Complete Submission: (The Submission Series, Books 1-8) (14 page)

“I heard about you singing here. Everyone’s talking about it. ‘This girl at Frontage will make you cry.’ As soon as I heard it, I thought it was you. My canary.” I think I blushed a little. No. I
know
I blushed a little. With all his degradation of my music toward the end, I’d forgotten his pet name for me. The memory of the time he did honor my talents went straight to my heart.

“And once I thought about you...” He stopped himself and reached into his pocket. “I thought, man, I’d like for her to see what I’m doing too. Thought we could hook up again. Artistically. You know? As creators in this mad city.”

He handed me a brochure. The Los Angeles Modern Museum had a Solar Eclipse show every time there was a full eclipse somewhere in the world. It was a group show of the moment’s hottest visual and conceptual artists, and an invitation to show could open doors to new artists, reinvigorate the careers of established artists, and solidify stars in the historical lexicon.

Kevin’s name sat in the middle of the list.

“Congratulations,” I said. “Tomorrow night, huh? Have you hung it already?”

“Did it today. It looks amazing. This is my best work yet. I have one last invite, and well...” He made his deep artist face, where he looked away and made a pained expression before he blanked it off his face. “You contributed to my work. You were my muse. I want you to be there.”

Either he had a new expression or he really meant it, because his face was nothing if not completely sincere.

“I’ll try to come. I’m happy for you.”

He smiled, and I remembered why I’d loved him. Not for the serious crap, but the smiles that lit up his face and my heart at the same time.

I caught sight of Rhee out of the corner of my eye and stood up.

“I’ll put you on the list,” he said as I walked away.

I walked to the piano and touched Gabby’s shoulder. She opened her eyes.

I gave the flyer one last look before slipping it onto my music stand. Jonathan’s ex-wife, Jessica Carnes, was at the top of the list. I folded it over.

Gabby started
Stormy Weather
. The room quieted, though I could still hear the occasional fork or clinking glass. I had to close my eyes against the spotlight. I sang it the way we’d rehearsed, of course, with the sexual longing intact, but something was missing.

Jonathan’s ministrations that afternoon had done their work on my body, but my mind was on Kevin, and everything he said to me and didn’t, every expectation I couldn’t meet, every time I’d failed him with my own ambitions. My disappointment at the inadequacy of his love came in a flood.

I had nothing to do but use it because I started
Someone to Watch Over Me
. I growled it from my diaphragm. I used the breakup I’d caused, cutting me off from friends I depended on because I was the aggressor. I wasn’t allowed hurt. I wasn’t allowed to grieve. Without Gabby and Darren, I had had no one to love me during that time. No guarantees. No sisters to protect me from bad decisions or whatever predatory lover followed. No Deirdre to defend me. No one would shelter me or worry about me. When I found that emotional place, I roared the last notes of the song, getting rid of all the accumulated junk feeding the angry girl in my heart.

Then I felt clean. I went through the rest of the songs the way we’d planned, with the dynamics and inflections coming from the right place. We culminated with
Moon River
, our gentle send-off from the emotional roller-coaster of the set.

I breathed. And they applauded. I was getting used to that. I didn’t get filled-up like a balloon anymore, probably because they weren’t my songs. What they applauded over their dinners was my craft, not my songwriting, and that artistic distance made all the difference.

I nodded, glancing behind me. Kevin’s table was empty. Typical. I thanked everyone, and just like every time before, I slipped into the dressing room. Gabby came in right behind me.

“What happened to you?” she demanded.

“What?”

“I thought you were falling apart at
Stormy Weather
.”

Ah. I remembered. Gabby the perfectionist. “I pulled it out, I think.”

“Every. Song. Counts.”

“Thanks. No pressure, right?”

“This was not the night to find your footing, Mon.” She pointed at me, accusing me of ruining the set.

“Hey, you know what? Lay off. And you might consider pulling your weight at the meet and greet. The Gabby I knew in high school didn’t hide behind a piano.”

I didn’t wait for a reaction. I just walked out. I’d been underhanded and cruel. The Gabby I knew in high school wasn’t coming back, not after the depression and suicide attempt. That Gabby hadn’t shown up for years, and bringing her up was unfair. I was fighting with some core, self-fulfilling loneliness that made me push people away.

The room was crowded, with the bar area customers bleeding into the dining area. The servers had trouble navigating the people and tables and mislaid chairs. I made it to the table by the warm speakers and found it full of men in perfect suits with colorful ties and women in button-down shirts and spiked heels. Agent-wear. Theresa had her back to me, and Deirdre, with her dismissive glare, was nowhere to be found. The eleven of them were having so many heated conversations in groups of two and three that I was going to pass the table and pretend I hadn’t been on my way over.

“Monica Faulkner!” I heard my name and almost had a heart attack. Eugene Testarossa, who I’d been a creep to a couple of weeks before at the rooftop bar of the Stock, called out to me.

“Hi,” I said, waiting for him to recognize me. From his expression, he either didn’t remember me or didn’t care.

“Nice set.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m Eugene. I’m a recording talent agent at WDE. You’ve heard of us?”

“Yes, of course.” I was spinning smiles into gold, trying to keep from hugging a guy who, without his job and connections, wouldn’t have gotten more than a courteous rejection.

“I’d like to sit and talk with you about something. Not a big deal. We’re headed out to Snag. Can you come?”

A dream invitation. But no. I wasn’t talking business over drinks. And if it wasn’t business, I didn’t want to be trapped at a douchebag bar on the west side.

“I have plans, I’m sorry.”

He handed me a bright red card I knew had the WDE logo on it. “Call me then, and we’ll set something up.”

“Thanks. We hoped you’d come tonight.”

“We? You’ve got representation already?”

“No, me and Gabby.” I indicated her at the bar, next to Darren.

“Oh, the piano player? I thought she came with the club. Huh. Well. You don’t gotta bring her if you don’t want.” My face must have been dragging on the floor, because he stood up straighter and held his hands out. “But no problem. Yeah, sure. Both of you. A set. We can talk.”

“Great.”

“Okay, you call tomorrow,” he pointed at me, then put a phone to his ear. I smiled, but I knew more douchebag representation was in my future.

I started walking backward out into the aisle. “Will do,” I said, nearly crashing into Iris, the waitress who’d been there long enough to be considered furniture. With one last wave, I went to the bar as fast as I could which, after the kind words and handshakes with everyone between Eugene Testarossa and Gabby, took about seven minutes.

“What happened?” Gabby was all over me. “What did he say?”

I showed her the card. She hugged me as if I’d just told her it was a healthy baby.

“Nice work.” Darren held up his beer.

“Don’t all huddle around the card, guys. Act cool, okay? It’s not a big deal,” I said.

“Ah, lassie,” Theo said, “there’s nothing coolish about you.” He took my chin in his thumb and forefinger and shook my face. I playfully slapped his hand away.

“Let’s go out,” Darren said. “We can take every word you two said and give it major surgery.”

Oh no. That wouldn’t be good at all. I’d have to tell Gabby she was an optional part of the set or make something up I’d get busted for later. If she found out I’d had to rescue her before she’d even met Testarossa, she would spiral into Shitsville, and I didn’t want Darren and me following her around again. Our recent freedom had been delicious.

“I made other plans,” I said, glancing from face to face, landing on Gabby’s last.

“Uh oh,” Darren said. “Kevin’s back.”

“It’s not Kevin,” I said.

Gabby’s eyes narrowed. “Cancel them.”

“I don’t want to. Tomorrow, you and I can call WDE. Testarossa’s assistant will pick up. We’ll make the appointment during lunchtime so he takes us out. Until then, you guys go out and have a good time. Come on. Give me a hug.”

She did. Thank God, because I didn’t know how much more convincing language I had in me.

I
texted Jonathan as soon as I got outside.

—Are you up?—

—I’m on Asia time. Wide awake.—

—Me too—

—So, why aren’t you here?—

—Coming—

—!—

—j/k—

I’d been debating seeing Jonathan when a late night with the crew was the standard procedure. Testarossa had handed me the perfect incentive, but I’d almost wished he hadn’t. I’d rather tell them I was ditching them to get laid than that Gabby’s dream agent wanted to rep her as an optional attachment, or not at all.

I wouldn’t abandon her.

I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.

She wasn’t just my first lover’s sister. They’d both become my family. We’d been through
stuff
together.

I
remembered where Jonathan lived, up by the historic fig trees. I had no idea how many cars he owned, but the little Fiat in the drive didn’t look like his style at all. At ten p.m., he shouldn’t have had any guests, but he stood on the porch with his arms crossed, talking to a blonde a few years older than me. She wore a printed, ankle-length dress and a loose jacket. He saw me pull in and waved. The blonde kept talking. I didn’t know if I should get out or hide until she left.

That was ridiculous. I had a right to be there. I gathered my things and got out of the car. As if on cue, the woman turned and stepped off the porch, tapping something into her phone. As we passed each other, she glanced at me, but she got the phone to her ear in time to avoid greeting me.

“That was awkward,” I said as I stepped onto the porch.

“Not really,” Jonathan replied. “Or, I mean to say, not yet.” He wore a sweatshirt and jeans, but not old, grey things. He wore designer clothes that were new at the edges and fit as they should, bringing out the beauty of his body without showing an inch of skin.

He looked behind me at the Fiat as it pulled out.

“Your assistant?” I asked.

“One of them.” When the Fiat got into the street, he clicked a button on his remote box, and the gate slid shut. He leaned on the door jamb. “How did your gig go?”

“Fantastic. We’re about to land a very good agent.” I suddenly felt exposed, standing out on the porch again in a sleeveless, button-down shirt dress and heels.

“Oh, really.” He put the remote on a table by the door.

“Really.”

My dress had a fabric belt on sideseam loops. He pulled the bow loose and yanked the belt off. “Can you unbutton that thing and tell me the rest?”

“Is there some superstition about me entering your house with my clothes on?”

“I prefer you without them. And I like fresh air. Come on, I want to hear about your career.” He wrapped the belt around his hand, which was muscular and square with a little hair on top.

I slipped my top button through the hole. “You want me to undress or tell you about the agent?”

“Yes to both. Tell me how it went.”

I slipped the next button through, exposing the space between my breasts. “I almost screwed up the entire thing. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for the first song.”

“My fault?”

“No. Actually...” I didn’t want to bring up his sisters or my ex-boyfriend. Not with me getting down to my belly, and him watching the buttons’ progress. “The agent wanted to go out tonight and talk about things.” I finished the last button and stood in front of him.

“You could have gone.” He stepped out of the doorway, reaching for the split in the dress. When he touched my throat, I lifted my chin. “We didn’t have definite plans.”

“He wants to ditch Gabby. I can see it. I’m not ready to tell her, and if we went out with him, she’d know.”

He ran his hand down my body, only touching what the open dress revealed. “You think you can protect her from getting ditched?” He slipped his hand into the front of my panties. He stopped before he hit my growing wetness, but the electricity of his touch under my clothes made me gasp.

“Probably not for long.” I stepped toward him. He pulled the dress off me. I unhooked my bra and let it drop to the floor.

Again, I stood almost naked before him. He unwrapped my belt from his hand, put it around my neck, and used it to pull me toward him. Our tongues and lips met. He let go of the belt, leaving it draped over my shoulders, and moved his hands under my panties, onto my bare ass. He grabbed it, pulling me to him, grinding me against his erection. I slipped my hands down his shirt, and he pinned them behind my back.

“I have a call with Seoul in seven minutes,” he whispered in my ear.

“You couldn’t make
yourself
come in seven minutes.”

“That a challenge?”

“You tell me.”

We kissed again, and he let my wrists go to hitch my legs up around his waist. He pushed me against the doorjamb, moving our hips together in a rhythm.

“Actually,” he said, “I don’t think I can get you upstairs in seven minutes.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

He smiled, his face close to mine, where I could see every crease in his skin, every freckle, every thorn of stubble. His scent was everywhere around me. I wanted to fall into him. As if hearing my thoughts, he pulled away from the doorway, carrying me with my legs still around his waist. He shut the door behind us as he carried me to the stairs, kissing me. I wound my fingers in his hair. He bumped into a chair, then a bannister. We fell onto the soft wool carpet of the stairs, him on top of my nearly naked body, our hands everywhere, our hips joined in a fabric-sheathed tease.