63. Angel #2
“That’s all she gets?”
Callista leans over on the stool.
“Run. It. Back,” she claps out,
her eyes are on fire.
“That chorus is mine.
“That second verse is mine.
“That bridge is mine. I want the whole fucking room screaming I hate you.”
Ace rocks back in his chair, clapping.
My chest starts burning,
my eyes start burning,
my lungs start burning.
The A&R team collect themselves.
They’re impatient,
the energy buzzing between them,
ready to tear it apart,
take out the panties line,
turn it into numbers and marketability.
I snap twice for Ashley’s attention.
“Before we get to critiques,
“let’s run it back, hear my vision, deal?”
She tosses a thumbs-up.
“Then you can pick it apart all you want.”
Ashley laughs, shaking her head.
I still haven’t looked at Andrew.
I can’t. If I look at him now,
I’ll never make it through the playback.
Ace cracks his fingers, then wiggles them over his beloved board. “Hi, baby. DJ Daddy’s here.” He swings a look at Andrew next to him. “This is when the real magic happens.”
“Alright, let’s play it back,” I tell Ace.
Ace hits a few buttons, turns a dial,
and my voice floods the space,
stripped down, untouched.
I can’t sit. My heart’s racing as the song moves, waiting for me to shape it.
I point at Ace. “Just piano. Don’t touch anything. Just breath, that chest ache, and middle fingers. Really want that panties line to shock—a dirty little secret in a ballad…” Then I’m snapping fast as it comes to me.
“Trust me.
“On this pre-chorus, pipe organs.”
Ace flinches. “Pipe organs?”
“Pipe organs,” I clap out the pre-chorus beat. “Pulsing. Short, stabbing chords.”
He mutters but slides them in.
And then his head tips up,
surprised, eyes aflame.
“Okayyy, that’s nasty, Allie.”
I keep going,
“Electric guitar pulsing under it, kay?”
I show him with my hands—
organ hit,
guitar pulse,
organ hit,
guitar pulse.
“‘Toxic spark’ lyric? Let the guitar bite.
“Floor tom hits on the downbeat.
“Go back and show me.”
When he does,
Callista’s not sitting anymore,
she’s circling Jenkins,
shaking his shoulders,
the excitement,
the energy flaring up her legs.
I adjust my headset.
“Now,” I say, watching the track unfold, carving it out of air. “When the chorus hits, open it wide, not up. Full guitar. Layer the organs with a choir echo—soft at first. Don’t make it swell yet. Then pull back on verse two, layer percussion,
“then when the second chorus hits,
“drop the kick drum—full band.”
Ace rocks with it,
head moving with the bassline.
“Damn, okay.
“I see where you’re going.”
The song breathes. Becomes.
I sing with myself,
every piece falling into place.
Ace is fully in now,
hands flying over the board,
mad-scientist grinning.
Callista’s hands crash over her mouth.
“YOU ASSHOLE,” she screams through the glass. “You got my heart pounding!”
Ace throws a hand out,
then the track surges forward—
second verse, no turning back.
I turn to Callista,
and sing-scream it with her,
“‘You’re right, I’m fucking crazy.’
“‘I’ll scream it with a straitface.’”
And by the time we reach the second chorus—“‘all our lies fall apart—You, say—’
“Electric guitar spiral!”
Then—BOOM! “‘Say my name’—”
The kick drum opens when the second chorus does, and the whole fucking room erupts, driving straight through my ribs.
The moment breaks open, all alive now.
I jump, the smile washing over me as I belt the lyrics, letting it consume me, then turn to the control room.
“C’MON ACE. These psychos are lit-er-a-lly OBSESSED. WITH RAP SHEETS DIRTY AS FUCK,” I clap out, buzzed.
“Amplify the cinematic feel.
“Swell the full choir.
“Layer in the subtle synth pads,
“give it texture.
“Take them to church, baby,
“'cause this is a fucking BAPTISM!”
Ace throws his head back with a laugh,
slapping Andrew’s arm,
his whole body jolting with excitement.
He cranks the dial up, the kick drum stomping like a second heartbeat.
He moves with it, head bobbing, feeling it, the rhythm rushing through his bloodstream.
“Peel it back at the bridge,” I shout. “Strip it down, she needs a confessional.”
He’s nodding, already on it.
“Then fucking slam it in the last chorus.”
When the bridge comes,
the words drop brittle and barbed,
like tender little pointy things.
Then the last chorus hits—
the kick drums,
the choir,
the orchestral swell,
it all SLAMS in—
a sonic boom to my heart.
And I’m smiling,
and singing,
and spinning.
Until the spinning stops,
and the dizziness fades,
and I finally look at Andrew.
He’s staring at me in breathless shock.
A faint smile hangs off his lips.
It all ruins me.
Just undoes me.
He’s a man split open,
chest rising and falling heavy,
head shaking,
and I burn this image into my mind, dying to live with it all the way to my grave.
But in the next second, a brutal realization crashes in as I look around the room.
Ashley gives me the nod of approval.
Callista’s wiping a tear with her thumb,
losing herself as it loops again,
already knowing the lyrics.
Second by second,
the song is slipping from my fingers,
folding itself into her.
She’s singing it, like it’s hers.
Because it is.
It’s not mine anymore.
Everyone behind the glass goes blurry,
Raymond’s collar tightening around my throat, the credits grabbing my chest, not wanting to let go.
‘Cause the song is everything I wanted it to be, and the crush of losing it is rushing in fast.
The second it all comes together,
the fucking moment it’s complete,
I have to say goodbye.
A cold sweat breaks along my spine, the familiar, sickening twist of my stomach.
“Uh-uh-uh…” Ace points at me. “It’s comin’. Run, girl. Before it’s too late.”
I turn my back to the glass,
try to breathe.
Ace’s teasing laughter muffles.
My hand shakes as I take off my headphones, a seizure of pure electricity pooling between my legs.
‘Cause it’s been days.
I haven’t needed release like this.
But right now, I fucking need it.
I cross the tracking room fast,
headphones still swinging behind me.
“Aaaand there she goes.
“Gotta hide the face.”
I grab the sound-lock door before the first tear cuts.
Andrew’s stepping inside,
coming in from the control room,
closing the world behind him.
Then it’s only us
in this tiny windowless room.
And he steps in front of me,
arms around me,
mouth near my ear. “Sonny, hey…”
But my breath can’t leave right.
“I gotta get outta here—”
He walks me back a step.
“Hey, look at me,” he says, lifting his arm, his hand finding the wall behind me.
But I can’t. I can’t.
An erratic heat crawls into my pelvis.
It’s an ugly, violent itch.
“Don’t do this right now. Please—”
“Nah. I ain’t movin’.
“We’re not doin’ that.”
I’m hyperventilating,
the air like glass in my lungs.
My thighs squeeze together tight,
my muscles rigid and tying into knots.
His hips lean into mine,
our chests brushing.
He dips down,
mouth close to my ear. “Shhh…”
My hand curls into a fist at my side.
“I need—”
“to breathe,” he finishes,
lifting his other arm,
pressing both forearms against the wall,
one on each side, caging me in.
As if he’s holding me up in this tiny room, built a wall with his body so I can fall apart behind it.
“You don’t get it,” I mutter.
“You don’t fuckin’ get it.”
He catches my eyes, makes me look at him. “You’re not finger-fuckin’ your way outta this one.”
My brain goes into a panic,
screaming curses at him.
My arm lifts to shove him off,
but he grabs my hand,
locks my wrists down.
“You can be mad. I don’t give a fuck. ‘Cause I know that right now—right now? You don’t need to come. You need to cry.”
“Andrew,” I beg, trying to suck in an inhale. “I’m not—cryin’ here—now. I can’t. I’m not—I need—”
His eyes dart across my face.
“You wanna feel good?
“Mouth on mine.”
A half-breath cuts out of me. “—What?”
He dips down and takes my mouth,
his lips parting heavy over mine,
and he stays hovered there,
catching my ragged gasps,
giving me his own slow, deep pulls.
“Breathe,” he spills down my throat,
kissing me in slow,
agonizingly small pieces.
I whimper, until a long breath scatters across my lips.
His mouth slides to the corner of my mouth, his nose brushing my cheek. “You created somethin’ so fuckin’ badass. Don’t run from that,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Need to let it hurt for a second, that’s all.”
His temple rests against mine,
and he tilts his head to find my eyes.
“Deserves that, right?”
Fuck he’s right. He’s right.
I nod, take in a massive deep breath,
my ribcage expanding against his.
It still shakes as it leaves.
His fingers graze the top of my head,
stroking my scalp,
his lip catching the shell of my ear.
“Right here—what’d we say, huh?
“No half volume, no half feelin’.”
My lips break into a smile.
His follows, hitting my cheek.
“She remembers,” he rasps into my skin.
Slowly, the rough wave settles.
The hot tension in my thighs melts away. I sink into him, my body shedding its armor.
“That song is ridiculous, Sonny.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, his hips nudging mine back into the wall. “Every fucked-up line better be about me.”
I shrug, trailing my hand down his side.
His chin dips back an inch.
“That’s it?
“You’re not gonna reassure me?
“There’s the panties line,” he adds.
“So I’m assumin’ I’m involved.”
I push off the wall,
reach for the control-room door.
Andrew backs up,
hands lifting at his sides.
“Oh, that’s cold.”
I pass him.
He catches the door before it swings open. “Just say it’s about me.”
I look over my shoulder.
“It’s about you.”
His face falls into a wounded squint. “Yeah, no. How’m I s’posed to believe you now?”
// DEC 30, 12:03 AM - ROCKEFELLER TREE - MIDTOWN, NYC //
Andrew gets called into work, and I say it’s fine. ‘Cause obviously I’m a big fan of lying—wrote an entire song about it.
I stand in my penthouse for eight minutes and decide, for the millionth time, alone’s not really my gig.
So I leave.
Midtown takes me in with both dirty hands. Sirens dragging their red tongues down the avenue. Drunk laughter dripping off red lipstick in front of hotels.