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“Yes, I am,” he said plainly. “I need her for an album I’m recording. I know she’s scheduled today. Can you give her tonight off?”
“She can have the week off,” the manager said quickly.
David enjoyed a rich laugh.
“We’ll get back to you on that, but she only wants tonight off,” he said. “Are we cool? Do I need to sign something?”
A smile as wide as a canyon spread across his face. “If you don’t mind,” the entranced manager replied.
“Sure.”
The manager pulled a pen from his pocket and had David sign a child’s paper coloring menu. A small crowd formed behind him.
“Morning everyone,” He just wanted to get out of there.
He shook hands and took a few selfies trying to move to the door.
“Let me out,” he whispered to the manager. “And the lock the door for like a minute. I just want to be on my way.”
The manager obliged, and David made it to the car. He quickly rolled up his tinted windows but not before people spilled out of the restaurant. He rolled down his window one more time, stuck his hand out and waved.
They made great time to the studio because instead of the highway, they used the original thoroughfare which got replaced by a boulevard and then a highway. No one used it so they were there within a few minutes.
The studio was in the industrial section of San Jose slated for gentrification. For now, it was the address to a recording studio that had the reputation for creating the best sound in the industry. Something about the old settled building provided tremendous acoustics.
David helped Cara’s sleepy form into the studio. He wanted to pick her up, but he thought it was over the top. She brought out something in him. Something that made him want to please her, protect her, keep her.
He dispatched one of the assistants, an apprentice sound man, with a hundred-dollar bill to make a run for orange juice, fruit and granola bars. They had coffee and trail mix—his favorite breakfast—but his stomach was growling. After last night, he needed something more substantial.
The studio, while run down looking on the outside, was richly remodeled on the inside, except for the studio itself. The room where Cara would stay and listen had wide upholstered benches that were meant to double as beds. David grabbed her pillows and blankets so she could lounge and listen.
“Good news,” he announced to Cara. “I don’t know if you were awake for all of it, but you have the night off. Is that still okay with you?”
“Yes,” she said with a drowsy smile. “I’m not made for all-nighters.”
“Could have fooled me,” he said wickedly. He pressed his li
ps to hers before departing into the studio.
They took a bit to get started. Tommy was already wearing his guitar, tuning up for his part. Marissa stood next to her man bass in hand. They would play both rhythm and lead. David planned to play guitar and drum and sing.
Stan the producer arrived and wasn’t happy about Jay’s absence after learning that David axed him from the project.
“So what?” argued David. “I’m paying for it. This is my album, and these are my tunes.”
“But it also belongs to the investors,” Stan countered. “They’re paying for it too. They bought in because of you and because of him.”
“They might have to bail him out of jail to make it happen. He was rippin’ and roarin’. He was doping girls’ drinks last night at Barney’s. He drugged Nina.”
“Nina is a dope,” muttered Stan.
“She’s a human being,” reminded David. “Anyway, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t in jail. I don’t have time for that shit. I want to make music, not trouble.”
“You can’t make music without a singer,” said Stan.
“He’s a name. I can sing. Do you want me to list all the albums I sang on?” David’s question was sarcastic.
Stan gave him a look.
