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Cheeks on fire, Lauren hurried out of the kitchen to take a cold shower.
ChapterSeven
The blaring horn from a taxi jarred Lauren out of her aimless daydream as her SUV pulled up to the curb. She glanced out the window and got her first real look at the exterior of Velocity Studios. The building was older with a brick façade and tall arched windows. Around the glass doors, insets of brushed steel gave the brick a sleeker, more modern look. She unbuckled her seatbelt and was about tell her driver that he didn’t have to get the door. He was, however, already around the car with his fingers on the handle.
“Really, you don’t need to—”
“Part of the job, Miss Stone.”
If she was being honest, Lauren would have preferred to drive herself, but taking the car service afforded her an opportunity to return some calls and attempt to scribble out a few songs. Not that she’d actually done any of that during the ride. She chewed her bottom lip. Maybe once they were all in the studio, the ideas would flow. If not, she was screwed.
Velocity’s waiting room was small but an interesting mix of contemporary and luxurious style. The reception desk, chairs, tables, and shelves all had clean, fashionable lines, but anywhere you could sit was all sumptuous padding and soft leather. Awards, framed news articles, and photos of Fitz and the myriad stars he’d worked with in the past lined the walls.
At the front desk, Tisha Marion looked up and greeted her warmly. As Fitz’s right-hand woman, she kept him organized, worked the schedule, and solved any issue that came up. When they’d first spoken on the phone, Fitz had told Lauren that if she needed anything, Tisha was the person who could get it.
“Fitz will be ready in just a second—morning call’s running a little late. Get you anything?” Tisha pushed a few willful two-strand twists back over her shoulder as she stood up.
Lauren thanked her but declined. Tisha let her know that Ox and Stevie had arrived and that they were in Studio A. She held out a large manila envelope that was addressed to Lauren, care of the studio.
“For me?” Lauren wasn’t expecting anything, and the return address wasn’t familiar. She took the envelope, slid a finger under the flap, and tore it open. Inside was a stack of paper, neatly stapled in one corner, with a note clipped to the top sheet.
Dear Lauren,
You don’t know me, but I feel like I know you! My name is Nicole Padovano-Shea (my friends call me Cole). I’m a student at St. Catherine's and I think you know my family: you dated my Uncle Danny in high school (I’m Maggie’s daughter).
I’m a huge fan, and I had to do a research paper on a famous person from New York and decided to do my assignment on you. I did a bunch of research about you and your career, but I also did interviews with my uncle and some other people from my family. I thought you might be interested in reading it—at least, I hope you will be—so I have enclosed a copy for you.
Fingers crossed you like it!
Good luck with your new album.
Sincerely,
Cole Padovano-Shea
Lauren’s breath caught in her throat as she flipped the note up. The cover of the paper displayed the title in a bold chunky font: From St. Catherine's to Sunset Boulevard – A Profile of Lauren Stone.She interviewed Danny? About me? Oh, Christ on a raft.
In high school the only thing Lauren had been passionate about—aside from her music—was Danny. And when they broke up, part of her world crumbled. People tried to tell her that first loves always seemed that way. Like the world was ending. But she would get over him. They told her that someday Danny would be a distant, dusty memory. Barely worth thinking about. There would be others to take his place.
As far as Lauren was concerned, they were all full of shit.
Had there been others? Yes. Had any of them taken Danny’s place? Hell, no. Everyone else had wanted something from her. Danny had loved her before she was famous. He knew the real her. Loved therealher.
“Lauren?”
“Sorry. Back in high school I dated this guy, Danny. We had a real thing, you know? Apparently, his niece is a fan, and she wrote a research paper on me. She sent a copy.” Lauren waved the papers a little.
Tisha laughed, her twists shaking. “That’s a new one. Here, I’ll hold onto that until you wrap up. I’ll put it in with the packet and you can take it all home together.”
“Great. Thank you.” Lauren paused. “Studio A?”
“Down the hall. Last door on the left.”
Lauren had barely made it halfway down the hall when Fitz’s office door popped open and he darted out. A small, slight man with wiry gray hair that was thinning in the back, he bustled with energy and enthusiasm. He gave Lauren a big hug.
“Lauren, darlin’,” he said with his Irish lilt. “I’m sorry ta be late. Bloody wankers just would na get off the phone. How many times do you need to reconfirm what you just bloody talked about? Now, come along. Let’s go join the lads and have a chat ‘bout this project you’re wanting to do.”
Six hours later, The Kingmakers and their new producer had discussed the schedule, how the band liked to schedule their time, access to the studio during off hours, and other logistical items that needed to be handled. Then Fitz wanted to just hear them play—to tune his ear, as he said. During the different conversations, Lauren artfully dodged Fitz’s questions about how many songs they had in the pipeline.
