be pretty theatrical, but I won't deny it cracks me up sometimes.
"Pretty good." I respond. "We've got more than enough demos for Freddie Junior."
"Excellent!" he exclaims, more enthusiastic than he normally is—which is saying something.
"Y'all look like you had a good day." I say, unable to keep the smile off my face.
"Man, it was sick!" Kyle jumps in, his eyes wide in awe. "The photographer was so fuckin' cool, even the beginning shots looked insane."
I'm a little taken aback by his eagerness; I've never seen him be this excited about anything, not even in pictures. Maybe that's just a part of his image? You can never tell in this industry what's real and what's not.
"And you looked absolutely delicious, thanks to who?" the blonde says, in a sing-song voice, with a big smile showing off her bright white teeth. I immediately like her, something about her exudes such a positive energy.
Kyle hooks an arm around her neck and pulls her in for a very aggressive hug, which she takes in stride.
"Thanks to you, of course, Clara."
Once Clara manages to release herself from his grip, she turns to me, extending a hand, which I reach out to meet with my own. For such a small person, she has an incredibly strong handshake.
"It's so nice to meet you, I'm such a huge fan!" She gushes.
"What?" Kyle says instantly, before I even have a chance to thank her. "Since when?"
Clara rolls her eyes at him. "Since always, I was just never allowed to talk about it because of you guys' stupid rivalry thing. But now that you're BFFs--"
"I wouldn't exactly go that far." I jump in, holding up my hands defensively.
At this, the brunette snorts, and I turn to look at her.
"Sorry, I didn't catch your name?" I ask, holding out my hand for her to shake.
She doesn't extend her own, instead keeping her arms crossed.
"I didn't offer it." She replies, an eyebrow raising.
"That's Tay." Kyle supplies for me, shooting her what looks to me like an exasperated look. "She's a friend of mine."
"Nice to meet you, Tay." I say, despite her cold demeanor. What can I say? I'm still a Southern boy at heart, and my mama raised me right.
"Alright, kids, you behave now," J-Pow says in a joking tone and gives both Kyle and me firm pats on the shoulder. "Don't get into too much trouble."
We all say overlapping goodbyes to J-Pow and he walks off in the direction of his office. As we watch him go, I notice Kirby standing several feet behind me, still as a statue.
"I should probably get going too." I say, feeling bad about making him wait, even though I am paying him for it.
"Nonsense, we just got here!" Clara says, waving her hand. "We were all about to stop by Humberto's, you know it?"
I shake my head and she gasps as if I've mortally offended her.
"Oh my god, you haven't lived! It's this family-owned restaurant just a few miles north—the most authentic Venezuelan food you'll find in L.A. You have to come with us!"
All I'm thinking is that I have no idea on what occasion I'd ever be searching for the most authentic Venezuelan food in L.A. when Kyle cuts in.
"Uh, Clara, maybe not..." he trails off and I see he's shooting glances over at the surly brunette, Tay. Clara just dismisses him.
"So it's settled, you'll join us for dinner then."
Kyle makes no further protest, and I'm hard-pressed to even try to turn this girl down, so I agree and tell Kirby he can take the rest of the day off, and the four of us head towards the garage.
Tay, Kyle, and I are silent on the walk down—it's slightly awkward and we all know it—while Clara is chattering away about this and that. It's an unusual energy surrounding us. Kyle and I aren't exactly friends, but we don't really hate each other anymore, and now we're not really sure how to act around each other. Clara, who I gather is either his makeup artist, his stylist, or both, seems very friendly, but it's the other one I absolutely cannot get a handle on. Her facial expression gives away nothing, but Kyle keeps looking over at her as if scared she's going to burst into flames at any minute.
I finally speak when I spot my car.
"So, uh, you wanna text me the address and I'll meet y'all there?" I suggest.
"Y'all?" Kyle raises his eyebrows at me.
I scowl back at him and he laughs, something that Tay immediately notices.
"I was raised in Kentucky and you goddamn know that." I retort, and pull my keys out of my pocket to unlock my car.
I'm sure he's going to keep making fun of me, but instead he lets out a long whistle.
"Shit, dude, these your wheels?"
Ah, yes. The magic of the Ferrari.
I grin. "Yep."
"That's fuckin' sweet." He says, his eyes still glued to my car.
"Probably cost more than my apartment." Says Tay, with a smirk.
I look at her. Seriously, what the fuck is this girl's problem?
"It was a gift." I tell her, not that it's really any of her business.
"You gotta let me take a ride in that sometime." Kyle adds, as if Tay hadn't said anything at all.
"In your dreams, Carter." I laugh. "Now quit drooling."
He flips me off jokingly. "Alright, I'll text you the address now. Meet you there."
"Yeah, see you soon." I reply.
"See you soon!" Clara echoes, and the two girls follow Kyle off towards his car.
Tay says nothing.