A Song for Julia (33 page)

“Your mother?”

I nodded. “Yeah … and I’m not ungrateful. They wanted to expose me to music, so they put me in Suzuki lessons. And I’m glad they did. Now … every three years of my life, we moved. Not to a new neighborhood … not to a new state. To a new country. Before I was eighteen, I’d lived in China, Belgium, Indonesia, Japan and France. You know how much input I had in that?”

He shrugged. “None,” he replied.

I nodded. “And … how do you think I ended up at Harvard?”

He grimaced. “Your parents.”

“Yeah. And you saw them last night.” In a bitter tone, I mocked the words from my father. “’Julia, you’ve always wanted to go into the Foreign Service.’ They don’t even see me. They don’t know what I want, or who I am, or what I want out of life.”

He stopped pacing, checked his watch, and lit another cigarette. “What do you want?”

“I have no idea!” I said. “I’ve never had a chance to figure that out. So … I took this risk for me. Because maybe I need to find out what I want to do. Maybe I want to do something completely different. But unless I try, I’ll never know.”

“I can understand that,” he said. “I had to go my own way. My dad and granddad were both cops. I’m sure they wanted me to do that, too.”

“So … that’s why I did it. Because maybe instead of going into the Foreign Service and living the rest of my life lonely, moving to a new country every three years, maybe I can ground myself in something that I enjoy. Something that matters to me.”

“Like music,” he said. 

“Yeah. Like music. I’ll never be a musician, but I bet I can be a hell of a band manager.”

He grinned. “You’ve already proved that.”

I snorted. “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Crank. We might leave LA with nothing at all.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But we’ll give it our best. Let’s go.”

I want you guys (Crank)

So we walked to the elevators, me slightly behind her, so I could look at her butt as she walked. I never said I wasn’t a bit of a pig … or maybe a lot. But some things you just have to appreciate. And Julia, even in a business-like skirt and jacket, is just too hot not to look at.

I winked at her as we stepped in the elevator. She looked puzzled, but that was fine. A little mystery never hurts. But the second the elevator door closed, I stepped close and looked her in the eyes. 

“I need a kiss. From you. For luck. Now.” 

Her eyes widened, and she flushed a little. That was all the permission I needed. I pulled her close and leaned in, our lips touching, just lightly. Her tongue brushed against my teeth, and then our whole bodies were touching, and I felt alive, drunk with sensation.

The elevator bell rang, and I stepped back. Her eyes were dilated, her face flushed, and I desperately wanted her back in my arms. But the doors opened, and we stepped out of the elevator, and there were the glass doors with the logo for White Dog Records painted on the door.

I had to stop for a second and just breathe. My throat was tightening up. I was about to walk into the offices of one of the hottest record studios in the country. And meet with Allen Roark, who was one of my freaking heroes. Not to mention the head of the studio. My heart was thumping, and I had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself. Most of the last five years I spent hanging out in the Pit, couch surfing, flipping burgers. And playing guitar until the tips of my fingers sometimes bled. I’d played in bars and clubs; I’d played in abandoned houses and warehouses. One time, we played in a freaking barn, and it was so cold my strings kept busting and going out of tune, and my fingers were too stiff to do any solos.

I could do this.

“Come on,” Julia said. I think she realized what was going through my head right then, but she took my arm and pulled me forward. So we walked in the door, and she introduced herself to the receptionist, and we sat down and waited while I looked around. 

The office was smaller than I would have expected. But on the walls around us were some of the bands I pretty much idolized. Album covers, autographed photos, an entire wall covered in awards. It was taking everything I had to not be intimidated. We didn’t have to wait long. About three minutes after we arrived, a guy came out of the back. He was obese, probably three hundred pounds, his suit sagging as if he’d once been quite a bit larger. His hair was thinning, face red, as if he drank too much. I’d seen that look on plenty of people over the years.

Julia leaned close to me and spoke, her voice a whisper. “That’s Boris Dombrovski, he’s the president of the label. Come on.”

She stood, and I did too, my knees feeling weak.

Julia gave him a broad, professional looking smile. “Mr. Dombrovski? I’m Julia Thompson, and this is Crank Wilson. We’re from Morbid Obesity.”

Boris smiled, then held out a hand and took hers. “Miss Thompson, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And … Crank? Really? Call me Boris. It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Come on to the back. I’ve been brainstorming with Allen, we didn’t realize you had arrived.”

I shook Boris’s hand and felt my heart beating, too fast. He was in back, brainstorming with Allen. With Allen Roark. Only the most successful alt-rock singer songwriter I knew of. Holy shit. I was really doing this. 

I kept my mouth shut and followed Boris and Julia into the back.

Boris had a large corner office. In the distance, I could see the Hollywood sign up in the hills. The office was cluttered, his desk piled high with papers. A couch faced two chairs across a low coffee table closer to the door, and industry mags were scattered across the coffee table.

Allen Roark was sitting on one of the chairs. He stood up and grinned. In person and off stage, he was shorter than I expected, his long hair tied into a ponytail. He wore a sleeveless black t-shirt, both arms completely covered in tattoos. He stepped out from the coffee table and approached me, hand out.

“You Crank Wilson? My son Mitch played your song for me yesterday. Pure genius, man, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I swallowed and shook his hand, and spoke, my voice cracking a little because my throat was so dry, “It’s a real honor to meet you, Mr. Roark.”

He laughed. “Holy Christ, it’s Allen. Please don’t call me Mr. Roark. Seriously. Don’t.”

I grinned. “Fair enough.”

Boris said, “Have a seat. You guys want some coffee? You came right from the airport?”

“Yes, coffee would be great,” Julia said. “Cream and sugar?”

Boris picked up his phone and spoke into it, then waved us to the coffee table. Julia and I sat next to each other on the couch, and Boris and Allen sat down opposite us. 

“All right,” Boris said. “I’ll get right to it. Allen called me yesterday raving about this song you’ve written, Crank. He said we have to sign you immediately. I don’t even take calls on holidays, but it was Allen, so I gave it a listen. And I liked it. A lot. We can do something with this.”

Allen said, “I listened to the rest of your music last night, at least what you’ve got on the website. It’s solid stuff.”

I felt myself starting to grin. 

“So, where do you stand, Crank?”

Julia gently placed a hand on my knee. I knew what she was trying to communicate. Shut up. She leaned forward, all business. “We have an offer for a recording contract from Division Records, but we haven’t signed yet.”

Boris tilted his head. “Tell me why.”

She replied, “To be honest, I’m concerned about Division’s financial stability. We’re not looking for a one-song deal. The band is in this for the long haul, so we want a contract which will best serve that.”

Boris nodded. “What kind of deal are you looking for?”

I felt my throat tighten up. I wanted to jump in. I’ll take anything. Single? Recording deal? Whatever! When Julia spoke, it almost made my ears bleed, and I wanted to tell her to shut up now and accept whatever they offered.

“Ideally, I want a recording contract for a full album, plus an immediate release on the single. Budget for the album. Decent royalties, and an advance big enough to get the band off ramen noodles in the meantime. Some introductions to help us get signed as openers for a tour …”

Allen jumped in, “You want an opener? We just fired our opening act for this summer’s tour. I want you guys.”

She grinned. “Excellent. That will be a big step up, I think.”

Boris looked at her and made an offer of more money than I’d ever seen in my life.

Holy shit.

She pushed. For just a second, I almost blurted out
We’ll take it!
Because she calmly, and with a straight face, doubled the figures he’d offered.

Boris frowned. “If we do that, I want an exclusive option on the next two albums.”

“What happens if you don’t take them?”

“We make the contract three years. Renewable if both sides agree. Exclusive. And if we don’t take additional albums, then we cut you loose at the end of the three years.”

“Okay,” she said. “What’s the budget on future albums?”

“Depends on sales with the first. I’ve got standard language, but bottom line is, if you want more than the initial budget, then your album needs to earn out plus two hundred percent.”

Boris looked at me. “Crank, you got anything to add?”

I shook my head, still trying to get my thumping heart calmed down. “I think she’s got this under control.”

“Smart guy.”

Julia grinned. “I think we have a deal?”

Boris reached over and shook her hand, and I fought to keep myself from freaking out. Because right here in this office, everything I’d ever dreamed of just came true. I don’t know how she did it. I don’t even care how she did it. All I knew was that right that second, I wanted to jump up and down and scream my heart out.

You two are cute (Julia)

I was in a daze by the time we left Boris’s office. 

After the meeting was over, Allen and Crank sat talking music, while I sat down with Boris’s assistant. She wrote up the terms we’d agreed on, inserting the numbers in their standard contract. I read it over carefully and then signed on behalf of the band. And just like that, Morbid Obesity was signed with a major label.

As I signed the contract, I made a decision. I wasn’t going back. I wasn’t going to graduate school, unless it was later, on my own terms. No Foreign Service, no law school, none of the things my parents were pushing. Instead, I was going to manage this band, through the tour and afterwards. This was my job now and going forward.

Now, how to make it turn a profit. As we all shook hands, and Crank and I walked out the door of the office, me carrying the contract and a huge check, my mind was turning to a host of questions. Merchandising, t-shirts, websites. But that didn’t last, because the moment we stepped into the elevator, Crank let out a yell, then grabbed me and started kissing me. I forgot the contract and the check and wrapped my arms around him.

“I can’t believe it,” he said.

“I can’t either.”

Then we were kissing and all talk was forgotten, until the doors opened and a guy in a suit stepped into the elevator and muttered, “Get a room.”

“That’s a great idea,” Crank said.

I burst into laughter. But I also felt my stomach tighten, warmth flooding my body. Maybe that really was a great idea. But we only had three hours before we had to be back at the airport. I stepped close to Crank as the elevator started moving again and whispered, “Soon.”

He grinned and put his arm around my waist. And we started laughing again. And then I said, “I’ve made my decision.”

“About?”

“Grad school … career … all that.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? What did you decide?”

“I think I’m going to manage Morbid Obesity. Full time.”

The elevator came to a stop at the ground floor, and he said in a near growl, “You know how to tell a guy what he wants to hear.”

I winked at him. “Time for you to get going writing some new songs, buddy. We’ve got an album to record.”

He laughed, and we walked out onto the street. He turned toward me and pulled me close, and said, “And what about us?” He was looking at my eyes as he said the words, and what I wanted to say was this: I’m yours. I wanted to tell him I was as committed to him as I was to the band, to our future together. I wanted to tell him … that I loved him.

I wasn’t ready for that. I looked back, feeling like his eyes were looking right into my soul. “I’m ready to take some risks,” I said. That was as far as I could go.

“We’ll take them together,” he replied. “Take your time, Julia. I know you’re not ready to commit yet. But I need you to know: I want you in my life. Not just with the band, not hanging out with my family. I want you.”

I was trembling. My whole body responded—my nipples tightening under my bra, my body flushing. I didn’t know how to answer that. I didn’t even know how to think about that. But my body seemed to know what it thought, whatever my brain was doing. Because my body was yielding to his words, pushing me closer in a way that was almost impossible to resist.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I can’t even think about all that.”

“You don’t have to answer, Julia.” His voice felt like a caress. “But if you aren’t going to let me take you to a room right this second and have wild sex, then we better go eat. Because I’m so hungry right now I could scream.”

I don’t think he meant he was hungry for breakfast. But for today, in Los Angeles, that was all he was going to get. That was all I was going to get, and right now, I wanted so much more.

So we walked, and we found a diner, and sat down and ordered. And brainstormed a schedule, to write and record the album, by the end of January, so it would be released in time for the summer tour. We talked websites and building a permanent fan base beyond the local Boston music scene. It was time to turn things up a notch, and now we had the resources to do it.  

We were riding high on dreams, and for now, that was enough. 

As we were finishing breakfast, he said, “The rest of the band is going to freak. None of us expected more than a single.”