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“Hell yes!” Miller yells in my ear, and I laugh. He’s been cool as a cucumber all day, but he’s damn happy with that take. “That’s what I’m talking about, man. That’s a number-one hit right there. No doubt.”
“Your mouth to fate’s plans,” I reply, hoping he’s right.
Today has gone better than I could’ve dreamed. A real studio, a real producer, my music recorded and primed for radio.
My dream feels even closer.
Grab it with both hands, hold on, giving everything I have. Mom, look what I’ve done. Are you proud of me now?
“Good morning, Mr. Tannen. I’ve been instructed to take you back for a photo check first thing. Mr. Marshall wants the images to discuss during your meeting.” The receptionist clicks down the hall, but my longer strides put me even with her.
“Photos? I didn’t know anything about pictures,” I tell her.
She smiles kindly, and I realize I’m simply a checkmark on her to-do list.
I’m not ready for pictures today, though I’m not exactly the fresh-shaven, styled-hair type. I just need to mentally prepare myself to pose and be paraded around. The ability to let someone else take control isn’t really my best feature.
“Wow,” Rory, the photographer says with a smile when we come in.
The receptionist smiles and talks to Rory out of the side of her mouth as though I’m not here. “I know.”
I ignore their shit, not wanting or needing their attention that way. Only Willow’s.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, Bobby.”
Rory pulls a stool from somewhere and sits me down by the large window. “Lean forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped together. Give me a flirty smile.”
Click.
That sound is so familiar. Aching and longing rise up in my throat. I want to check Willow’s blog and see what she posted today so I can live her day with her. Since I’m not there, it doesn’t seem as creepy. And as this point, I don’t give a fuck if it is.
“Yes,” Rory coaches. “Madder. Show me angry.” Click. “Okay, now like you want to hate fuck, not kill me.” Click.
“Are you comfortable doing a few with your shirt off?” Rory asks. “Your call, but I think we could get some good shots if I’m right about what’s underneath that T-shirt.”
I’m not shy about my body. It serves me well, doing the work I need it to. “That’s fine. As long as they’re not . . .” I search for the word I want, but Rory jumps in and reassures me without it.
“Tasteful, of course. Nothing pornographic or too vulgar. Fresh out of bear-skin rugs, I’m afraid.” He laughs, teasing, and though it takes me a second to follow suit, I do because I’ve relaxed with him enough now.
I pull my T-shirt over my head and lay it on the table. I stand where he directs me and he takes several more shots. Click, click, click.
He looks at his camera, an even bigger one than Willow’s, and smiles. “We’ve got it. Several options, in fact. I’ll send them on to Jeremy right now.”
I shake Rory’s hand, all professional. “Thanks, man.”
“Pleasure was all mine. Good luck, Bobby.”
I pull my T-shirt back on right before the receptionist comes back to get me. “This way, please. They’re ready for you now.”
In the conference room, there’s no mistaking the vibe. They’re eager, smiling, hungry, and excited. That’s got to be a good sign.
“Bobby! Come on in and have a seat. So much to go over.” Jeremy is more enthusiastic than he was at Hank’s, bordering on Loretta territory. But he wants my music, not my dick. Presumably.
I sit down and see that the folders are back, thicker than they were on Friday.
“How’s your weekend been, Bobby?” Jeremy starts. “Have you enjoyed yourself?”
I don’t see why that matters at all, but the truth is, I have. Singing for a new crowd is something I would’ve never done, but it felt like a test I aced. And the recording studio time was a learning experience I’ll never forget. In the span of a few hours, Miller made me a better musician, something I’ll always be grateful for. Room service is also something I could get used to real fucking easily. One phone call, and any type of food shows up at the door, and you can eat in bed leaned back on a pillow fort’s worth of feathers.
“It’s been an experience,” I reply. “A great one.”
His smile grows, and I get the sensation of being a fish on a hook, but if the boat is a record deal, reel me the fuck in, Bassmaster.
“Good, good. Okay then, let’s get to it. Crowd reports?”
Glasses Guy—I should probably learn his name if this does go somewhere—opens his folder and reads from a sheet. “Overall, positive feedback across the board. The audience really liked the voice, the songs, and the appearance. Some slight variance in presentation versus expectations, as we’ve discussed.”
