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5
Lyla
Twelve tacos are tucked in a big brown sack in my arms. I push the lobby doors open to Studio 39 and strut in with confidence I don’t really feel. Stepping inside, the air conditioner welcomes me in a heavy wave of freezing air that gives me insta-goosebumps. Cold chills ripple up my arms as I walk around the empty front desk and down the left hallway where Marcus usually is. I find him alone, slumped over a control panel, his eyes closed with beats blaring, and I walk in and set our food down on the low table in the corner surrounded by a black couch and two matching leather chairs. I don’t want to stop him, so I lay my purse down and scoot out of the room to look around for Charlie.
The record room is down on the other side of the building, but I find it easily. Pushing it open, I immediately hear her voice singing a soft song. I recognize it as Lauryn Hills’ “Killing Me Softly.” Her voice gets louder as I make my way through the maze of record shelves. I’m a solid three minutes into the labyrinth when the room opens and sitting on a large high table is Charlie in her old black faded Chevelle t-shirt, ripped jeans, and signature cherry-red Chuck Taylors. Her curly blond hair is full of volume and completely unruly but beautiful. Her blue eyes shine bright behind her black-framed glasses when she sees me, and she yanks the big, Beats headphones off her ears.
“Aaaaahhhhh! You’re finally home!” she shouts, jumping down from the table and walking fast into my open arms. We hug tight and for probably too long, but it feels great. An embrace that feels like home, like family. I feel my stupid tears threatening to prickle my eyes and, I step back.
“Don’t you dare make me cry,” I warn.
“Oh, I would never,” she teases dramatically.
“So, I realize this is a dumb question, but how are you?”
“I’m alright. Been better, of course, but at least I’m here and not in Chicago cooking my life away.”
“You are so right about that. Gorgeous weather, beautiful people, and fantastic tacos. You should have come back a long time ago.”
“I really think you’re right.” I shrug.
“Speaking of beautiful people, are you enjoying your new roommate? I gotta admit I am jealous of that eye candy.”
“Yeah, Cole seems cool.”
“Seems cool?” She eyes me suspiciously. “Cole is a cool guy, but I was talking about how unbelievably good-looking he is,” she says in her best Zoolander with her lips pooched out in duck lips.
I burst out laughing, tears dotting my eyes. It’s hard to breathe I’m laughing so hard and Charlie is too.
“What’s going on in here?” A guy walks in from around the corner.
“Hey, Mason,” she says, catching her breath. “This is my girl, Lyla. Lyla, this is Mason, Marcus’ protégé.”
“Nice to meet you, Lyla,” he says, looking me up and down.
He looks a lot like Marcus when he was eighteen. Smooth dark skin, short cropped hair, a golden-boy smile, and a body built to take more than one woman at a time. I laugh and shake my head, just remembering the way my best friend used to behave before he met Grace and they had Harmony. “Nice to meet you too, Mason.”
“I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. Everyone’s real happy to have you back.” He makes a point to meet my eyes, then licks his lips while rubbing his hands together.
“Mason, I’m gay.”
He reels back surprised. “Really?”
I smile “No.” And I bat my eyelashes at him.
Luckily, he laughs—not every man would. “Damn, baby, just tryin’ to know you. You’re a beautiful woman, Lyla; you can’t blame me.” He starts walking backwards to leave. “I’ll leave you gorgeous ladies to continue on with your day, but I came in to tell you, Charlie, that Marcus found a new band he wants so he obviously needs your approval. He said he’ll have a demo to you by tonight, and if not please remind him. He has more details.”
He shrugs and turns down into the rows of vinyl records. I look over, and she’s already reaching for her phone to check her email. “New band, that’s exciting!”
“Why didn’t Marcus just tell me himself? I just saw him.”
“Mason has a bad habit of annoying Marcus, so he makes him a go-fer just to get rid of him sometimes,” she says, staring down at her phone. “He’s really not that bad. I would even dare say he’s a good guy.” She raises a shoulder.
“Oh, would you, now? A good guy and hot too; am I right?”
“Yes, he is, Lyla, and we are also not interested in each other, but all the power to you, love,” she counters with narrowed eyes.
“Touché. But tell me this. Your lack of interest has nothing to do with Wade, right?” I ask her very cautiously, knowing this is a very touchy subject.
