Chapter 50 Wyatt
WYATT
AT THE END OF SEPTEMBER, I tag along to Manhattan with my mother.
She’s working at the studio for a few days, and I’m meeting with Tobey, who’d been delayed these past few weeks.
He loved the songs I sent him, though, so it’s official: I’m cutting an album with Tobey fuckin’ Dodson.
Our meeting to talk logistics isn’t for another two days, so I hang around the studio while my mom dons her producer hat.
She’s working with a kid named Frankie Stephens, a baby-faced soul singer from Philly whose label asked my mom to write and produce a track for him.
The control booth is dim save for the glow of the LED meters. Mom leans forward in her chair, one hand on the mixing console, the other cupping a pair of headphones.
“All right, let’s roll it back five seconds.” When her sound guy twists a dial, she says, “No, right before he hits that note.”
I love seeing her in work mode. It’s so cool.
Beyond the glass, Frankie waits patiently, looking happy just to be there. And of course he is. He’s on the brink of his big break. His whole musical life ahead of him. I feel like I’m on that same precipice.
Mom shakes her head. “Shit.” She plays the track back, letting it run for a few seconds. “Yeah. I think we picked up some room slap from the monitor bleed. We’ll need to run it again, clean.”
Wilmer, the sound guy, nods. “You got it, Hannah.”
She taps a button to speak to her singer. “Frankie, we need to do a retake. Same energy, right from the top. We’ll fix the rest in the mix, but I need this one clean.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Frankie says over the talkback mic.
Mom glances at me. “You must be getting sick of listening to the same four lines over and over again. There’s an empty room next door with a piano if you want to get some work done.”
“Yeah, I might do that. I’m gonna grab some coffee first. Do you want anything? Wilmer?”
“I would love a latte,” Mom says, and Wilmer requests a coffee, black.
There’s a coffee stand out front that everyone at the studio declares is a million times better than Starbucks, so I go outside and make a beeline for it. While I’m waiting for my order, Cole calls, so I step away from the crowded line to answer.
“You still tagging along to my mom’s house before my New York show in November?” he asks. “’Cause she’s asking what you’d like for dinner.”
Cole’s tour launches in six weeks at Madison Square Garden, which means I’ll be in the front row cheering my buddy on. He’s visiting his mother the night before the show, and apparently, he talks about me so much to her that she’s requested my presence too.
I grin. “I need to place my dinner order more than a month in advance?”
“That’s how Ma rolls. I’ll just tell her you’re good with any red meat, yeah?”
“Perfect.” I glance at the coffee stand, but my order’s still not ready. “You nervous at all for this tour?”
“Nah. More like excited. I’m about to have all flavor of female throwing herself at me. American girls. European girls. Australian girls. Those Aussies are hardcore, G. They surf and wrestle crocodiles.”
“I’m pretty sure most of them don’t, but cool. When is the Australian stop?”
“Not till winter. Their summer, I guess. I’ve got six weeks here in the States before I’m scampering across the pond,” he says in a bad British accent. “London first. Ireland. Then Europe and then Australia. That leg’s brutal.”
“You ready?”
Cole chuckles. “Always. You know me. If I stop moving, I lose my mind.”
I nod. I get that. Movement keeps the ghosts at bay.
The barista calls out my order, so I say a quick goodbye and go grab it.
I’m shoving the cups into a cardboard tray when a commotion breaks out at the curb.
A cluster of people gather around, and I realize they’re paparazzi, all eagerly focused on the road.
A black town car with completely tinted windows pulls up, followed by a second one, and then a third.
Two burly men emerge from each vehicle. The way they carry themselves screams bodyguard. Mom didn’t mention anyone famous showing up today, but there’s no way this isn’t a celebrity arrival. It’s presidential-level treatment.
I hang back, watching as one of the big men opens the back door of the second town car. I catch a glimpse of a hooded figure. Gray hoodie with long, chestnut-brown curls spilling out of it. Big hoop earrings that look familiar for some reason.
Although it’s not raining, the bodyguard opens an umbrella, and the figure ducks underneath it before scurrying toward the front entrance of the building, flanked by two other guards. The paparazzi start screaming.
“Mollie May!”
“Mollie May!”
“Over here!”
Holy shit, that was Mollie May?
I know she recorded here for the duet Mom wrote, but I heard she usually works out of her private studio in LA. I wonder why she’s here today.
I go inside, enduring another security check, then deliver Mom’s and Wilmer’s coffees before taking her up on that empty piano room offer.
You never put a drink on a musical instrument, so I set my coffee on the ledge behind me and position my fingers over the keys.
I play the song that Tobey Dodson went feral over—which, ironically, is not “Lightkeeper.” His favorite track is “Stop the World,” but he’s recommending we strip it bare.
Piano only, maybe some strings. I like the idea of going simple so it doesn’t feel so produced, but sometimes I worry my voice isn’t strong enough to carry a track without a band behind me.
I run through the song, fingers dancing over the piano keys, voice reverberating clearly in the room’s perfect acoustics. I’m just reaching the bridge when I catch a flicker of movement up in the control room. Through the glass, I see her.
A moment later, a throaty voice sounds over the speaker.
“Who the fuck are you, and why are you this good?”
I grin despite myself. And though I’m not even a fan, I find myself a little starstruck as I slide off the piano bench. My legs are actually wobbly.
The pop princess opens the door of the control booth and saunters into the room, strutting toward me while her bangle bracelets clank around her wrists.
Nobody can deny that this woman is a stunner, with her brown curls and big liquid-brown eyes, the sexy mole over her top lip.
A pocket rocket, AJ once called her, because Mollie May is tiny.
Can’t be taller than five feet, but her presence is larger-than-life.
She’s wearing a short skirt and a crop top that shows off both her impressive rack and impressive abs. I glance at the outfit and ask, “What happened to the hoodie and umbrella?”
“Huh?”
“I saw you come into the building,” I explain. “Drowning in a gray hoodie.”
“Oh, that wasn’t me.” Mollie May waves a hand, laughing. “It’s my decoy. Antonio and I came in through the back, like, thirty minutes before that. Tony is my bodyguard.” She nods toward the booth, where an enormous hawk-eyed man stands guard.
I lift a brow. “He’s not worried I’ll try anything with us alone in here?”
“Nah, anyone who sings that pretty isn’t gonna hurt me.” Her magnetic eyes sweep over me. Up and down. “Why don’t I know you? I should know you.”
“I mean… I’m nobody.” I shrug.
“Highly doubt that.” Despite the flirtatious note in her voice, her gaze is shrewd, gleaming with intelligence.
I’m caught off guard by her entire demeanor.
Onstage, at her sold-out stadium shows, she comes off as, well, flighty.
Dumb even. Might be a shitty judgment to make, but that’s the vibe I got.
And she’s always hyper to the max, with the fringe and the bright eyeshadow, the high-heeled boots and wild dance moves.
But right now, her energy is mellow. Low-key.
“I’m Wyatt,” I say. “Wyatt Graham.”
She brightens. “Graham? Related to Hannah?”
“She’s my mom.”
“Holy shit. You realize your mom is iconic, right?”
Coming from another icon, that makes me smile. “Yeah, she’s pretty great.”
“She wrote a duet for me and Stylo. One of my favorite tracks to sing live. When he comes in, the crowd goes nuts.” Mollie May gestures toward the piano. “Did she write that? The song you were just playing?”
“Nope. That was a Wyatt Graham original.”
She looks impressed. “Do you write all your own shit?”
“Yeah. I’m not a great collaborator.” I sigh ruefully. “But I’m trying to be.”
That makes her grin. “I used to be the same way. Insisted on writing everything on my own. My first album was all me. Every track. And then the second one, I literally cried because I had to give a credit to this producer who made a change to one line, and apparently that earns them credit. Third album, I gave credit to fuckin’ everyone—because you know what I realized? ”
“What?” I’m genuinely fascinated by this conversation.
“That it’s arrogant to think other people don’t have anything to offer me.”
“I’m sort of reaching that conclusion myself,” I confess. “I just spent a month in Boston letting my mother point out all the things that were wrong with my song.”
“But it made it better, though, didn’t it?” She tilts her head knowingly.
“Yes,” I grumble. “But don’t tell her I said that.”
That gets me another delighted laugh. “So. Who is she?”
“Who’s who?”
“The girl whose smile stops the world. Who’s the song about?”
Pain clenches around my heart. “Oh, just someone I…”
I can’t finish. I don’t know how to.
Someone I used to love? Well, no, because I still love her with every fiber of my being.
Someone who used to love me?
Someone I created a life with?
Someone who doesn’t see a future with me?
“Someone I used to know,” I finally say.
“Past tense. I like the past tense.” She leans forward and touches my arm. Her nails are painted a glossy black. “How long are you in town for?”
“A few days. I’m meeting with my new producer.”
“Who?” she demands.
I shrug sheepishly. “Tobey Dodson.”
“Well, fuck me. Tobey took you on? You cutting an album?” When I nod, intrigue dances in her eyes. “When’s it going to be ready?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many tracks?”
“I don’t know.”
She grins again, then startles me by saying, “Let’s grab dinner while I’m in town.” She nods decisively, as if it’s a done deal.
“Oh.” I blink. “Okay. Sure.”
“My agent will get your number.”
“Mollie May,” someone interrupts. Her bodyguard is at the talkback mic. “We gotta go, girl. Sanchez is ready for you.”
“No, I’m ready for Sanchez,” she calls toward the booth. She turns to wink at me. “Don’t ever let people think they control your time. They’re always waiting for you.”
“Noted.”
As she flounces toward the control room door, I check out her ass in that tiny denim skirt. Damn, she’s cute. And not at all what I expected.
After Mollie May and her bodyguard disappear, I suddenly notice my mother is up there too. I walk into the booth, wondering how much of that she heard.
“You realize the biggest pop star in the world asked you to dinner?” Mom says.
Guess she heard everything.
I shrug. “I think she just wants to talk about my album.”
“Oh, honey, she doesn’t want to talk about the album. That was flirting.”
I give another shrug.
Mom searches my expression. “Have you spoken to Blake?”
“You don’t need to ask me that every day. The answer never changes. It’s a no. She’s not speaking to me.”
Her gaze softens. “She’s just going through something.”
“She thinks I never loved her.”
“Give her time,” Mom advises. “She needs to work through it, come to terms with what happened. She lost a baby.”
“I lost one too,” I say stiffly. “But everyone keeps forgetting that part, now don’t they?”
She looks startled. “Wyatt—”
“Forget it. It’s fine.” I stalk back into the studio and return to the piano, ignoring my mother’s concerned eyes through the glass.