2. Chapter 2
Lennon
The nice thing about freelancing as an audio engineer is that I can mostly make my own hours and take whatever projects interest me.
Usually, if it pays, it interests me enough to take it on.
And I know what I’m doing, so most of my leads are from word of mouth.
I’ve built an enormous client list in the twenty-or-so years I’ve been working, and I’ve had the opportunity to work with some amazing people on really cool projects.
Podcasts, independent films, audiobooks, recordings of live and studio performances—you name it.
The not-so-nice thing about freelancing as an audio engineer is that I live in LA, which is amazing but fucking expensive .
And while I could probably afford to live on my own—and should, at forty years old—it’s a lot nicer to have the cushion that a roommate provides.
The only problem is that most guys my age have settled down.
And my roommates keep settling down themselves.
So when my current roommate, Bobby, comes home from a weekend in Napa as I’m grilling a couple of burgers on our balcony and tells me he proposed to his girlfriend and will be moving out at the end of next month, I have to swallow a groan about what the hell I’m going to do to cover his half of the rent in order to give him a proper congratulations.
“I know it’s not the best timing,” Bobby says as he cracks open a beer and sits in one of the wicker seats. “I’ll help you find another roommate if you want.”
“No, man. It’s totally fine. I’m sure there’s someone out there who’s looking for somewhere to live.” I flip a burger and press down on it with the spatula. It sizzles satisfyingly. I smirk. “I found you, didn’t I?”
I don’t mention that he’s my fifth roommate since I moved in here ten years ago. I had my misgivings about him since he was only twenty-five when he moved in and the last twenty-something regularly had loud parties well into the morning. I’m not one to turn down a party, but even I have my limits.
Bobby takes a swig of his beer and nods as if that settles it. I suppose it does, for him. What can I do? Demand he stays here until the end of his lease? I suppose I could, but I’m not interested in listening to him fuck his girlfriend—sorry, fiancée—through the walls after their wedding night.
I shrug it off. I’ll figure it out somehow. I always do.
***
“What do you mean she needs to get her tonsils out?” I shut my bedroom door behind me and pinch the bridge of my nose. This day has gone from bad to worse. “Isn’t that something you do when you’re a kid?”
“Apparently not,” my friend, Noah Baker, says from the other end of the phone call that interrupted beers on the balcony with my soon-to-be-former roommate.
Noah is an audiobook producer at Luminaudio Productions, where he works with narrators and independently published authors to bring their books to life.
It’s how we met when I was fresh out of college and he was starting up the company.
I worked on a few projects with him when I first graduated, and we just kind of hit it off.
He used to regularly hit up the bars with me, back in his single days.
Now he’s married with a couple of kids, and he’s taken his nights out down to a few of drinks once a month.
Still, I consider him my closest friend in LA.
I actually pitched him this current project, and I think he took it on as a favor to me.
It has been nothing but a headache since we started.
I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he never wanted to work with me again.
The author, Jessica Jordans, is an acquaintance of mine, so I vouched for her with Noah.
Luminaudio accepted the book before it was even published, and when it debuted, it skyrocketed to the top of the charts.
Now the company wants the project done as soon as possible, but Jessica has been dragging her feet for a month.
She’s been very particular about the narrators, but since the book is such a hit, the directive from everyone has been to keep her happy at all costs.
We finally had narrators picked last week and were scheduled to start recording in a week or two, but apparently not anymore because one of them needs some useless appendage removed.
“How long is the recovery time on that?” I ask, knowing full well if it were only a week, Noah wouldn’t have even bothered calling me.
“Could be two weeks, could be six. But she wants to remove herself from this project all together, just in case. She doesn’t want to ruin her voice.” I can hear his exasperation over the phone. “I think this thing is cursed.”
“No kidding.” I sigh. “Okay, so what are our options?” This project can be delayed, but it cannot die, especially now that I need the money to cover my potentially solo rent for a few months.
Noah makes a noise low in his throat, and I know what’s coming next isn’t going to be good.
“I don’t know if we have any,” he says tightly.
“We already ran through our entire roster of available narrators in the first round of auditions. There’s no one left, and anyone who would be available has probably heard about this project by now.
They won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. ”
“Can we hire off your roster?”
He grumbles again, and I can hear a scraping sound as he runs a hand through his beard. It’s his signature move. I’m actually surprised he has any chin hair left with how much he tugs on it.
“The investors aren’t going to like it,” he starts slowly. “But they won’t want to lose this thing. It’s projected to do really well, especially with Silas already signed on for the male narrator. I can make a few calls.”
“I appreciate it. I don’t want to lose this one either, if we can help it.”
He’s silent for a moment. “You don’t happen to know anyone who could do this in a pinch, do you?”
I laugh humorlessly. “Casting’s not my specialty.”
“Oh, come on.” He forces a lighter tone. “In all your hookups, you haven’t met some wannabe starlet who’s dying to get her foot in the door?”
“Narrating an audiobook is hardly a foot in the door,” I counter.
“A gig is a gig,” Noah replies.
He’s not wrong. LA is filled with people who moved here to try their hand at acting, only to find out it’s much harder to rocket yourself to stardom than it seems on TV.
There are probably thousands of people who would kill for this opportunity, but the thought of going back to the drawing board and auditioning again—unknowns this time—has my stomach clenching.
Noah must be reading my mind, because he says, “And I think it’d help appease Jessica if it were someone you recommended.
You were the one who ultimately got her to pick people to begin with.
” He pauses before practically singing the next bit, as if he could keep the words from coming out. “You have a way with her.”
“Oh my god,” I groan. “Stop.”
“She likes you.”
“Who doesn’t?” I deflect.
Noah huffs. “Does it get heavy carrying that giant ego around with you everywhere?”
“It’s why I have to work out, man. Gotta stay in shape to lug it with me.”
The truth is that Jessica probably does want to sleep with me, but I would never. She’s far too young, and frankly, she’s almost definitely more interested in what I can do for her than what I can do to her, which is not a dynamic I like in the bedroom.
“Okay, well, we have a meeting tomorrow. I’ll see what everyone says and let you know. This might delay us a month or more, and I probably can’t keep Silas from taking another job in the meantime.”
Silas Matthews is the male narrator Jessica finally settled on.
She actually cast him first, which is no surprise.
He’s incredibly sought after. It probably also helps that he’s good looking and charming.
Losing him would mean the whole project would likely fall apart.
I don’t particularly like the guy, but I have to admit, he does good work.
“He can’t record his part now?”
“I can’t ask him to commit the time to a project we don’t know is happening. You know that,” Noah chastises.
He’s right. I do know that. A guy can dream, though.
“Fine. I’ll go through my little black book and see if anyone comes to mind,” I say as I pace to the other side of my bedroom.
Noah snorts. “You’re getting old. No one has a little black book anymore.”
“It was a metaphor, asshole.”
“Whatever you say. Talk tomorrow.” He hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone screen.
I flop onto my bed in defeat. Seven-thirty on a Sunday evening, and the week ahead is already shaping up to be a disaster.
I could find someone to go out with me and drown my worries in drinks and loud music, but the only person I want to talk to is two thousand miles away and likely already asleep.
Ever since we were kids, Lark has had a way of making shitty situations feel less awful.
When I was sixteen, we had to put my dog down.
Daisy was a golden retriever my nomadic parents had bought for me as a puppy in a rare fit of guilt about moving me around the country whenever the wind blew a certain way or a job opportunity came up.
That dog had been with me through three moves, my early adolescence, my first breakup, and a hell of a lot more.