Chapter 15 Well I Don’t Mind If You Don’t Mind
Well I Don't Mind If You Don't Mind
HARMONY
Riff steps out of the limo and re-buttons a gold-sequined tux jacket with black lapels. I glance down at my likewise gold-sequined Oscar de la Renta dress—long-sleeved, deep neckline, short skirt—then back up at him.
Is this some kind of joke? Even for a Vegas-themed party, matching sequins is a little tacky.
The DJ and producer professionally known as daXx (do not forget to capitalize the first X) has invited us, along with a great number of other celebrities, to his fortieth birthday at his Hollywood Hills mansion.
“Too much?” Riff asks, although he’s not bothered in the slightest by the possibility that it might be.
“Are you saying this was your idea?”
“I may have suggested it.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “My stylist showed me a range of options. This one”—he runs his fingers down one panel of his jacket, making the sequins shimmer—“reminded me of your time on Lucky Stars.”
My own stylist must have quietly coordinated with his.
I frown. “The bomber jacket?” I might have forgotten about it entirely except that the Lucky Stars producers had me do a photo shoot wearing it right after I left (for the Populus article that comes out each week featuring eliminated contestants).
My mom still keeps the magazine clipping in her office at the school where she teaches choir.
Sonora was hailed by the judges as a pop star in the making.
Her unique performances were a trademark dating back to her audition when she sang an original song called “Let's Coast” and accompanied herself on the ukulele.
She used her new platform to highlight immigration issues after her television appearances gained her tens of thousands of additional followers on social media.
On elimination night, she bid audiences farewell with another original song “Brightly Burning,” which hinted at her aspirations to honor her family (particularly her paternal grandparents who immigrated to the United States as young adults) by pursuing her artistic career goals, but which continues to serve as an anthem for overcoming adversity in any capacity.
I still can’t believe I auditioned with a ukulele.
Thanks, propranolol, for keeping me delusionally confident.
At the time, I had barely been playing for six months.
After I got signed to FM Sound, I mostly stopped.
Same as now, I used my basic piano and guitar skills to get the bones of my songs written, and then let the label’s people take it from there so I could focus on vocals.
I wonder if I still have that jacket somewhere. I’m sure I do.
“You remember that?” I ask Riff.
“Well it was on national TV, so …” He steps aside and gestures for me to get into the car.
I hesitate, not sure if he meant for our matching attire to be meaningful of whether it was on a whim, but I get in. This has got to be the Vegas version of the Britney and Justin matching denim at the AMAs.
On the ride, I can’t stop glancing at Riff. A gold-sequined tux jacket is ridiculous but somehow he’s pulling it off. The way it fits him through the shoulders, the way it tapers down his chest.
I try to see past everything I know about who he is to the world, and catch sight of what’s underneath, what I’ve learned recently.
He is not a wannabe cowboy; he’s an indie-folk hipster.
He’s not promoting bro-country; he’s making fun of it.
He’s not a ladies’ man; he’s actually … kind of a feminist?
From a distance over the past year, looking at his previous work and watching him perform the songs he wrote about me, he seemed tough, cocky, carefree in a way that made my blood boil.
Next to him in a tiny space, though, after our studio time and what we accomplished in the writer’s lounge, he seems …
quiet, reserved, and almost … resigned. Resigned to what, I can’t say.
Resigned to this sham relationship maybe.
Resigned to having to play nice with me?
We arrive at daXx’s mansion, and I have to say that the Vegas theme is appropriate because the place already looks like a mini luxury casino resort with the pool and the palm trees and the flashy lights and the gold accents.
The limo waits in a valet line, while guests ahead of us have arrived in Lamborghinis, vintage convertibles, matte-black SUVs, or limos like ours.
Drone cameras hum overhead to get footage of the whole thing.
We step out onto a red carpet, as though this is the Grammys, and pose for a few photos.
I take Riff’s hand. He looks surprised for an instant, but of course turns to the camera and smiles—because that’s why we’re here—and I paste on my own smile to make everyone believe I’m the happiest girl in the world.
Maybe I could have been, if I hadn’t gone and ruined it all with “Friction.”
Riff squeezes my hand, just slightly, brushing his callused fingertips over my skin, and now I’m short of breath.
I’m not sure how I make it from the curb to the entrance, but next thing I know, attendants dressed like showgirls approach us with champagne in shot glasses on silver trays, and we both let go of each other to take one.
We step inside to a faux casino setup that fills the open-concept main floor, featuring blackjack, poker, roulette, and a row of slot machines.
All the chips are branded with a cameo of daXx wearing a crown whose points are topped with little hearts.
Executives schmooze one another at the bar, leaning in to talk over their glasses of whiskey and bourbon.
A remix of Imagine Dragons’ “Take Me to the Beach” pulses through the space.
It’s not lost on me how fitting the song is, considering that we’re fifteen miles from the beach, while also listening to a band from Las Vegas at a party with a Vegas theme.
Despite all the distractions, I catch Riff absentmindedly mouthing the words “Nothing, not a penny, never wanna hear you preach, take-take-take-take-take me to the beach,” and I freeze on the spot.
“You like Imagine Dragons?”
He stops and turns to me, hands in his pockets. “Am I not allowed to?”
I still have to remind myself he’s not who I thought he was. “Well, yeah, of course you are, I just … didn’t expect that.”
“No, I don’t guess you would have.”
“They’re one of my favorites.”
Now he lifts an eyebrow. “Okay. You have my attention.”
“I’ve been a fan since before Night Visions.”
“Lies.”
“Seriously. I saw them play at Spaceland in 2010.”
“So you know their really early stuff? ‘I Need a Minute’? ‘Look How Far We’ve Come’? ‘Uptight’?”
“‘Hear Me,’” I say. “‘All Eyes,’ ‘I Don’t Mind.’”
He gapes for a second, then says, “A lot of those songs got me through high school.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. Imagine Dragons started as an indie band and never did really end up fitting into just one category later on. Still, my mind spins as I try to catch up. “That’s insane. Hardly anyone knew who they were back then.”
“Well my mom used to play small venues all over the Southwest when she was younger, so sometimes on school breaks she’d take me and my siblings to a few of her old favorites.
One summer weekend she took me to a show in Vegas where Imagine Dragons was doing a mix of covers and originals; she even let me buy one of the self-produced CDs they were selling.
God … CDs. It’s weird to think about that.
It had songs on it that you can’t find on any streaming service. Anyway, after that, I was all in.”
“Your mom is a musician?”
He nods. “Never got famous, obviously. But she didn’t want that. She liked smaller crowds. It was just fun for her, a side thing before she had kids.”
“Is that … how you got started? Because of her?”
“Yeah. She taught me and my brother and sister to play acoustic guitar. I’m the only one who stuck with it, but they’re not half bad.”
A couple of influencers interrupt us to ask for a selfie.
One of them makes long-form content on YouTube analyzing popular song patterns, the other shares obscure music facts on TikTok.
I pose and grin and listen as they talk about how they can hear the Selena Quintanilla influence in “Brightly Burning” and how a lot of country these days is more of a fusion with other genres than ever before, but all the while, I’m still stuck on the Imagine Dragons thing and Riff’s upbringing.
We mingle with some of the other guests, but manage to stay mostly within earshot of each other.
The music shifts from the Killers to Lady Gaga to Santana to Panic!
At The Disco—more artists with long runs in Vegas or ties to it.
We grab mini lobster rolls and chocolate dice and popcorn dusted in edible gold.
When there’s a lull, we come back together to discuss the best way to casually get some more media exposure.
I’m in the middle of suggesting we make an appearance by the roulette wheels when Riff visually locks onto something over my shoulder.
“Shit,” he mutters.
I turn my attention to where he’s looking. There are several people within his sightlines but he seems to be focused on a particular woman among them. She’s got a porcelain complexion that contrasts her long dark hair, and she’s wearing a strapless red gown.
“Who is she?” I ask.
“My ex.” Riff’s jaw flexes. “From when I was with SiNKroNyze.”
I rack my brain because I think I might know which one. Someone was just talking about her not that long ago online.
“You won’t have heard of her, because she’s not famous, but—”
“Mikayla,” I say. “Carlton Park mentioned her in his video about us. The … graphic designer?”
Riff nods. “I would never have expected her to be at an event like this. Although I did hear a rumor a while back that she was up for a job at Ultracity Records, which I now realize is …”
“The same label daXx produces for.”
He downs his drink in half a second, then wipes his lips with the back of his wrist. “How is this possible? The odds of running into one of your exes is so much higher than running into her.”