Taking Something (4 page)

“That's sounds fantastic.” Sadie smiled as she sat back down and placed her lips on the top of her sparkling water bottle.

Her phone chimed after about fifteen minutes of me mindfucking my way into the studio.

“My car's here,” she announced, standing up to leave. Hollace, Vince, and I all stood up to excuse her and as she leaned into hug me to thank me for agreeing to help her produce the album she wanted, I made sure to let the heat of my words hit her neck in that spot that drives all women crazy.

“Really looking forward to seeing you again, Sadie,” I whispered.

“Likewise,” she agreed, giving me another sultry smile as she exited the restaurant.

“Well that went better than I'd expected.” Hollace exhaled audibly as the three of us sat back down. “I'll admit you do have a way with the ladies, Kline.” He laughed and gave me a nod of approval.

“Yeah, nice work. But here's your real task,” Vince stated, handing me a jump drive. “These are the songs that we need Sadie to sing on her next album. They’re not what she wants to record, but it's what will sell.”

I nodded taking the drive from his hand.
So much for mixing my own original tracks.
I guessed I had to take what I was given and run with it.

“So how much creative liberty to do I have with these?”

“It's not as teeny bopper as her last album, but it's still not what she wants,” Hollace informed me. I figured as much. “You take whatever creative liberty you need to get the job done. As long as it sounds good, I don't care.”

That was a relief. I was fairly certain that the songs on this drive were full of tracks that lacked the artistic touch I knew I could bring.

“Here's the other thing,” Vince broke in. “We need this album cut, polished, and a song on the radio as quickly as possible. She's been putting it off for too long. We can't keep postponing it because she's having temper tantrums.”

“Got it.” I assured them. “Consider it done.”

They seemed satisfied by my confidence. Honestly, they just seemed relieved to have someone else dealing with her crazy ass. We ordered lunch as they continued to tell me how important it was that Sadie sang the songs they'd given her. Apparently they'd spent a lot of money and time getting this track list specifically written for her.

“Hey, Pops,” a voice called out behind me. “You ready?”

I turned around to see Landry Westwood, Hollace's son and the top-selling R&B singer, standing behind me.

Lila would have died had she been there—or at least gone into some fan-girl fit over him. Landry was the product of Hollace Westwood and his blond, centerfold mother, Evette Brady. I hated to admit it, but he was a good-looking guy. Just enough DNA from his dad's side to give him the perfect complexion and jet-black hair he wore closely cropped to his head. But the thing that made all the girls, including my favorite sister-in-law, swoon? Bright blue eyes that had come from his mother. Throw all that in the pot with the fact that he could sing in tune while simultaneously rocking his hips in rhythm and he might as well as have had “panty dropper” tattooed on his forehead.

“You must be the new guy taking on Psycho Sinclair.” Grinning, he reached out a hand to me. “My dad mentioned you.”

“That's me.” I smirked as I shook his hand.

“Landry Westwood. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” I really wanted to tell him about the ideas I had for his career but didn't think it was time or place. Nothing says pathetic like being too anxious. If I did a good job on Sadie's album maybe I would get a chance to work on his next one.

Landry's music was more my style, but if I had to suffer through a pop album with Sadie Sinclair to get there, I'd do it.

“Good luck with that one,” he added as his father stood up to leave.

As Hollace passed me on his way out, he clapped me roughly on the shoulder. “You pull this off and you're in.”

I
T FELT
like Christmas morning when I walked into the studio Westwood Records had reserved for me and Sadie.

I'd been in one before, but never a top-of-the line studio. Shiny new control panels and mixing boards. A station for digital hook-up with a giant monitor. I was pretty pumped about that considering I did most of my freelance work on my laptop.

As cool as the digital option of mixing music was, I couldn't wait to get my hands on the board. There was nothing like feeling the slides move under your fingers as the bass increased, or a vocal echoed, or a snare kicked in. I looked through the acrylic window into the recording studio and imagined how many great artists had stood on the other side of the mic hanging from the ceiling. And how many I would get to see there.

This place was my dream and I had the opportunity to seize it. I reached down and hit the power button, lighting up all the controls and gauges in front of me. The hum of the speakers was quiet, but I could hear it and I felt my heart speed as I let out a sigh. This was it. My future.

“You want to be alone?” a voice called out. I quickly turned on my heels and saw the person holding the keys to the studio.
Sadie.
Her long auburn hair hung straight down past her shoulders with an embellished headband across the top of head. Her usually bare legs were covered by a pair of tight jeans that were tucked into black riding boots. I could see that the lacy black tank that she was wearing under a practically see-through green top, hugged her tits perfectly. My cock noticed too.

“Maybe with you.” I gave her a devilish grin. She was fucking hot. Like needed to-be-fucking-me hot.

“Wouldn't that be fun,” she replied, never missing a beat as she took a step toward me.

“Could be,” I flirted back. “Very fun.”

“How about you prove to me that you’re not a complete tool on the mixing board first?”

“Oh, you mean you didn't come by just to see me?” I placed my hand over my heart, acting as if she'd broken it.

I was supposed to get one day alone in the studio to set up the track list for recording. I should have known better than to think I'd actually get to be alone. I knew why she was there. She thought I was an amateur. I was about to prove her wrong in more ways than one.

“Nope. I came by to see what kind of
producer
Hollace hired me. I don't want to sound like a bitch, but I Googled you. You have no experience. I need someone who knows what the hell they are doing. This record has to be perfect. I'm not sure that you're qualified for this job.”

So much for not sounding like a bitch.

“Look, I totally get your reservations about me,” I placated her, even though I knew I was more than qualified to produce her album. It was cookie cutter pop music. Anyone with half a brain could do it. “I may not have much experience with actual singers, but I've been mixing music since I was a kid.”

“You're just a deejay, Nick. And no offense, but that is not the same as a music producer.”

“You're right. Spinning records is about playing to a crowd. Finding that perfect rhythm for any circumstance. Sometimes they want a carefree club mix to dance around to. Other times they want a slow, sensual song to grind up on someone to. I know how to read people and that's beneficial in both cases. I'm a people pleaser, but I'm also an artist.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one I can read you. I know that you want people to hear a new side of you. To hear the grown-up version of Sadie Sinclair.”

“That's not reading me, Nick. I told you that yesterday,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yes, you did,” I conceded with a nod. “But it's not always about what you say. I can tell by the way you walk—the commanding click of your heels across the floor and the sway of your tight little ass. You want to sing the kind of music that causes a stir. You're tired of singing songs about people falling in love and teeny bopper breakups. You want to sing songs about people making love. About passion and desire. About longing and fulfillment.” Her eyes glazed over as she stared into mine. Her lips parted as she let out a slow, steady breath.

I stepped closer to her and reached out, brushing my hand down her arm. “You want to sing songs that get under people's skin. Leaves them wanting more. You want to seduce them with your sound.”

“I do,” she answered mindlessly, watching my hand stroke up and down her arm.

“You don't want to just sing songs, Sadie Sinclair. You want to sing...
sex
.”

Her eyes fell shut as she thought about what I was saying. I was going out on a limb with my assumption. For all I knew, she wanted to sing gospel hymns to a reggae beat. Lucky for me, the way she looked at me—like she wanted to eat me alive—was a proper assessment of exactly the kind of person she was. She finally opened her eyes and when she did, I knew I had her on the hook.

“Okay then, let's hear it,” she insisted, pointing at the computer I was holding in my hand. “I want to see if you're any good.”

“Oh, I assure you that I'm more than just good.” She was trying to play hardball, but if she thought for one second I didn't see the glimmer of lust in her eyes, she was crazy. “Take a seat, Miss Sinclair.” I pulled back one of the chairs for her. She hesitated, like she didn't want to seem too anxious to comply.

I fired up my computer and pulled up a folder of tracks I'd been working on. Careful not to mess up her hair, I slipped a pair of headphones over her ears.

She started to protest. “What are you doing? We can listen to it—”

“In order to get the full Nick Kline experience, I need to get completely”—I paused leaning in inches from her face—“and totally in your head.” She breathed me in and relaxed into her chair. I was one song away from convincing Sadie Sinclair that I was the perfect choice for her. Musically and more.

The next morning, Sadie showed up early. I had only been in the booth for about five minutes before she came bouncing through the door. Her eagerness to see me said that she'd been thinking about me. After she'd hugged me like I was her long-lost lover, she plopped down on the chair across from me and started telling me about a song she was working on. Just as Hollace had warned, she wanted to sing her own original music. I promised her I'd take a listen and see what we could do. She quickly pulled out her iPad and forwarded the songs to me.

I spent the night before listening to all the tracks Vince and Hollace insisted she sing. They were right—she was going to pitch a shit fit when she heard them. I decided to ease her into it with the one song that wasn't complete fluff. It was a ballad of unrequited love with quite a few lyrics of imagery. I was hoping it was “deep and emotional” by her standards. At least enough to get her to sing it one time through. After that, I could add in the backing vocals and tune it up enough to make it sellable.

It didn't take more than a few brooding stares to convince her to lay down the vocals on the track I already had cued up. I did have to promise that by next week we'd be recording one of her songs. I would have said whatever I’d needed to get her behind the mic that day. And so far, she'd bought everything I'd said to her.

“Are you ready?” I asked Sadie from the control booth. It had taken her about twenty minutes to light candles, kick off her shoes, and “get into the zone,” as she called it.

“One more minute,” she said into the mic, stretching her arms up over her head and settling into some yoga-esque pose.

The cropped, off-the-shoulder shirt she was wearing rose up as she stretched out in front of me. Her low-slung jeans not covering up anymore than she wanted them to. Her smoky eyes trained on me as she moved.

Is she baiting me?

She'd been pretty flirty with me the day before, but I never imagined she'd be as sexually forward as she was. Guess the tattoos and bad attitude did something for her. Not to mention, I'd totally won her over when she’d stopped by for her visit.

As soon as the beat I'd arranged started playing in her ears, she was a goner. After that, she’d given me a few more seductive looks and flirty lines before she’d said, “I can't wait to start working with you,” and left.

I should have known that she was more experienced than her music let on. That must have been part of the reason—if not all of it—she wanted her sound to be more mature. Sadie Sinclair had discovered sex, and apparently she was a big fan.