Chapter 4
Like a Radio, I’m Tuning into You
RIFF
ONE MONTH LATER
“Griffin,” Mindy the realtor tells me with a gentle hand on my shoulder, “I really think you’re going to like this area.”
I stare out at the mountainous California landscape from the balcony of my new Topanga Canyon home.
At least it’s green out here. There are trees everywhere, and good hiking trails.
This house is some vague contemporary style, tucked high above the canyon floor at the end of a private road lined with oaks.
Mindy’s been talking nonstop about the vaulted ceilings and wooden beams, the “impressive” stone fireplace, the “open concept” layout, the big windows and all the natural light they let in, plus all the decks that offer different views.
Not sure what she thinks I’m going to do with five bedrooms, but at least it has a good studio space.
All for a “modest” three million dollars.
And it’s still tiny compared to what other celebrities own.
This is already so much; I can’t fathom living anywhere bigger or more expensive than this.
The only thing about this lifestyle I’m particularly excited about is the Ford Bronco Raptor in the driveway.
Braden—my manager—pokes his head out the French doors that lead to my balcony and says, “What do you think?”
“It’s very nice.”
Movers are visible through the glass, setting up my things in the living room. Everything is all white walls and light-wood accents and gray floors made of (according to Mindy) luxury vinyl. Except the kitchen; that’s mainly black marble and copper.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather a place in Nashville?” Braden asks.
Honestly, I think he wants to live in Nashville, and he has to go where I go.
“Of course not.”
No way will I give up being within an hour of most of my family and less than fifteen minutes from the beach.
He comes over and stands next to me and leans on the railing. “It’s just as well I guess. As much as it would do you well to be closer to the country music scene, it’d probably be the quickest way to show everyone just how ‘country’ you’re not. You know—by comparison.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I can’t imagine trying to keep that up twenty-four seven.”
Sometimes it takes me hours to get the drawl out of my voice after a performance.
I don’t even try to fake it, it just comes naturally with the music.
You can’t sing about tractors and southern highways and Carolina girls (to the twangy melody of a steel guitar) without developing an accent.
Not that I asked to sing about tractors and southern highways and Carolina girls.
I’m not enthusiastic about fitted jeans and cowboy hats either, but sometimes that’s the way it goes when you’re not the one calling the shots.
The ones who are calling the shots are the ones that allow me to sing for people and get paid for it (and subsequently afford a three-million-dollar home, with privacy and security that I’m starting to need pretty badly as my fame grows) so, for now, I do what they say.
Braden follows me inside past the studio where the movers have already set up my mics and guitars. We end up in the rec room where my vinyl records are half-unpacked in stacks on the endless shelves. He flips through a few of them.
“Jim Croce?” he mutters. “Joni Mitchell? Crosby, Stills, and Nash? Where’s your Willie Nelson, Kenny Rogers, Patsy Cline?”
“You said yourself I’m not country,” I remind him, wondering how appalled he’d be to go through the more modern records in my collection, which contains less Keith Urban and Jason Aldean, and more Bon Iver, The Lumineers, and Mumford I let him know my goals, how I got started, the fact that country music is a means to an end.
He said that was all well and good but he has to do what the label says, so for the time being we keep all that swept under the rug, the “same old devil” of a situation as always.
I snatch a stray copy of The Avett Brothers’ I And Love And You album and slide it behind the cushions of one of the lounge chairs.
The lyrics “decide what to be and go be it” flick through my mind, and I hate to admit how poorly I’ve followed that advice. I know I should be more than content with my wealth and fame, but I can’t help feeling like it belongs to someone who’s … not me.
“Great sound system.” Braden squats to observe the Wharfdale speakers that sit on the floor. “Mind if I have a listen?”
I shake my head.
He fidgets with a few knobs on the stereo until the radio comes on.
The pop version of Daisy Malloy’s “Boy Toy” fills the room now, with all the twangs toned down and an added electronic beat. As far as I’m aware, Daisy doesn’t have any aspirations to cross genres, but her expanding fanbase sure seems to want her to.
“Not exactly the way I wanted to christen the new place,” I say as Daisy sings the phrase “I’ll tug your string, I’ll get you goin’, you know I’ll play with you, but wait—there’s more, in my nightstand drawer …”
Before she can use a double entendre to describe her vibrator, Braden changes the station a couple of times until he lands on another clear one.
A song I don’t recognize is playing on this frequency. The voice singing it, however, is one that’s been haunting me for a month now.
“Oh, nice,” Braden says over the middle of a verse. “I heard she was supposed to be releasing something soon.”
It has a reggaeton rhythm but a little faster, almost like ska.
Harmony sings:
What do you get when you put one and one together
And the feeling between us is like denim on leather?
It’s a force to be reckoned, I couldn’t resist,
But now I’ve had a second to think since we kissed
Everything about you is nothing but fiction,
Your face is a facade, your words a contradiction,
Rub me that way and you’ll only get friction
And at first it feels good …
Then it sets fire to the wood
My manager is already bopping his head, his upper lip curled in appreciation of the scathing lyrics.
The memory of that night at the Pinkfeather Resort comes back to me all at once.
Standing alone in the garden, ensconced in the shadows between light posts.
Harmony Sonora stepping out in green velvet and black leather, all flushed and flustered.
She was so different from the woman I’d seen on TV answering late-show questions or singing into a microphone over screaming fans. For an instant, she didn’t seem like she had it all together.
For whatever drama seems to follow her in the press, I’ve always appreciated her melodies and her wordplay.
The phrase “If only I could find a way to stay afloat, in alternating currents of the words I wrote” has lived rent free in my brain for years now. So when I finally had the chance to bask in her presence, the moment was completely surreal.
And then she was so down to earth—vulnerable, even. A few minutes into a conversation with her and it didn’t feel like either of us were celebrities; we were just two humans looking for a breath of fresh air.
Before I knew it, we were practically sharing a breath, her mouth soft and sweet on mine. I can still taste her, if I close my eyes and try.
The day after the release party, I called her but her manager said she didn’t want to talk. That’s what happened every time, so after a few more tries, I quit.
Now I analyze the words of this new song during its instrumental interlude, my heart pounding like a kick drum.
She’s not talking about me, I tell myself.
Harmony Sonora writes about her exes. I’m not an ex.
We made out once. And sure, there was some groping too.
And she came, fully clothed, against me.
And I have to actively force myself not to think about it when I wake up in the dead of night.
Hell, even right now it’s doing something to me I can’t explore while Braden and so many other people are at my house.
But I wouldn’t say any of that was enough to even be considered a fling. Was it?
On the other hand, the friction metaphor is pretty damning—and so is the specific “denim on leather.” Not to mention the part where she mentions fiction and facade.
However, when she sings the bridge and includes the line “Like a riff in a song that’s been playing too long,” there’s no room left for doubt.
She said my fucking name.
That gets Braden to raise an eyebrow. “Wait a minute …”
I push past him to turn off the radio but he blocks me, focusing his attention on the song until it finishes.
The rest of it is basically the same.
Then the radio DJ chimes in with, “That’s the latest by Harmony Sonora, brutal as always. The only question is, who’s the lucky guy this time?”
His female co-host replies, “Oh, I think we know. Don’t you remember? It was a big thing last month. Everyone was talking about it. Details are fuzzy but one thing was very clear: Something happened between her and Riff Hurley.”
“Riiiiiight, I do remember something about that! At some celebrity party. ‘Friction’ is about him?”
“I think that’s pretty obvious.”
The host tsks. “Formidable Harmony strikes again. Well, Riff Hurley, you’d better watch out. This is just the beginning!”
I cringe at the thought of a complete stranger giving me advice through a one-way radio conversation he doesn’t know I’m listening to.
Braden finally clicks off the dial, silencing the voices. “You told me those were just rumors. Would you care to explain why Harmony Sonora is writing hate music to you over ‘just rumors’?”
Ignoring the question, I ask, “What did he mean, ‘This is just the beginning’?”
“He means that a Harmony Sonora song isn’t the only bitchslap you’re going to get. If you think Harmony’s pissed, just wait till her fans come after you. I’m going to need you to tell me exactly what happened so we can get with your publicity team and do some damage control.”