Sweet Forty-Two(33)

“I am.” He nodded once, his smile widening, lifting the tops of his ears.

“Why don’t you want to kiss me?” I challenged. I knew he was lying, but I wanted to know why. “Girlfriend?”

“No.” The tops of his ears dropped along with his face. “I don’t want to kiss anyone.”

“Are you gay?” It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen him checking out, or trying to pick up, any girls either night he’d been at E’s.

“No.”

“Ah, broken heart, then?”

He half-huffed, half-chuckled. “That’s the G-rated version.”

“What does the R-rated cut look like?”

“I’ll tell you what my R-rated is, if you tell me yours.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing several times.

“What do you mean mine?” I knew CJ hadn’t told him anything, but I got goosebumps anyway.

“Everyone’s got an R-rated version of their pain, Georgia.”

He wasn’t going to budge. It was something big. So was mine.

“Another time, maybe.”

He squinted as he grinned. “Deal. I know where to find you.”

I looked away. He wasn’t going to get in there tonight. Or ever.

“Come on,” I ungracefully shifted subjects, “let’s go see what CJ’s gotten himself into.”

“Or who,” Regan mumbled.

It was funny, and I tried to laugh, but I couldn’t.

Laughter lets people in.





Regan

I didn’t see a lot of CJ during his last days in San Diego, but I got to hear all about them when I drove him back to the airport. Evidently Willow was amazing. And loud. And CJ would be returning to San Diego as soon as he’d saved up enough money for another flight.

A week and a half later, things were well underway at Blue Seed Studios, and I felt my life settling into rhythm. I was sitting on the couch in the recording room, as the band worked over a track they’d been wrestling with for half a day. I wasn’t slated to be in that piece, but according to Bo, that was about to change.

He scratched his head, taking a deep breath before speaking. Always the diplomat. “I’m just saying, Mike, we take out the vocal interlude, move it six measures down, and throw a fiddle in there. Five measures. It’ll make a world of difference.”

“I hear what you’re saying, kid, but...” Michael and Bo continued their back-and-forth as Ember flashed me a “get me out of here” look.

Aside from their talent, the Six relied heavily on Bo and Ember, and myself and Willow, to make sure their sound held enough freshness to attract new listeners, while honoring their decades-long fans. That worked well, unless one of us “younger folk” disagreed with one of them. Especially Michael, Willow’s dad. Hence, my silence.

“Regan,” Bo waved me over, “take a look at this. I’m right, right?”

Shit, I sighed under my breath as I rose. Willow giggled in the sound booth. Guess that’s the benefit of being on the receiving end of all of the microphones in the room.

Bo slid over on the piano bench and handed me a pencil. “Do something.”

He tried to sound even, but aggravation held onto something.

I stared at the notes. They were beautiful. It was a new experience for me, looking at instrumental and vocal parts on a single score, but thanks to my time at the Boston Conservatory, it was a short learning curve.

“We don’t have to separate them,” I said after two minutes, all eyes on me. “We can blend them, punctuate vocals on my staccatos here, here, here ... and here.”

A collective sigh startled me.

“Fresh eyes!” Michael patted my shoulder. “That’s all we needed. Let’s try it.”

Several minutes and only one restart later, the song was complete, and almost perfect.

“Let’s call it a night.” Raven, Ember’s mom, stretched her arms up, leaning back in what I’d learned was part of a sun salutation.

I didn’t ask for this knowledge.

The group agreed the song we’d just done was a good stopping point, and the older members fled with talk of going to bed. It was ten o’clock. I can’t blame them, as even I was starting to follow their routine. We’d get to the studio at 6 o’clock and be off and running by 7:30. I was grateful I didn’t sing, because I had no idea how they could get their vocal cords lubricated that early in the day.

“Want to come over for some wine, or something?” Ember asked as she picked up her bag.

“No, I think I’m going to E’s. I told Georgia I’d stop by once in a while to play, but I haven’t been since we started recording.”

“How’s she doing?”

I shrugged. “I’ve barely seen her. Our schedules are opposite. She doesn’t finish at the bar until three most mornings, then I’m out the door by six ... in order to be twenty minutes late here.”

Ember chuckled. “Yeah, *. Fix that shit.”

“Anyway, by the time we’re done here, she’s usually back at work.”

Bo wrapped his arm around Ember’s shoulders. “Two ships passing in the night, huh?”

“I guess.”

“None of her late-night guests have been keeping you up?” Ember arched her eyebrow, but it wasn’t bitchy. She was teasing. But, I took offense.