Chapter 19 Houston
HOUSTON
I book a table at a quiet restaurant in a hotel on the Strip.
White tablecloths. Real candles. A piano that plays low to allow for intimate conversation.
Lou is in a black dress and kitten heels because she’s practical.
I like that about her. I like that she smiles when she sees me and then checks the exits without thinking. I do the same out of habit.
We sit near the window where the lights look like a screensaver.
The server knows how to pace a meal. Water shows up before we ask.
Bread is fresh and warm, the butter whipped.
We order fish and a salad and a side of fries because fries make a night easier, or so Salem says.
Cell phones are out of sight, but we talk about work first because it’s the least dangerous topic that still matters.
She tells me the marquee tests went well.
The blue reads at a distance; the ribbon icon needs a hair less weight.
She says she’s pushing the tour grid into a system that even a venue intern can’t break.
I tell her I changed the left hand in the bridge so the chorus lands cleaner.
We trade small notes like two people who like making things more than talking about them.
The food is good. She eats the lemon wedge off the fish.
I have never seen someone do that. “Good lemon?”
She giggles like she just realized she did it. “Habit.”
“How so?”
“Growing up, fresh fruit wasn’t much of a thing, so when you got some, even if it was just a lemon wedge, that got eaten first.”
Growing up in foster care, she means.
I don’t want to dig into it and drag the night down. But I will circle back to this with her one day.
The piano player clips the end of a standard.
I forgive him because his balance stays even.
A flash through glass pulls at the edge of my vision.
Paparazzi outside. Not a swarm, just two standing near the fountain with long lenses, getting reflections and angles through the window. I breathe, then breathe again.
Acting out makes it worse. I learned that lesson five years ago, and again, thanks to Salem and Troy’s mishap. I tip my chin at them so she knows I see it.
“Do we move?” she asks.
“No. We finish dinner. We walk out calm. Security can escort if they get loud.”
“Okay,” she says, and the word lands like a hand on my back. I like that too.
We don’t rush. I thank the server by name at the end, and we head out.
Outside the doors, the air is warm and the lights are bright.
Vegas ambiance. The two with cameras step closer but keep to the public side of the line on the pavement.
I face forward. Lou keeps her chin level.
The shutters sound like sprinklers on a lawn.
A third guy angles in from the right and sits on the line with one foot like he wants to test an invisible rule.
Most of the time, the paparazzi here aren’t too bad.
It’s not like Los Angeles. But sometimes, they’re ambitious.
He lifts his camera and lowers it and then decides to try words. “Hey, Lou,” he calls. “How does it feel to be the Turner Brothers’ whore?”
My hands go up before I think. I take one step. Security is already moving. I stop myself at the last half second, fingers curled, knuckles tight, the bones in my forearms ringing.
I could lay him out. I want to.
I don’t. I hear my mother’s voice telling me to save my hands for the instrument. I hear Lou breathe in.
“That’s enough,” I growl.
The guy grins like he won something by getting a rise out of me.
Security steps between us. The other cameras keep clicking because that’s what they do.
I open my hands and let the shake show until it leaves.
I take Lou’s elbow and ask the guard to walk us to the garage. We don’t run. We don’t speak.
The elevator is a quiet box. I watch the numbers. Lou looks at our reflections. I realize I haven’t said a word that counts.
“I’m sorry. I almost lost it.”
She snorts, soft. “After a year with Troy, that was nothing.” I make a face, and she smiles on purpose to let me off the hook, then gets serious again. “I appreciate that you stopped. I appreciate that you want to be better than that.”
“I don’t want to be a headline you have to live through.”
The valet brings the car. I drive. She rests her hand on the console, and the calm returns. We take the long way back because the long way gives us quiet. She hums without thinking. It’s the melody from “Locket.” She only realizes she’s doing it when I turn the radio down to hear more.
“What?”
“Keep going,” I tell her.
She hums the chorus and adds a second line under it, a tiny echo that never tries to be a lead. I take the next exit.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Sagebrush. Now that it’s ours, we can drop in.”
“Tonight?”
“Trust me.”
She looks at me for a long second and then nods. “Okay.”
We park in the back and use the new lock.
The guard at the door gives me a nod and goes back to his stool.
Inside, the air is cooler than it was the day of the break-in.
The cameras blink like small eyes. I check the feeds on my phone out of habit, and then I put the phone face down because the music requires both hands.
I boot the rig and switch on the small lamps. No overheads. This feels like work and also like a secret. I pull the ribbon mic to the vocal spot and set the pop filter a hand out. I know her range now.
“I don’t sing,” she says, standing at the edge of the tape like it’s a border crossing.
“I want you to whisper a harmony. Nothing fancy. Just air and pitch. I’ll keep it low in the mix. Nothing showy.”
She looks at the mic and then at me. “If I hate it, you delete it.”
“If you hate it, I’ll delete it.”
She steps in. I hand her headphones, one ear on, one ear off so she doesn’t feel trapped. I give her a little of my voice and a click so she has a floor. I tell her where the chorus lands and where I want the echo to touch and run away.
“Trust me.”
She catches my eye. “I do trust you, Houston.”
I roll, and she whispers the line and hits pitch on the first try like she was made for quiet.
I stop and try not to grin. I roll again.
She gives me a second pass with a tiny slide at the end that makes the chord lift.
I ask for one more take on a different note so I can layer them.
She does it. I stand very still so I don’t spook whatever is making this easy for her tonight.
“Was that okay?” she asks.
“Perfect.”
She laughs and covers her mouth with the back of her hand like she caught herself doing something reckless. I save the takes and back them up twice. I’m not losing anything tonight.
I pull the files into the session and build a small nest for them.
I pan her first pass left, second pass right, low in the mix.
I keep her breath visible and tuck the consonants.
I pull my chorus down to make room and double my line one octave under with the thinnest guitar I can live with.
I add a single tambourine hit on two to lift the second half without turning it into a trick.
I motion for her to join me. “Come listen.”
She stands behind my shoulder. I hit play. Her whisper is the missing hinge. She hears it and goes still. I don’t look at her because looking would make it about something else. I play it through and stop the cursor right past the fade.
“It’s a duet,” I explain. “It always was. I didn’t know until tonight.”
She swallows. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She goes quiet for a long time and then nods. “Okay.”
We bounce a mix and export two versions, one with vocals up for the room and one with vocals down for the car. I put them in the shared folder and send a text to Knox and Salem to meet us at the suite, in case they’re out too.
Back at the hotel we catch them in the living room. Knox has a notepad open. Salem is on the floor doing a stretch he pretends is about his back. We don’t talk. I press play instead.
Verse one. No one moves. Chorus one. Salem’s head tilts. The bridge. Knox uncrosses his arms, which is his version of standing up and cheering. Final chorus. I bring Lou’s whisper up one notch for the last four bars. The room gets very small and good.
When it ends, no one speaks first. Then Knox does. “That’s the single. No question. Quincy has to hear this.”
Salem points at Lou without looking away from the TV. “Of course it was missing something. It was missing her.”
Like we were.
I send the file to Quincy without a message, other than to listen asap. I don’t want to tell him what to hear. The read receipt pops a minute later, and then a text comes in: Holy hell. That’s a single.
Lou looks like she wants to hide and smile at once. We exhale. We look at each other. We have a song. We have a plan. And Quincy is excited.
Salem rests his chin on her shoulder. “You did this, angel.”
Her cheeks flush. “Don’t call me that when my clothes are on.”
“Easy fix.” He unzips the back of her dress. “Unless you’re not—”
“I am. I did the scariest thing I have ever done in my life tonight, and I need a mental break.”
I blink. “I’m sorry if I scared you with the paparazzo—”
“No, no, not you.” She smiles and clutches my forearm as she looks up at me. “I mean the singing.”
“Oh. That’s not scary. Singing is like breathing.”
“For you, maybe.”
Salem grumbles, “Everything is like breathing for Houston.” Then he opens the back of her dress, kissing her bare shoulder. “He’s good at everything.”
She takes a swift breath, eyes closed, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Show me.”
I take her pretty face in both hands and kiss those perfect lips. Can’t tell what Salem is doing to her right now, but she moans in my mouth, and that’s the start of my dessert. “Excuse us, gents.” I pick Lou up, her legs around my waist, and cart her to my room.