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“Yeah, sure,” I say, my thoughts reeling. Is Alwin trying to take credit for my song? Something doesn’t sit right, the way Marcus said the lyrics, the way he said that it was Alwin’s song.
“Speaking of which, do you need any passes?”
“What?” I ask, having lost the conversation.
“Backstage passes. Do you need any?”
“Uh . . .” I think for a minute, but there’s only one person who comes to mind that I really want backstage: Sara. “Yes. One.”
“You got it.”
Marcus lets me go a few minutes later, and I sit for a while, my mind a jumbled mess.
While Sara setsup the camera gear, I get dressed in my room. While I can’t replicate what my makeup artists do, I’ve tried my best. I dyed my hair a black that washes out, painted my nails black, drew on eyeliner with exaggerated wingtips. I pulled out a set of leather pants and a mesh long-sleeve top.
It’s been too long. It’s weird, but there’s the spark of pre-performance energy here, in this mansion in the Black Forest.
I stop in the studio, grabbing my guitar. Just like a music video, the song is prerecorded, and I’ll pretend to play my guitar.
When I step into Sara’s studio, she looks up and does a double take.
“Wow,” she says, and a different kind of energy sizzles up my spine. Sara’s seeing me in the flesh as someone different, someone famous. And not to sing my own praises, but someone with a different “sexual energy”—that’s the phrase all the magazines like to use, though I couldn’t nail down exactly what it means.
Her gaze travels up and down my body, and I bite my lip to keep my broody musician look going. When she meets my eye again, she flushes.
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just different, you know? You suddenly aren’t my mild-mannered roommate who occasionally farts on the couch anymore.”
“One time,” I say. “And I didn’t think you could hear me over all the noises you made while you were cooking.”
Sara grins, turning her attention back to her camera. “Almost done here.”
I have a thought and tilt my head. “Should we be filming this at night? You know, dark energy vibes?”
She snorts. “God, no. Filming at night is hard. It’s all sharp shadows and harsh lighting. Besides, this video is supposed to be a bit of a surprise, right?”
“True. Business as usual until I bust in.”
She smiles but doesn’t take her eyes off the setup. “Can you stand just off the middle of my yoga mat?”
I stand a few places, and Sara makes sure she’s backed the camera away enough to fit my whole body in the shot.
“Okay, I think we’re ready.” She brushes her hands together, then rubs them on the tops of her thighs. “Are you ready?”
I give her a thumbs up and get into position off-camera.
Sara hits record, turns on the music, and begins her sequence of movements.
At first, the music is just deep and resonating bass notes. Sara moves fluidly, gracefully with her breath. A guitar slide hits between notes, and that’s the cue; something’s different. It’s time for me to step in.
I come in from the side, behind Sara, and play the notes. My guitar sits low, my head down, hair hanging in my face. As the music gets more complex, more intricate, so do Sara’s poses.
I walk slowly to her other side, fingers moving faster. Standing next to Sara while I play and she practices puts dirty thoughts into my head. I wonder if I could play while she moved around me, curving around my guitar, stretching her foot up and over my shoulder.
But we don’t do that now. We don’t touch. Sara stays in the confines of her yoga mat, and I keep my eyes on my guitar until I strum the last note.
The final movements and poses are faster, and she’s breathing hard next to me. She turns her head.
“What do you think? Should we do it again?”
