Sing Your Pleasure

She smiled. “You think so, huh? I guess I can relate to that.”

“Being a female, I figured you could.”

After a few more beats she said, “He’s giving her something.”

“Something that moves her to another level.”

“It moves them both. See right here,” she said, lifting a finger in the air just as the piano solo picked up the beat and drowned out the keyboard and percussions. “Right here is where it changes from just her song to their song. To their journey.”

For a moment he was quiet, letting her words and the music sink in. “You’re right,” he said finally, almost incredulously. “You have a good ear.”

“I studied instrumental composition in college.”

He sat back, let his eyes gaze at her once more. Each time he looked at her he could swear he saw something else. This time she looked vulnerable, yet capable. Weak only in that she was new to this scenery, but strong in that she was determined to make the best of her situation. He admired that.

And in that instant he feared her.

“You should get some rest. We’re starting early tomorrow and will probably work all day. Did you look at the songs I gave you?” Turning his attention back to the board, he cut off the music and began shutting down the rest of the power.

She hesitated and Akil almost turned to see if she was still there. But then she answered him in a voice just a tad smaller, a hint less enthusiastic than it had been a moment before.

“I’ll be ready for tomorrow’s session. You don’t have to worry, Akil. I teach my students how to sing and probably know just as much about vocals, if not more, than you do. So I won’t let you down.”

Before he had a chance to say that wasn’t what he meant, that he’d just wanted to make sure she was prepared, she was gone.

Cursing, Akil slammed his palms down on the mixing console, standing and pushing the chair away from him so hard it slammed into the wall a few feet away. “Dammit!” he cursed, then flicked the light off and left the studio himself.

Why did it always seem like he said the wrong thing to her?

Felix “Five Minute” Hernendez was one of the best sound technicians in the business. He’d also been known for the number-one hit he’d written for Lady X two years ago in about five minutes, hence his nickname.

Seth Dante was the sound engineer. Charlene knew because Jason had told her all about Seth and Five last night during dinner. Right about the time Serene had been giving Akil scathing looks because of the direction he wanted to take with her image. It was comforting to know now that Akil had plans to work her career around the real her.

There was a guitar player whom she hadn’t been introduced to yet but could see was already set up and touching the strings on his guitar in the soundproof isolation booth. She’d figured the music had already been digitally recorded by using a gobo panel to keep the sound from bleeding into the other microphones as she sang. But, of course, Akil knew what he was doing. She was sure he had as much control of each instrument channel at the mixing board as he planned to have of her and her voice.

This is it, Charlene told herself, standing in the doorway of the studio. She must have spent the better part of four or five hours reading over the songs Akil had given her, practically memorizing the musical arrangements, the high notes, the lows, the climax of each song. And she was ready, she knew she was ready.

With her bottled water in hand, she moved into the studio full of people, taking a deep breath before saying, “Good morning.”

All eyes immediately turned to her and a small nip of fear touched her. Stamping it down, she smiled even brighter and walked right between the huddled group of men.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Jason said in his always playful voice. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek. “Somebody call the police. It has got to be a crime for someone to be as beautiful as you are this early in the morning.”

Charlene chuckled. “One, eleven o’clock is not that early. And two, that was one weak-ass line.”

Jason laughed right along with her. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re right. C’mon, let’s get started.”

A tall guy with spiked raven-black hair and a touch of gold in front of his mouth reached out a bony arm toward her. He was dressed in jeans and a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey and she couldn’t help but smile. “If I’d known we were showing our teams I would have worn my Raiders shirt,” she said.

His smile spread and she was thankful to see there was really only one gold tooth in his mouth and not a row full like some of the acts in the industry these days. Still, he looked young enough to be one of her students.

“You got jokes,” he said. “You’re on the East Coast now. You can’t come in here with that West Coast nonsense.”

“Whatever,” she said, letting him clasp her hand.

“I’m Five,” he introduced himself.

Charlene liked him instantly and knew they were going to work well together.

“And I’m Seth. And that’s T-Rock on the bass. He’s going to be in the booth with you because his sound is crisper in there.”

A shorter man with caramel-toned skin and green eyes stepped up to her then, pointing to the tall Caucasian guitarist she’d already noted in the isolation booth. She was about to take his offered hand when Akil interrupted.

“If you’re all finished gaping over her like you’ve never seen a female before, we can get started.”

His voice was like a blast of arctic air, chilling the room instantly and snapping her spine straight.

“Let’s start with ‘Never Before Like This.’” He continued to bark orders and she watched as Five took his place, moving into the control room with Akil.

Seth went to stand near the DAW, the digital audio workstation, which usually took the place of mixing consoles, recorders, synthesizers, samplers and sound-effects devices. She noted Akil still had a mixing console that he liked to control on his own. Seth was probably the backup he needed to complete the full sound. Meanwhile, Jason walked her over to the booth and attempted to help her with the headphones.

“She knows how to do it, Jase,” Akil snapped. “Come on, we’ve got a lot to get done.”

He was in his desired spot in the control room with what she could see was his game face on. He was all about business today. Whereas last night when she’d seen him in that very same position he’d looked, for just that short amount of time, human.

“I’ve got it, Jason. Thanks.” Picking up the headphones, she moved to the stand, dropped her music down onto it and took her place in front of the mic.

She liked this song a lot. Its tempo began slowly but then picked up with the verse. It was good old-fashioned R&B, just what she loved to sing. So if Mr. Superproducer was all about business this morning then she could be, too. She was going to sing this song and every other song he put in front of her like her very life depended on it. Because Akil Hutton was not going to beat her. Not here, not today.

“Never like this before. No, never like this. I never loved like this. Never kissed like this. Never felt like this before.”

This was the fifth time she’d sung this song, the fifth time he’d listened to her take the verse written on that song sheet apart only to put it back together in her own special way again.

Her voice rocketed through the air, tore through the speakers and rubbed along the contours of his heart. It was strong, practiced, professional. She hit every note and then hit it again even better the next time around. His palms had begun to sweat, his pulse quickening with the music.

They’d been at it for hours, stopped for about forty-five minutes for lunch, and went at it some more. She never faltered. He’d worked with a lot of artists in his time, had seen a lot of commercial acts. Females who could sing well enough in their church choir or in a talent contest and looked hotter than a house full of strippers. But they weren’t serious. He’d known it then, but he’d worked his magic, got enough recorded to make their CD one of the hottest out there. All the while knowing, deep down inside, they weren’t real singers. They didn’t have real talent. Sure, they were commercial and they were still selling lots of records, selling out concerts and making him and Playascape a boatload of money.

But at the end of the day, at night when he lay down to sleep, he felt like a sellout.

He wasn’t producing music anymore, he was making money. But now, listening to Charlene Quinn, he felt that old surge inside, that old feeling when he listened to such greats as Aretha and Ella, Gladys and Dionne. He felt like Charlene could be the one.

“Let’s do it again and tape it this time. Get it right and you’re done for the night. We can remix after you’re gone.”

He knew his tone was clipped, cold, distant. But that’s what it had to be. The way he needed it to stay. Or he’d lose more than just the chance to work with this new talent—he’d lose himself.

Chapter Five

“Okay, tell me what’s going on?” Jason asked Akil the moment they were alone in the sound booth. Seth and Five were working on remixing the track they’d just finished with Charlene in the live room and Serene had gone home for the day. Serene made some remark about getting Carlo here as soon as possible and Akil had made sure to correct her, just as he had last night.

“No dieting. I want what she’s already got spruced up, build her image from there. Got it?”

No, Serene didn’t get it and neither did he, that’s why Jason was questioning his partner and longtime friend now.

“What? We’re making this CD. What do you think is going on?”

“I think you’ve got something else on your mind than this music, something that might interfere with us getting this CD done.”

“C’mon, Jason. You know me better than that. Nothing interferes with my music.”

Jason folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. “Tell me what you have in mind for her.”

Akil didn’t answer as quickly as he normally would have. Another fact that concerned Jason.

“Like I said last night, I think we should go old-school with her. Back to the roots of R&B and steer clear of the commercial BS.”

Jason nodded. “The commercial BS is what’s made us rich over the last ten years.”

“I don’t deny that.”

“It’s built our reputation, made this label a number-one contender with anything Sony, Arista, Columbia or the rest of them have. We’re the hottest thing in the game right now. Why would you want to mess with that?”

Akil sighed, sat back in his chair and glared at Jason. “Because I’m tired of it. I’m tired of putting out average CDs and calling it music. Tired of the gimmicky groups and half-assed singers we reform and glamorize then slap a label on them and put them on the shelves. I want to make real music, to listen to the real sound of R&B again. Can you relate to that?”

Jason had to pause a moment at the words and the amount of money they stood to lose if this didn’t work. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack after years of fast-food burgers.” He ran a hand over his face. “I think Charlene’s got real talent, Jase. I think she has longevity to make it in this business. But I also think that Playascape needs something fresh, something different. I don’t want us to be typecast, putting out the same product year after year. I want us to grow.”

Jason nodded. “I see what you’re saying. And I hear you about Charlene, she’s not like the others we’ve worked with. But you know Empire’s got a lot of money invested in this. I don’t know that going against the grain right at this moment is financially feasible for us.”

“It is,” Akil said adamantly. “Empire’s been distributing us for years. They know we’re perfectionists and that we bring the money to the table when it counts. They trust us. The question is, do you trust me?”

It was a moment of truth, one of those times when friendship had to be the glue to hold things together. Jason had doubts but they were minimal compared to all the times Akil had come through. Just like he’d trusted his gut when he first heard Charlene sing and rushed to get her signed, he trusted that Akil’s vision was going to work. That they were going to make Charlene a success, a different kind of success.

“Yeah, man. You know I trust you,” Jason said finally, reaching out to shake Akil’s hand.

Akil stood, shaking Jason’s hand then pulling him in for a hug. “It’s going to be big. The biggest thing we’ve ever done, Jase. Watch and see.”

He picked up the phone again. Alone in his bedroom in the wee hours of the morning, Akil knew he should be asleep, gearing up for tomorrow’s session. But he couldn’t rest.

Charlene’s powerful voice had brought back memories. Some painful and some happy—some that just need to be addressed once and for all.

Dialing the number, he sat back on his bed, leaning forward so that his elbows rested against his knees. Looking down to the floor as he held the phone to his ear waiting for the call to connect, he wiggled his toes in the ultra-soft dark blue carpet. It lined the entire length of his master suite until it opened up to the deck, which was tiled with black marble speckled with a blue similar to the carpet. His walls were painted a subtle gray, his furniture, sparse, sleek and expensive. The entertainment center that spanned the entire left wall was state-of-the-art with Dolby sound and a sixty-inch mounted plasma. Music was his life and so it surrounded him wherever he went. Even in his bathroom there was a sound system, designed to match the black-and-blue color scheme in there, as well.

He’d arrived, he thought as the overseas connection had finally been made and the line rang in his ear. He’d arrived at rich and famous, just as he’d always planned. And he liked it here, or so he thought.

His childhood hadn’t been easy and neither had hers. But he’d made them both a promise, to get them out and to make them both happy. He succeeded in one area and drastically failed in the other.

She hated him, had told him as much more times than he could count. Yet, he still loved her, still held a place for her in his heart.

Charlene reminded him of that place. She reminded him of Lauren.

“Centro di riabilitazione del Seminary di buona mattina,” a female voice answered speaking quick Italian that Akil struggled to understand.

“Ah, buona mattina,” he said, clearing his throat and sitting up straight as if the person on the other end of the phone could see him. “Lauren Jackson, please?”

He hated that name, hated the way it rolled off his tongue with complete bitterness and contempt.

“Chi è questo?”

“Akil Hutton.”

The line went quiet and he waited, heart pounding against his chest, palms sweating. He hadn’t spoken to her in more than three years. Not necessarily all his fault. He’d written to her a couple of times but had only recently found a number where she could be reached.

“Ms. Jackson non è disponibile. Non denomini ancora,” she said and hung up without another word.

From traveling all over the world on business Akil had picked up a basic understanding of most languages like Italian, French, hell, he even knew a little German because one of his artists was a big hit in Germany. From the woman’s clipped words he gathered two things: (1) that Lauren was definitely a patient at the Seminary Rehabilitation Hospital and (2) that she did not want to speak to him. The words not available and the stern do not call again sort of tipped him off.

Lauren was in Milan and she was in a rehab center. That meant she was safe and she was getting the help she so desperately needed. That should have been enough for him.

And he shouldn’t still be plagued with guilt. Yet he was and there was nothing he could do about it.

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