1
Betsy
“If you get your mouth any closer to that mic, it’s going to file sexual harassment charges against you.” I sat back from my own mic with a huff, clicking off the intercom that allowed Tate to hear me in the sound booth. The kid was okay. Mostly. He could go from needing his ego stroked one minute to being a pompous butthead the next, but he paid me upfront, so that was a point in his favor. He also caressed the snot out of the microphone stand and was better at looking like he was making out with the equipment than singing on key.
But hey, who was I to crush his dreams? I’d leave that up to people like Simon Cowell while collecting the recording and editing fees Tate racked up. I may’ve had the overwhelming urge to take a long, scalding shower after each of his sessions, but at least I could afford my water and electricity thanks to him and other wannabe hopefuls.
“How was it that time, Betsy?” He looked through the glass separating us, his eyes wide with anticipation and endless aspirations. Ego-stroking moment. Got it.
My friends called me a cynic. Claimed I was trilingual—fluent in English, Spanish, but mostly chose to converse in sarcasm. They weren’t wrong. But I also wasn’t needlessly heartless.
I leaned toward the mic next to the control panel and flipped the switch so he’d be able to hear me. “Better than last time, Tate.” Last time I swore the ally cat whom I’d taken to calling Mr. Whiskers and who loved to feast on Mr. Chen’s leftover sushi had screeched and hissed in protest. “You’re really improving.” He couldn’t have gotten any worse.
Tate pulled at his shirt collar, preening at what he considered words of praise.
Should I have felt bad for giving him—and pretty much eighty percent of the aspiring musicians that booked my services—false hope? Maybe. Then again, there were plenty of people in this world that loved to put others in their place and rip the glittering curtain of their longed-for future down to reveal the stark reality for what it was. So if anyone claimed that letting Tate and others like him live in their happy, if delusional, fantasy a little longer was unkind, well, I’d argue the opposite.
“Should we go through the song one more time?” Tate asked as he grabbed the mic stand and pulled it so close he practically straddled the metal pole.
I winced but forced a smile. “I think you’ve got it as good as it’s going to get.”
He beamed, thinking I meant that he and the song couldn’t get any better because he’d already reached perfection level. See? Happy fantasy land.
I’d yet to run into a musician that was even halfway in touch with reality. Malachi’s brother came close, but then, he’d almost literally risked the farm for his big break, not unlike Jack and his handful of magical beans. But in the case of Malachi’s brother there hadn’t been a golden goose at the other end of the beanstalk.
Tate ran a finger along the body of the microphone, like a lover reluctant to leave and needing one final lingering caress. His lips moved in a silent whisper, and I was glad I’d turned off the feed so I couldn’t hear whatever sweet yet disturbing nothings he whispered into the windscreen.
Every surface in that room was getting Lysoled as soon as he left.
The door to the sound booth finally opened, and Tate stepped out. “When do you think you’ll have the single edited and produced? I have some leads I want to follow up on. I can feel it, Betsy. My big break is just around the corner.”
The only break for Tate, around the corner or otherwise, was the shattering of his dreams to be on the radio and have a platinum record. “I’ll email you the file in a couple of days.”
He nodded, and I expected him to say something else that reeked of overconfidence and self-import. Instead, he didn’t make a move except to slide his hands into the front pockets of his low-riding jeans.
I bit back my sigh. “Is there anything else you need?”Don’t do it, I pleaded with him in my mind, even though I knew he’d ignore my warning, spoken or otherwise.
Musicians were like that. Plowing ahead. Thinking other people were beneath them, that rules and boundaries applied to everyonebutthem. The only thing they cared about was making it big and then making it even bigger.
Somewhere, my brain registered the vulnerability in the way Tate shifted his weight from one foot to the other. How his gaze darted about the room before settling back on me. Instead of seeing his boy-band blue eyes, I saw unsettling brown ones instead. A familiar unease churned in my chest, and my palm flew up to stop him before he ever managed to get a word out.
“Do you remember my rule?”
The vulnerability, which I now saw had only been an act, vanished from his face. His jaw set in a stubborn line, and his chin jutted out. “Rules are meant to be broken.”
I didn’t know if I felt more like sighing from the onslaught of exhaustion that came over me or screaming from sheer frustration.
If only my soul didn’t find its freedom in music. If only my heart didn’t beat to the rhythm of a drum or my blood flow on the strums of a guitar. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with musicians and their kind.
Tate took my silence as an invitation and stepped closer. A cocky smolder I didn’t doubt he practiced for hours in the mirror made his lips twist in a disturbing way. His hand lifted, but my reflexes batted his sticky fingers before they could touch me. This time when his eyes widened, it wasn’t with hope but outrage.
I longed to take a step back but instead lifted my chin. I wouldn’t give up ground. Wouldn’t make a move that resembled retreat. “I have one rule and one rule only: I do not, under any circumstances and with zero exceptions, date musicians.”
Tate pursed his lips but then shuffled back a step. Then another. “Fine. Your loss.” He stalked to the door and ripped it open but paused before making a dramatic exit. He looked at me, and this time his top lip curled. “You would have been nothing but dead weight anyway. You’re not even that hot.”
I gripped my chest as if wounded. “Oh no. A man-child without enough talent to fill a thimble thinks I’m not that hot. Whatever will I do?” I rolled my eyes and planted my hands on my hips. “I’m pretty sure I’ll live.”
He called me a name that started with the second letter of the alphabet and rhymed with someone whose favorite mode of transportation was a broom before storming off down the street.
