Chapter 2
I ’M WITH THE LABEL. I SHOULD BE ABLE TO PICK R ENé OUT OF a lineup. From the corner of my eye, I notice Floppy Hat Girl is watching me. Long legged and sprawled out on the velvet couch without a care in the world. Everyone else in the room is going about their business, letting me just stand here.
Seven years of being around musicians, a lot of whom were way more famous, and I’ve never felt like this before. Worried I’m going to throw up or hyperventilate.
I take a deep breath and focus on the René in the middle. He has a scruffy mustache attached to a thin, scruffy beard. I check the others for wigs or prosthetics, but all three guys seem to have similar bona fide facial hair. They’re not identical triplets, though. One is slightly shorter, one’s leaner, and the one in the middle has an amazing body and beautiful tan skin.
“This is awesome,” says the one on the right. He has an accent I can’t quite place, but it’s definitely not Puerto Rican, so I quickly rule him out.
I check out the one in the middle. He catches me checking out his reflection in the mirror and his dark, bedroom eyes perk up. A faint grin emerges on his lips. He seems sweet.
The one on the left steps away from the mirror, giving the stylist kneeling before him more room to work on his pants. His hand reaches out and pushes a strand of her hair away from her face. The move is slick and flirty. That’s gotta be him.
I step forward and reach out my hand. “Hi René, I’m Dani from—” His chin tilts up, revealing a confused look on his face. “Ocean Records,” I finish half-heartedly.
Floppy Hat laughs.
After a beat, I laugh nervously, too. “Oh, sorry, you got me. That’s a great trick.” I’m addressing the real René now. The one in the center, who’s turned around and side-eyeing me. “I guess that’ll be fun… to fool your fans.” I’m moving my arms around more than I’d like.
“Are you?” He sounds suspicious.
“Fooled? Yes!”
“No, a fan.”
My hands wave off the question. “Of course.”
He grins doubtfully, walks over to the girl on the couch, and plops down beside her. Floppy Hat hands him a pair of dark sunglasses. “ ?Para esto me apuraron? ” he grumbles to her as he puts them on.
This is why they were rushing me?
I could pretend I didn’t understand. That’s what I should do. But I need to fix this. Plus, if I don’t let him know I speak Spanish now, who knows what he’ll say next? Besides, he doesn’t have to be rude.
“Listen, I’m sorry,” I say boldly. “I… forgot my glasses,” I lie, defending myself. “I was in the hallway for so long and it was bright out there and so dark in here. My eyes were still adjusting.”
René spreads his arms wide across the top of the couch, clearly annoyed.
He leans over and lifts a dripping golden bottle out of an ice bucket near the couch.
“Champagne?” He’s offering but there’s something curt in his tone. I can’t believe how wrong I was about this guy. There’s nothing sweet about him.
“No, thank you.”
He dunks the bottle back in the bucket and it sloshes around in the melted ice for a moment before settling.
I collect myself. “So, are you—”
“So, are you…” he mimics, “nearsighted or far?”
At this, Floppy Hat sits up and squints her eyes at him.
“You know what, um, it’s kind of actually more like medium sighted. I can read just fine. And far away is also pretty good. It’s more like that, you know, five-to-seven-foot range that’s a problem,” I ramble, motioning at the distance between the mirror and me.
His eyes soften and his lips twitch as though fighting the urge to smile. At this, Floppy Hat folds a long leg over one of his. I could be wrong, but it feels like she’s claiming her territory. René leans forward and gently taps her, making her lift her leg back up and away from his.
She adjusts her whole body, crosses her legs the other way, and snaps her head in the direction of the stylists and the extra Renés. “All right, guys,” she yells, clapping a few times to get everyone’s attention. “Can everybody wrap up? We need to get going.”
Everyone shuffles out of the room, leaving me alone with René and his girlfriend ? Personal assistant? Person who can throw her leg on him and order the team around.
“So, you must be excited to start working on your new album?” I say enthusiastically, trying to smooth things over. “Anything you can share about it for our press release?”
“You speak Spanish?” he asks, ignoring my questions.
“Yes. I’m half Cuban, half Puerto Rican.” And half hoping this gets me a few points.
He raises his chin and drops his gaze to my blazer. “Half Puerto Rican,” he repeats. “The good half.” His voice has dropped to a sexier octave.
“Well, I don’t know about tha—”
“I’m just kidding. You should loosen up.”
My jaw tightens. I have an aversion to being told to “loosen up.” I’ve heard it a lot. Like a lot a lot. Every single time I’ve tried to pick up a sport or a musical instrument. How can I “loosen up” my wrist and hit a ball at the same time? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s not like I haven’t tried. The problem is, I don’t know how loose is loose. I have two extreme settings: stiff or completely undone. Like when they shut off the inflatable tube guy at the car dealership. Neither of which can serve a tennis ball.
“Do you dream in Spanish?” His voice is low and casual. I don’t know if it’s the unexpected and somewhat intimate question or the way he’s delivered it, but he’s cut through all my wires and I’m suddenly calmer.
“That, um, actually, I think I might.”
“Yeah?” His face brightens with interest.
“My college roommate told me I talked in my sleep in Spanish.” He nods approvingly. “She went out and bought a Spanish dictionary because she wanted to make sure I wasn’t saying anything about her.”
René smiles wide. It’s a sweet, friendly smile. The kind you’d never expect from someone this good looking.
“What about you?” I’m trying to play it cool, but it feels like someone’s started a fire inside my blazer.
“That depends.” He pulls his sunglasses down. “Will my answer be on the record?”
At this, Floppy Hat adjusts in her seat impatiently. She grabs loose strands of her sandy blonde hair and brings them out in front as though someone’s about to take her picture. René is perfectly still but there’s a lot of movement on her end of the couch. If I weren’t busy trying to get a handle on my own situation, I’d feel bad about hers.
“I would hope so. I do need a quote for the press release. Do you ever get ideas for songs in your dreams?” I’m impressed with my determination to get the job done.
René pushes his sunglasses back in place and leans over to Floppy Hat. “Can I have my phone?”
At least I hope I’m getting the job done. And that I’m only just imagining the abrupt change in his demeanor. That just because he’s scrolling through his phone doesn’t mean he’s gone back to ignoring me.
“You said you’re a fan, right?” After a few quiet moments of scrolling, he stops and hovers a finger over his phone screen menacingly. “So, I’m wondering, are you a fan of my old songs or the new stuff?”
He taps the screen and a reggaeton song takes over the speakers. It’s nothing I recognize. Just the same repetitive beats. “Yeah, mmmm.” I pretend I’m tasting something delicious. Something I’ve had before and I’m so happy to be eating again. But I can’t even tell which of the two men singing is René, let alone where this particular song lies in his repertoire. The only thing I know is that I’ve begun to sweat. Like a lot. “Amazing. I love… this era.”
“How about this one?” A woman’s voice comes on, then, after a few stanzas, what I presume is René’s. Of course, his cell phone would get a signal down here.
Actually, I have heard this song before, but had no idea it was his. I bob my head along to the beat, trying so hard to remember the words. I’m actually moving my mouth, attempting to keep up with the lyrics.
René’s barely moved a muscle. If we were having a moment a few seconds ago, it dissipated the moment I brought up the press release. His stupid, gorgeous face is actually enjoying watching me squirm.
“What’s the name of this song again?” René hollers over the music.
My stomach flinches. This can’t be happening. I can’t believe I’m being quizzed about René “El Rico” Rodriguez for the second time in one day. Please, music gods, don’t let me lose my job over a reggaeton song.
Someone knocks hard on the door, saving me.
A woman walks in holding a red leather jacket. René lowers the volume and hands Floppy Hat the phone and his sunglasses. He gets up and takes the turtleneck off, revealing a strong chest, most of which is covered in tattoos. He also has a sleeve of ink that travels up one arm and wraps around his neck.
He slips on the jacket without a shirt underneath and checks himself out in the mirror. He’s got this whole brooding bad boy thing going. Will definitely help with sales, I think. And he has nice lips. Some would even call them luscious. But his roller coaster of a personality takes away from the overall appeal.
I glance around the room, pretending to be interested in the shade of the paint on the walls. When I look at him again, he’s watching me. I do my best to maintain eye contact, while ignoring the warm churning happening in my stomach. Between the sweat and the heat, it’s now officially a sauna inside my blazer.
Floppy Hat snaps a picture of him with her phone, then he steps away and poses for another. He clearly enjoys the fashion angle of the job and he’s got swag. I’ll give him that. He takes the cell and turns the camera toward her. She takes her hat off and extends her legs off the couch, striking a pose.
“How about recording the album at Ocean Records’ studio in Miami?” I ask, trying to get a handle on things. “That will be nice. We’re really close to the ocean.”
“Nothing like the beaches back home,” he says, handing the phone back.
“Believe me, I know,” I say with intense passion, then tap my hand anxiously against my thigh because I’ve never been to Puerto Rico.
He takes the jacket off and hands it to the stylist. He stands there, hands on his hips, looking at me like he’s actively trying to solve a puzzle. “What do you miss about our beaches back home?”
Maureen was wrong. She said he wasn’t much of a talker, but he sure asks a lot of questions. And he’s incredibly comfortable being shirtless in front of strangers.
I smile nervously. “Oh, you know…” His dark eyes get smaller and I feel he can see right through me. He knows I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. Fried cod on Flamenco Beach. The memory of the song my father used to sing all the time distracts me. I pause and decide I don’t want to lie. Not about this. “Actually, I’ve never been,” I say at last.
René eyes me silently for a moment, then steps away. He’s helped into the turtleneck and takes a seat back on the couch.
I need to change the subject. Keep calm and carry on. I’ve always appreciated that expression. Well, that and any motto that implies forward movement. “So, can you share anything with your fans and any potential new fans about the album?” I’m desperate.
“Nothing at the moment.”
“How about influences?” I spit out.
“Sure.”
“Any you care to mention?”
He looks away, considering this, then looks back to me. “No.”
Carry on. Even when there’s a large boulder in your way. One that wants to be difficult on purpose.
“How about—”
“What do you think I should say? Since you know me so well .”
I fight the urge to shuffle in place. “Okay. I think it can be simple. You’re clearly excited to get into the studio. You could mention what an amazing opportunity it is to work with Ocean.” I’m making it up as I go. “How you’re hoping our diverse, international roster will open doors to some unique collaborations,” I suggest, remembering that the two songs he played had other vocalists in them.
René grunts. After a long pause, he shakes his head and exhales deeply. He seems upset. I don’t understand what’s happening. A dark cloud has floated in above him.
“We should get going,” Floppy Hat says gently, trying to help.
I want to cheer him up too. Bring him out of whatever hole he’s crept into, but I have no idea what’s upset him. “Listen, everyone at Ocean is amazing. You’re in good hands, I promise.” René doesn’t budge. “The music always comes first. In fact, we’re going to make an in-depth behind-the-scenes of your album.” I remember Mo had mentioned this in the car. I turn on my best peppy professional sales pitch. “The goal is to really capture every step of the process.” This was my idea at the last company off-site. We were brainstorming ways to support an album with more impact, and I suggested an intimate portrait. Being there when the ideas sparked, having original content for each release, not just the first single. I thought it would especially help fans connect with new artists. Get them invested and subversively bring the attention back to the music and away from the disconnected nature of social media and music videos. Looking at René now, especially his inability to answer a simple question, I could see why Maureen had suggested we do our first one with him.
René shakes his head slowly. “That’s not happening.”
“Really, it will be great.” Just keep on keeping on. “It’ll be fun. We want to make something beautiful. Something intimate.”
René lifts his head toward Floppy Hat and they look at each other for a moment. They seem to be speaking telepathically.
“This way we can really tell your story, as an artist. As a Puerto Rican artist,” I add, grasping.
“So”—he turns toward me—“you understand the importance of keeping things authentic.”
“Yes. Absolutely. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“I’m so glad we’re on the same page. And it is a great idea. A behind-the-scenes, something authentic and intimate in the only place that can really happen.”
“Uh-huh. Yep.” My steam is dwindling.
“So you agree. My album can’t be made in Miami,” he announces, eyes narrowing.
“Huh? I’m not, that’s not up to me—”
There’s a double knock on the door, and ángel steps inside. “We have to go,” he says, addressing the room.
Floppy Hat slips out of the room in a blur. René follows her, then stops by the door to look at me.
“Thanks,” he says. There’s a broad smile on his lips, but it’s rude. It’s a rude-ass smile. My whole body tenses, but I smile back as professionally as I can.
René’s manager is watching me from the hallway, holding a thumb up. “How’d it go? Got everything you need?”
“Oh yeah. And then some.” Feeling numb, I step outside and let the door slam shut behind me.