Читать книгу Sing Your Pleasure - A.C. Arthur - Страница 11

Music soothed his soul. Always had and Akil suspected always would.

Sitting back in the chair, pushing the springs as far as they would go, he folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. He was in his Miami home, past the personal rooms to the back where his studio was located. In the background a slow beat played. The piano solo was coming up in a few minutes, after the tight strain of violin notes. It was a riveting beat, an emotional ballad that he’d composed but had yet to find the words to accompany.

Be better than me, Akil. Promise me you’ll be better.

The familiar words echoed in his mind. That’s where they lived now, twelve years later. They were a whisper on swollen and ashen lips, a plea from the one person he’d loved the most at the time.

He’d made the promise. And he’d kept it. He was better than her. His life, because of hers, had gone down a similar path with an entirely different mind-set, one that brought him fame and fortune, everything he’d ever wished for.

But also one that had cost him much.

It was times like these, times when it was quiet except for the music of his heart, that he thought of his past, of the life he had left behind.

Of the one person he’d wanted so desperately to help but who was completely unreachable to him.

“Akil.”

At the sound of his name he was jolted out of the past.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Charlene was saying, already backing out of the room.

“No,” he said, halting her instantly with the single word. “It’s okay. Stay.”

She’d changed into lounge pants and a T-shirt that brushed just above her knees. On her feet she wore slippers and on her face a look of confusion that scraped over his already tense nerves. How did she do that? How did she look so naive and so innocent one minute, then open her mouth to talk and sound older and much wiser than he could ever be the next?

“I went to the kitchen for some water and heard the music.”

“I’m sorry. I should have closed the outer doors to block out the sound. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She was shaking her head, the long hair she’d pulled up into a ponytail swaying behind her.

“You didn’t wake me. I can never sleep the first night I’m away from home.” She was shrugging the words off as if she were embarrassed by them. “This is nice. Did you write it?” she asked about the music.

He nodded.

“What’s it called?”

“Nothing right now. The music was in my head one day so I composed it. But I haven’t come up with the words or theme for it yet.”

It was her turn to nod as if she understood exactly what he was saying. “It’s kind of sad,” she commented.

Pushing the button, he looped the song, let the slow, heated beginning start.

“Kind of.”

They remained quiet, letting the music move around them.

“But kind of inspiring, encouraging.”

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. “She’s growing. Learning.”

“She?”

“I always call songs ‘she.’ Females have a lot more emotion, empathy, compassion, triumph, in their souls than men.”

She smiled. “You think so, huh? I guess I can relate to that.”

“Being a female, I figured you could.”

After a few more beats she said, “He’s giving her something.”

“Something that moves her to another level.”

“It moves them both. See right here,” she said, lifting a finger in the air just as the piano solo picked up the beat and drowned out the keyboard and percussions. “Right here is where it changes from just her song to their song. To their journey.”

For a moment he was quiet, letting her words and the music sink in. “You’re right,” he said finally, almost incredulously. “You have a good ear.”

“I studied instrumental composition in college.”

He sat back, let his eyes gaze at her once more. Each time he looked at her he could swear he saw something else. This time she looked vulnerable, yet capable. Weak only in that she was new to this scenery, but strong in that she was determined to make the best of her situation. He admired that.

And in that instant he feared her.

“You should get some rest. We’re starting early tomorrow and will probably work all day. Did you look at the songs I gave you?” Turning his attention back to the board, he cut off the music and began shutting down the rest of the power.

She hesitated and Akil almost turned to see if she was still there. But then she answered him in a voice just a tad smaller, a hint less enthusiastic than it had been a moment before.

“I’ll be ready for tomorrow’s session. You don’t have to worry, Akil. I teach my students how to sing and probably know just as much about vocals, if not more, than you do. So I won’t let you down.”

Before he had a chance to say that wasn’t what he meant, that he’d just wanted to make sure she was prepared, she was gone.

Cursing, Akil slammed his palms down on the mixing console, standing and pushing the chair away from him so hard it slammed into the wall a few feet away. “Dammit!” he cursed, then flicked the light off and left the studio himself.

Why did it always seem like he said the wrong thing to her?

Felix “Five Minute” Hernendez was one of the best sound technicians in the business. He’d also been known for the number-one hit he’d written for Lady X two years ago in about five minutes, hence his nickname.

Seth Dante was the sound engineer. Charlene knew because Jason had told her all about Seth and Five last night during dinner. Right about the time Serene had been giving Akil scathing looks because of the direction he wanted to take with her image. It was comforting to know now that Akil had plans to work her career around the real her.

There was a guitar player whom she hadn’t been introduced to yet but could see was already set up and touching the strings on his guitar in the soundproof isolation booth. She’d figured the music had already been digitally recorded by using a gobo panel to keep the sound from bleeding into the other microphones as she sang. But, of course, Akil knew what he was doing. She was sure he had as much control of each instrument channel at the mixing board as he planned to have of her and her voice.

This is it, Charlene told herself, standing in the doorway of the studio. She must have spent the better part of four or five hours reading over the songs Akil had given her, practically memorizing the musical arrangements, the high notes, the lows, the climax of each song. And she was ready, she knew she was ready.

With her bottled water in hand, she moved into the studio full of people, taking a deep breath before saying, “Good morning.”

All eyes immediately turned to her and a small nip of fear touched her. Stamping it down, she smiled even brighter and walked right between the huddled group of men.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Jason said in his always playful voice. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek. “Somebody call the police. It has got to be a crime for someone to be as beautiful as you are this early in the morning.”

Charlene chuckled. “One, eleven o’clock is not that early. And two, that was one weak-ass line.”

Jason laughed right along with her. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re right. C’mon, let’s get started.”

A tall guy with spiked raven-black hair and a touch of gold in front of his mouth reached out a bony arm toward her. He was dressed in jeans and a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey and she couldn’t help but smile. “If I’d known we were showing our teams I would have worn my Raiders shirt,” she said.

His smile spread and she was thankful to see there was really only one gold tooth in his mouth and not a row full like some of the acts in the industry these days. Still, he looked young enough to be one of her students.

“You got jokes,” he said. “You’re on the East Coast now. You can’t come in here with that West Coast nonsense.”

“Whatever,” she said, letting him clasp her hand.

“I’m Five,” he introduced himself.

Charlene liked him instantly and knew they were going to work well together.

“And I’m Seth. And that’s T-Rock on the bass. He’s going to be in the booth with you because his sound is crisper in there.”

A shorter man with caramel-toned skin and green eyes stepped up to her then, pointing to the tall Caucasian guitarist she’d already noted in the isolation booth. She was about to take his offered hand when Akil interrupted.

“If you’re all finished gaping over her like you’ve never seen a female before, we can get started.”

His voice was like a blast of arctic air, chilling the room instantly and snapping her spine straight.

“Let’s start with ‘Never Before Like This.’” He continued to bark orders and she watched as Five took his place, moving into the control room with Akil.

Seth went to stand near the DAW, the digital audio workstation, which usually took the place of mixing consoles, recorders, synthesizers, samplers and sound-effects devices. She noted Akil still had a mixing console that he liked to control on his own. Seth was probably the backup he needed to complete the full sound. Meanwhile, Jason walked her over to the booth and attempted to help her with the headphones.

“She knows how to do it, Jase,” Akil snapped. “Come on, we’ve got a lot to get done.”

He was in his desired spot in the control room with what she could see was his game face on. He was all about business today. Whereas last night when she’d seen him in that very same position he’d looked, for just that short amount of time, human.

“I’ve got it, Jason. Thanks.” Picking up the headphones, she moved to the stand, dropped her music down onto it and took her place in front of the mic.

She liked this song a lot. Its tempo began slowly but then picked up with the verse. It was good old-fashioned R&B, just what she loved to sing. So if Mr. Superproducer was all about business this morning then she could be, too. She was going to sing this song and every other song he put in front of her like her very life depended on it. Because Akil Hutton was not going to beat her. Not here, not today.

“Never like this before. No, never like this. I never loved like this. Never kissed like this. Never felt like this before.”

This was the fifth time she’d sung this song, the fifth time he’d listened to her take the verse written on that song sheet apart only to put it back together in her own special way again.

Her voice rocketed through the air, tore through the speakers and rubbed along the contours of his heart. It was strong, practiced, professional. She hit every note and then hit it again even better the next time around. His palms had begun to sweat, his pulse quickening with the music.

They’d been at it for hours, stopped for about forty-five minutes for lunch, and went at it some more. She never faltered. He’d worked with a lot of artists in his time, had seen a lot of commercial acts. Females who could sing well enough in their church choir or in a talent contest and looked hotter than a house full of strippers. But they weren’t serious. He’d known it then, but he’d worked his magic, got enough recorded to make their CD one of the hottest out there. All the while knowing, deep down inside, they weren’t real singers. They didn’t have real talent. Sure, they were commercial and they were still selling lots of records, selling out concerts and making him and Playascape a boatload of money.

But at the end of the day, at night when he lay down to sleep, he felt like a sellout.

He wasn’t producing music anymore, he was making money. But now, listening to Charlene Quinn, he felt that old surge inside, that old feeling when he listened to such greats as Aretha and Ella, Gladys and Dionne. He felt like Charlene could be the one.

“Let’s do it again and tape it this time. Get it right and you’re done for the night. We can remix after you’re gone.”

He knew his tone was clipped, cold, distant. But that’s what it had to be. The way he needed it to stay. Or he’d lose more than just the chance to work with this new talent—he’d lose himself.