Spring Fling Page 18

The Plan

  Off-Limits Box Set

  LOVE, INC.

  Selling Scarlett

  Taming Cross

  Unmaking Marchant

  STAINED (A YA Paranormal Series)

  Stained

  Stolen

  Chosen

  Exalted

  HERE

  Here

  Trapped

  EROTIC FAIRY TALES

  Hansel, Part 1

  Hansel, Part 2

  Hansel, Part 3

  Hansel, Part 4

  Red & Wolfe Box Set, 1-4

  The Complete Box Set: Red & Wolfe, Hansel, and Beast

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Also by Nicole French

  About the Author

  * * *

  Shama

  * * *

  The walls are shaking.

  No, not those kinds, you dirty bird. I mean the actual walls of my hotel room are shaking. The windows rattle in their frames, the big platform bed shuffles on the carpet, and the big brass mirror over the vanity claps against the plaster.

  “Don’t drop, don’t drop, you fucker,” I mutter without opening my eyes. How many earthquakes have I experienced in five years of living in L.A.? Ten? Twelve? Twenty?

  I don’t even know. This thing is barely a tremor, hardly audible over the noise bubbling up from Santa Monica Boulevard. The only reason I can feel the damn thing is because I’m flat on my back. And, no, not in that way either. Jeez, you guys really are perverts.

  Three. Two. One. The shaking stops. The mirror is crooked but has the good sense not to fall. No seven years of bad luck. I exhale. I need coffee. But to do that, I need to get up.

  Seven years I’ve lived in L.A. Five since I took the job with National Records as a video production assistant. I did the job, and I did it well. Worked steadily up the ladder until I was eventually producing music videos on my own.

  And now, two days since I left my apartment and officially began my ten-years-coming vacation here at the Santa Monica Marriott, not four blocks from my old studio.

  You think you know how hard the music business is? No one tells you about behind the scenes. No one tells you about the boys’ clubs. The way they treat women like playthings. No one tells you just how hard you have to fight to make any of them listen to you. They hear a name like Shama Sandhu and assume I’m there to provide the “catering,” not to be the damn boss.

  But now I’m finished. No more producing. No more music industry. No more of these assholes who, starting with my old DJ boyfriend, can’t seem to keep their dicks in their pants for more than five minutes.

  You want to know something crazy? I originally wanted to be a video journalist. I started at NYU thinking I’d travel the world making docu-shorts and video essays for publications like The New Yorker or The Atlantic. Instead, it’s been seven years of telling people how best to “back that ass up.”

  But I’m done. I paid off my bills. I saved my money. And now I have enough to take a full year off with my camera and return to the dream. I just have to tie up loose ends.

  My cell phone blares its sickly sweet tinkle on the nightstand. The bed frame squeals as I grab the phone.

  “What up, bitch?”

  “Hey, girl. Just wanted to make sure you’re still alive before your trip. Are you ready to go?”

  I smiled. My best friend, Layla Soltero, is seriously one of the sweetest people on the planet. Maybe too sweet. We lived together for three years in college, and she’s been a rock ever since. Unlike most, she’s never put off by my, ah, “harsher” moments. She’s one of the few people who love me for exactly who I am.

  “Dude. I am more than ready. We just had an earthquake. I think this city is literally trying to throw me out.”

  “An earthquake? Oh my God, Shams, are you okay?!”

  A clamor sounds on the other side of the phone, like dishes jumbling on a table, followed by the squirrely voices of two small children. I smile.

  “Mami, is Auntie Shama okay?”

  I grin, shoving my hair back from my face. Mateo, Layla and Nico’s son, is the cutest damn kid in the world. Their three-year-old daughter, Camila, better known as Coco, is a close second.

  “Tell Mattie I’m fine,” I say as I haul myself out of bed.

  “He wants to know when you’re coming for a visit.”

  I study myself in the mirror, drawing a finger over the dark circles under my eyes. “Lay, I was just out there at Christmas.”

  “That was six months ago. You’re really not going to come back before your year-long travel extravaganza? What if you die over there, Shams? What if you get eaten by a crocodile?”

  I smile into the mirror. “She perished by way of crocodile” isn’t a bad thing to have in your obituary.

  “This is the beauty of video chats, my friend,” I say. “God bless smartphones. And the fact that there are no crocodiles in New Delhi. At least, I don’t think.”

  There’s a long sigh. I don’t tease her more, because I know it’s partly jealousy that’s motivating these comments. Well, I’m jealous of her too. Layla might not get to travel, but she’s got the rest of her life buttoned up. Two adorable kids. A job she loves as a social worker. And a sexy-as-sin, fire-fighting husband. Yeah, I don’t feel so sorry for Little Miss Domestic.

  “So, what’s your plan before you leave?”

  “I give the keys to the landlord at eleven, and then I get to check into the hotel. Two days as a tourist in L.A. I never thought I’d see the day, but I don’t want to leave the City of Angels on bad terms, you know?”

  “Stupid city. I’m glad you’re leaving. They don’t deserve you.”

  I have to grin. Layla has a personal vendetta against L.A. after Nico moved here for a year when they first met, and then when I moved here too.

  “Eh, it’s not that bad. I’ll miss Huckleberry for one. Oh my God, those lemon croissants…I should go there today for breakfast.” I smack my lips, imagining the butter-soaked pastry that only me and about two other women in this stupid city are willing to enjoy. Only the people behind the cameras in L.A. ever eat. Whatever. More for me.

  “Yum. Have one for me.”

  “And me!” Mateo’s voice chirps behind her, and soon after that, Coco’s lisped drawl follows. Damn. I will miss seeing those kids for a whole year.

  “One year, babe. And then it’s back to New York. Or London. Or wherever else I happen to land.”

  She tuts at the idea, but inside, I’m thrilling. I love the idea of not knowing the future for the first time in my life.

  “Maybe I should come visit you…” Layla daydreams just as another call rings through.

  I frown at the number. Why is the head of A&R at National calling? The guy has spoken to me maybe once in seven years.

  “Hold on, Lay. I’ll call you back, okay?” She agrees, and I switch answer the new call. “Hello?”

  “Shama, this is Gary Clayburn. How are you?”

  I sit down on the edge of the mattress. “Ah, fine, thanks.”

  “I hear we’re losing you to...a private project. Is that right?”

  My frown intensifies as I look in the mirror. Damn, I really should have cut my hair before leaving. Maybe a trip to the salon is in order…

  “Yes,” I say as I hold my hair up, trying out a mock bob. Yeah, no. I need my long hair. “I’m leaving on Monday, actually. Right now I’m taking a little downtime before my flight to Delhi.” I meander over to the closet and shrug on the maxi dress I’m planning to wear for the next two days when I’m not on the beach.

  “Good, good, so we haven’t lost you yet. Any chance you’re available this weekend for an emergency? We lost the producer on the DJ Cairo video. Apparently Cairo didn’t like the fin
al mix and refuses to appear in the video until it’s fixed.”

  “He’s back in the studio?”

  “He’s an EP, and his agent got him final cut.”

  The irritation in his voice is palpable. I don’t blame him. Final cut makes for tyrants. I’ve heard of DJ Cairo, of course—everyone has. He’s one of the most talented music producers in the business, the next Dr. Luke. He was the most recent get for National, and they bought his entire album, which, rumor has it, he recorded in his own apartment over several years. They say it’s a damn masterpiece. I haven’t heard this single, but I do know he’s stepping out as a performer for the first time, and National is putting everything they have behind it.

  So sure, maybe the guy has first-time jitters, but that’s no reason to hijack an entire production and cost the studio thousands of dollars a day just to redo some auto tuning.

  “We need someone to step in, Shama. Take the reins. Make sure everything gets done. We need you.”

  Now my frown is an all-out scowl. I quit this job precisely because I was done babysitting all the narcissists in the industry. The last thing I want to do on my mini-vacation is to chase some prima donna beat boy into performing like a trained monkey. No. I want the beach. I want sunshine. I want margaritas.

  Then Gary offers exactly five times what I’ve ever gotten paid for one of these projects. It’s more than I usually make in six months. More than I made in my first two years as an assistant producer. It’s enough to fund my entire year-long project on top of the money I’ve saved.

  I cough profusely.

  “Everything okay, there?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just didn’t quite hear what you said.”

  So he says it again. And this time, I’m sure.

  “Wow.” The word pops out before I can stop it.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “Um, well. I only have three days before I leave L.A. How involved is the project?” I’m not staying past Sunday. Absolutely not.

  “Not too bad. They’ve already started filming,” Gary replies. “The director has a pretty clear vision for the video too. Beach party. They’re doing it mostly on location in Redondo Beach. You know Jeff de Soto?”

  I nod, though he can’t see me. “Oh, sure. Jeff and I have worked together a few times.” I glance at my maxi. So much for vacation. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  “First things first,” Gary says. “We need to get Cairo out of the studio and back on set.”

  * * *

  K.C.

  * * *

  “It’s still not right.”

  I flip off the track and sit back in my chair, tapping my lips for a second while the studio stops shaking. The motion makes the big watch on my wrist slide forward, a gift from my agent after she signed me to National. Funny thing…we were so excited at the time. I could never have guessed how the transition from producer to performer would have turned out.

  “I think it sounds dope,” says Joaquin, my personal assistant. “The bass is poppin’.”

  I just roll my eyes at the soundboard. I like Joaquin. I do. One of my cousins from New York, he’s been my body man since he graduated high school. He’s loyal, trustworthy, and doesn’t snort his paycheck like half the people in this industry. And more than that, he always has yes-es when I need to hear them. But right now I don’t need a yes-man. I need someone who’s going to tell me what the fuck is wrong with this track.

  Problem is, when you’re the producer on top of the talent, everyone expects you to have that answer. Today, though, the magic is not happening.

  “Here.” I pull off the two fat chains around my neck, my diamond-encrusted pinkie ring, and the watch I bought with the royalties from the first Billboard hit I ever produced and hand them over my shoulder. “’Quin, this shit is weighing me down. Take it back to the hotel and have them put it in the safe, all right?”

  Joaquin whips out a velvet cloth to take the jewelry. He knows I don’t like my ice getting his fingerprints on it. And this happens often enough that he’s usually ready for it when I’ve had it with the hardware. The funny thing is, I don’t even like it that much. When I’m by myself, I keep it simple. T-shirt. Jeans. That’s about it.

  But when you don’t come from much, you feel like you need to insulate yourself once you have something. Like somehow a little gleam makes it real.

  I remember that feeling when I started making some money. First came a record with my first job at The Hit Factory. Then someone picked up my mixes. They started hiring me at bars. Clubs. Festivals. More records. More gigs. They just kept coming and coming.

  But the numbers didn’t seem real until I saw what they could buy. Nothing—nothing—will ever compare to the feeling of handing my mother the title to her very own two-bedroom condo on the west side of Manhattan, four blocks from the falling-down building in Hell’s Kitchen where I grew up. From there, she could look over New York like the queen she was, not the servant she’d always been forced to be.

  I turn to Barry, the sound tech. “What do you think?”

  “Needs more bass,” he says, directly contradicting Joaquin. “You knew I was going to say that. It needs bounce.”

  I turn back to the console like it’s going to give me all the answers. I did know that. Barry’s in-house here at National—a good guy who’s worked on some other projects with me. Old school, though, and very L.A. He wants to make my shit sound like Dr. Dre. I’m not having that. I’m from New York City, not Compton. Boricua, not Crenshaw.

  “Joaquin. Phone. Call Nico.” I hold out my hand behind me, and like magic, my phone appears, the number to my best friend already ringing.

  “Yo, mano. Where the fuck you been? I tried to call you, what, five times last week?”

  I grin as the voice of Nico Soltero, my best friend, echoes through the room. Joaquin grins too. Everyone loves Nico.

  Me most of all, though. Because out of everyone in my life, my boy is the only one who keeps it real. He tells me when I’m being a jackass. He tells me when I’m getting too big for my head. And he tells me when I’m getting shit right too.

  “Where else, man?” I reply. “I’m in the studio.”

  “Don’t you have that video shoot? I thought today was the day you become a real rap star!”

  I grimace at my reflection in the window. “Yeah, the video’s on hold.”

  Behind me, Joaquin snorts. Okay, fine. So I ran off set to fix the damn track. What the fuck is the point of doing a video if the track’s not right?

  “Layla good?” I ask, deflecting. “Family good?”

  I can practically hear my man’s grin over the phone when I mention his wife. Cha-ching, if there was ever a man whipped by his woman. But I don’t blame him. She’s fine as hell, and really fuckin’ good for him to boot. We should all be so lucky as those two.

  “Yeah, man, she’s good. Got a promotion at work last week. She’s director of the whole damn office now. You believe that?”

  I nod. “Yeah, yeah. I can believe that. How about you? How does it feel to be a fuckin’ FDNY lieutenant now, mano?”

  There’s another deep chuckle before he launches into some updates. He probably thinks I’m humoring him with these questions. But really, who’s doing better things for the world, huh? A firefighter and a social worker with two beautiful kids? Or an asshole making records about shaking ass and popping tags?

  “Yo, man. I need you to listen to this track,” I say. “You got a minute?”

  “Ah...sure, I guess. But you know I don’t know anything about music, bro.”

  “Just tell me if you like it,” I say. I don’t have time for this song and dance. Nico isn’t a musical talent, but he knows good shit. If anyone else has an ear for the vibe I want, it’s him.

  “I’m trying to make it sound like home,” I clarify.

  Before he can ask any more questions, I flip on the song, hold the phone up to a speaker, and let it play for a solid minute before turning it off.

&nbs
p; “Okay, what do you think?”

  There’s a long pause. Shit.

  “I mean, it’s nice...I’m sure it would play well with the younger crowd these days…they seem to like that auto-tuned business that got so popular.”

  I groan into my palm. I knew sampling this girl was the wrong way to go. National demanded fuckin’ “synergy” on this project, and they gave me straight-up shit.

  “It’s weak,” I translate. “And Katie Derek sounds weak on it.”

  “Well…yeah. Claro, man. I’mma be real, I’d probably change the station. The beat is tight, but you need a better voice with it, you know? If you’re gonna use that rhythm, you need a hook to match. Maybe...shit, Kayce, I’m not a producer.”

  I groan again. “Nico, cut the shit. I asked for your help, so just tell me what you’re thinking of.”

  “Coño, calm the fuck down all right. God, you’re such a sensitive fuckin’ artist, you know that?”

  I snort. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “You shut up. You want my opinion or not?”

  I sigh. I do want his opinion. Honest to God, Nico and I are probably...what’s the word...codependent. “Hit me.”

  There’s a long pause while he thinks. “All right...I hear the lyrics...and I hear that beat you got going. It’s a rumba, right?”

  “Right.”

  “It reminds me of those Sunday mornings, you remember? Remember our moms, they used to hang laundry out the fire escape while they listened to that Ghetto Brothers album?”

  My eyes pop open. “Oh shit. I forgot about that album. The one with those licks like Dusty Springfield? Like it’s echoing in a glass goblet? Viva Puerto Rico Libre…”

  “Ah...I guess? But yeah, that song. That’s the one I mean.”

  I can already hear it. Sultry harmonies, a lazy hum liquid as the ocean. In a flash, I’m back on the fire escape in Hell’s Kitchen, watching the sway of my mother’s skirt in the summer heat while she sings along and pins my shirts to the clothes line. In those moments, she was back in Santiago, sitting under the palm trees, watching the ocean as blue as the sky.