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The only thing that reached me was Levi’s dark voice calling out. “See you Monday, Diana. I look forward to working with you.”
How could something sound suggestive, and like a warning at the same time?
Breaking out of the venue and stepping into the chilly night again, I sucked in as much air as my lungs could carry. Even the midnight cold couldn’t remove the furious flames staining my cheeks red. With each beat of my heart, an echoing throb pulsed between my thighs.
His body had been so close. If I closed my eyes, I easily imagined him still standing behind me. Levi’s large hands reaching up behind me and grabbing me–
“I’m sorry about that, Dee,” Damien’s apology snapped a needed clarity back into place.
“See, this is why I don’t work with artists in person.” It never ended well.
“It’s been years since the incident. Neither of us knew that you’d get recognized, and not by fucking Levi Stark, of all people.” His statement made my gut knot and drop to the grimy asphalt under our feet.
Silently, we tramped through the massive parking lot, half empty after the show. At the outskirts of the lot, Damien opened the passenger door of his sedan for me. I regretted not driving myself so I could stew over the wild events of the meeting. But his car had heated seats, and nothing else seemed to chase away the ice in my bones quite like a warm bottom.
I stared out the window at the glowing lights of L.A. during the drive. Late at night, we had most of the back roads to ourselves. Damien knew the way to my condo after our years of working together, so I said nothing throughout the ride.
Wriggling, unwanted thoughts squirmed within my brain. The little worms of negativity nibbled away at my heart and grew fat on my anxiety. I picked at my nails in my lap and pressed my knees together as if that would distract me from the thrumming in my core.
Damien parked at the curb. He braced his arm on the steering wheel when he angled towards me. “It’ll be alright Diana. You haven’t been in the public eye in almost ten years. Help Levi write a few songs and then move on.”
My shoulders dropped. I curled my fingers over the door handle before meeting Damien’s kind eyes. Pushing out a sigh, I agreed, “Fine. I’ll work with the egotistical rockstar in person as long as this stays quiet. As far as he’s concerned, he’s working with D. Johnson. Not Diana Winslow.”
“I know, Dee. I know.” Damien remembered what happened ten years ago and the events that followed as clearly as I did. Although the incident didn’t cost him his career as it had mine, he’d taken a risk keeping our contract under a false name.
I appreciated his guidance through the dark years and the brighter ones that followed.
“Goodnight, Damien,” I said and slipped from the car. I only hoped we’d get through this, too.
Three
I hadn’t written anything in half a year, and I needed the work now. My manager, as intuitive as he was, didn’t realize that I hadn’t taken on any recent work because the well of inspiration I’d once drawn from had gone bone dry.
Damien said we were lucky that Raymond reached out when Levi needed a lyricist of my caliber. I was reluctant to tell him I didn’t have the music in me. Whatever quality lyricist they imagined didn’t exist anymore.
A dinner of dry cereal from my desolate pantry was another reminder I needed the job. I had ample savings, but dreaded dipping into them for any reason. Better to take this job and collaborate with a lunatic than burn through them.
Gearing up for my first day returning to a studio, I spent the weekend studying his music. Levi Stark was world renowned for his stimulating rock music. The beats were heavy, hinting at classic rock. His lyrics weren’t overly thought provoking, but they did illicit goosebumps on my arms here and there.
I saw the appeal. An attractive man with skilled vocals usually does the trick. His band’s unique quirk of painting their faces to mimic skeletons and ghouls or wearing demonic masks gave them slight leverage. It helped them stand out compared to others in their musical genre.
But Levi didn’t just sing, he put on a show. Every performance had a moment that stood out. Like the fight I’d witnessed.
Had he staged that?
For the past ten years, I wrote most of my music from the comfort of my home studio. However, Monday morning, I left that comfort to face the dreaded L.A. traffic. The clustered roads weren’t the only thing causing an acidic ache deep in my guts. My fingers clutched the steering wheel as if my life depended on it as Levi’s music played on repeat in my head.
Rockstars like Levi were a type of artist I preferred not to work with. Rumors about musicians spread like wildfire, and most of them were true. And the one I’d signed a contract with had a history I didn’t want to get tangled up in.
Fights, women, and booze.
Los Angeles housed many of the top recording studios. Most had hosted popular artists from around the world. There was always a studio ready and willing to book a band or artist to record their music. But when I parked outside of the address Raymond sent me, the building wasn’t one I recognized.
I double then triple checked the address before getting out of my car. A golden sunrise blinded my eyes as I approached the unassuming white brick building. At least the speaker box on the door appeared professional.
It buzzed when I pressed the button. A half-second later, the door noisily unlocked. Internally, I groaned before pulling open the door. A million complaints ran rampant in my head until I stepped through the threshold.
“Holy cow,” slipped past my lips.
