Exposed (The Alpha Stranger) Book 2 (6 page)

The engineer plays back each of the takes. Jonathan and I discuss possible string or percussion accompaniments to the song. But after a little debate, we decide that the song is stronger with just the piano and my vocals.

“You have something really special,” Jonathan tells me. “Most of the sexy songs on the radio just sound so manufactured. In an ideal world, this song would be a number one hit. I can’t promise you that. But I will assure you that you have a definite future as a singer-songwriter.”

“Wow. That’s all I needed to hear,” I gush.

Jonathan offers me a tour of his facility while the engineer does a final mix on the song. He shows me the half-dozen or so studios in his building. We walk in on one session where several musicians are laying down a score for a beer commercial. It’s kinda fun seeing a music jingle composed in front of your eyes.

“This work pays the bills. But to get some creative juices going, I like to find up-and-coming musicians and give them some studio time. I’ve discovered lots of talent over on Venice Beach. Some of them have gotten on record labels. Nothing big. I definitely believe you will get signed to someone based on your song,” Jonathan says.

As we walk down the hall, the receptionist walks up with a package. She has a perplexed look on her face as she walks up to her boss holding the package. “Um, I have no idea who this package is for,” the young blonde girl says. “It’s addressed to, ‘A Lover With No Name.’”

Jonathan looks at me as he grabs the package. “This might be for you,” he says as he hands me the mysterious large white envelope.

I look at the words and immediately recognize the handwriting of my anonymous lover. I smile widely and tell both of them, “Oh yeah. This is for me.” I open the envelope and find a map of Hollywood. On the map is a heart drawn over the corner of Hollywood and Highland with a note that says, “Meet me at Midnight.”

Jonathan can’t help but look over my shoulder, trying to decipher the cryptic message. “What is all that about?” he asks. Well, what am I supposed to tell him? That my anonymous lover only communicates with me through handwritten notes? I just look at my producer and tell him, “Looks like I have a date tonight.”

***

I spent the rest of the afternoon just walking around Santa Monica. I walked along the beach and made my way to some of the super and scary-talented street musicians over on the Venice Boardwalk. For the first time, I feel a kindred spirit with these folks. While the rest of the world is working in offices, we pursue our passion in hopes that these passions will put food on our table. Well, they have Venice Beach and I have the Arrow Bar.

I get to the bar at around 9:00 p.m. The bartender waves over to me and says, “Half these people are asking if you are going to play tonight.” Wow. I actually have fans?! The bartender tells me that I can have anything I want from the bar. So I ask for a glass of Rum and Coke. Might as well go for some strong stuff before I hit the piano.

At 9:15, I walk up to the stage to some scattered applause. That completely catches me off guard. As I look out into the audience, I see some familiar faces from last night. I sit down at the piano and tell the audience, “It’s great to be back tonight.” Then I begin to play. I start to play some of my older songs. There are about six tables of people right up in front of the piano. Their attention is fixated on me. I see a couple of girls around my age who are really into my music. I can’t even begin to tell you how that affects me because I know how they feel. When I first heard Fiona Apple’s music at ten years old, it changed my world. When I first saw her at the Coachella Music Festival, I cried. I don’t know if I will have that exact effect on my fans but it feels good to have people listen to my music.

After I finish my first song, several people come up to the piano and leave tips. There must be about twenty bucks in the tip jar. Nice! I just earned back my gas money. I play a few more songs before I launch into my new signature piece. “I just recorded this song this afternoon thanks to my new producer Jonathan Ellis. I hope you like it. It’s called, ‘Lover With No Name.’” Before I can even finish the title to the song, I hear people clap. Damn, that feels good!

I close my eyes and play my song. Again, the bar begins to fall quiet as I pour out my most intimate lyrics. When I open my eyes, I notice the entire bar just looking at me. My heart swells with pride as I continue to play this ode to my anonymous lover. When I am finished, I am treated to a huge wave of applause. The outpouring is so great that I give a little bow to the audience. Several people leave me cash in the tip jar. This time, the tippers are almost exclusively all men. They leave tens and twenties. Damn, this is stripper cash! One pudgy, balding middle-aged guy leaves me a hundred-dollar bill with his phone number written on it. It looks like I have gotten my first stalker!

I finish my set at 11:00. My tip jar overflows with cash. I grab the money and start to count it as I make my way to the bar. Fuck! I just made $337! My eyes open wide as I stuff the cash into my purse.


“Can’t you stay for another hour?! Business is hopping and the tips are great!” the bartender pleads.

I reach into my purse and hand the bartender $50. “I have to be somewhere at midnight. But I promise to do some longer sets in the future.”

The bartender happily takes my tip and says, “You are welcome back here anytime!”

I skip out of the bar overwhelmed with a sense of pride that I have never felt in my life. I get to my car and head over to Hollywood and Highland. As I drive over to Hollywood, I begin to wonder why my anonymous lover would want to meet me in such a random place. Not that I mind. I would meet the handsome stranger in the middle of a junkyard if he demanded it. As I drive towards Hollywood, I am treated to a freak show of crazy homeless people, scary looking drug dealers, street walkers and other weirdos. I park my car at the Hollywood and Highland Center. Then I refer to the map to find out exactly where my anonymous lover wants me.

As I walk down the street, I notice that I am walking right on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I see some familiar names on the sidewalk. When I get to the exact corner marked on the map sent to me, I see a strange star sitting right on the corner. It appears that someone placed a fake “Star” right at the corner. I lean over and read the name, “Anonymous Girl.”

“Until you get the real thing,” a familiar voice says behind my back. I turn around and see my anonymous lover. He has a wide smile on his face. I give him a hug.

“That is so sweet!” I tell him.

“I thought it would be funny,” he says. “And I am surprised no one stole it. It’s been sitting there on the corner for about fifteen minutes.”

“So I quit my job,” I tell my lover.

“Good for you. It’s probably not what you wanted to do in life.”

“It certainly is not,” I say as I reach into my purse and proudly pull out the hundred-dollar bill with a phone number on it. “Check this out. I got a tip from this guy who left his phone number on it.”

My anonymous lover looks at the bill and checks out the phone number. “Well, that’s what comes with eventual fame. Soon, you’ll have thousands of guys lusting after you.”

“I never thought I’d be proud to have a stalker,” I say as we walk down Hollywood Boulevard.

“Well, celebrities eventually date other celebrities. You’ll soon find yourself in the arms of some rock star.”

I stop and look at the anonymous stranger oddly. Why would he say something like that? “I don’t want to date a celebrity. I want to be with you.”

My lover looks at me. I don’t like the look. “You know what we have can’t last forever.”

“What do you mean?! Are you going to dump me?!” I ask.

“Look, we don’t really know each other,” my lover tells me as he grabs my hand. “You’re young. You are going to have wonderful relationships with really interesting guys. And you are going to be rich and famous. You are going to have your pick of guys.”

“I don’t want other guys! I want you!” I yell.

My lover begins to pull away. Oh fuck! I’m scaring him. I’m being weird. He backs away from me as though I were contagious.

“Please don’t go,” I say softly. It’s too late. Before I can plead my case, my anonymous lover walks away. I can’t even move. My legs lose all feeling. I lean back against the front of a storefront. Then I start to cry. I fall to my knees and crumble on the ground in front of the stained stars on the Walk of Fame. I may be on my way to wealth and fame. But I have never felt so fucking empty in my life.

***

I stagger around Hollywood Boulevard like a zombie. Some of the junkies look at me like I’m the one who needs help. Prostitutes and pimps fight and curse as I walk past them. Cops tackle some drug dealer. It’s all just white noise to me. I am numb. I walk to my car and slowly make my way back to my apartment. The thought of veering into oncoming traffic comes into my head one too many times.

By the time I pull into my parking space, I just lose it. I cry. I scream. I slam the steering wheel. There is so much fucking emotion in me right now that my body can’t function. It’s really over. There is no way for me to contact my lover. I pushed too far and he pushed me away. Yes, I know I am only 21 years old. Right now, I feel as though my life is over.

I struggle to climb each step to my shared Culver City apartment. I walk inside and slump over to the kitchen. I just want to get drunk. Alas, there is nothing in the fridge that will fuck me up. A half-full bottle of red Gatorade will have to do.

As I take a drink, I hear my roommate’s door open. She walks into the living room and looks at me. Yes, I know I am a mess. I don’t say anything. I don’t even want to look at anyone right now. My body is slumped over the kitchen counter. My heart hurts.

“He dumped you, didn’t he?” my roommate says.


“Fuck you!” I yell as I storm off into my room. I slam the door and lie in bed. I begin to cry into my pillow. I just want to fucking die right now. I would trade all the success I have had with my music to get my anonymous lover back. I can work the rest of my life at the reception desk. I don’t care.

Everything on my body hurts. I want to go to sleep but I can’t even calm myself down. After an hour I lie on my back, too paralyzed to even turn off the lights. I keep replaying the scene out on Hollywood Boulevard. Why did I show him that one-hundred dollar bill with the phone number?! Why did I push things too far?

By 7:00 a.m., I finally fall asleep. When I wake up six hours later, my world isn’t any better. I still can’t get myself out of bed. I’m afraid to go outside of my bedroom and hear my roommate tell me, “I told you so.” I don’t want to confront the world. I begin to hum one of my own songs to myself. The music makes me forget about my anonymous lover if only for a few minutes. I stare at my keyboard and decide to take my focus off of my pain and try to work on my craft.

I grab the keyboard and begin to play. It takes me a little while to get my mind focused on the music. After about an hour or so, I’m fully immersed in the music. I grab my notebook and begin to write. Of course, the first thing I want to write about is heartache. I try to tell myself that this whole incident will be worth it if I can get one good song on paper. But the truth is, no song is worth getting your heart broken like this.

By the early afternoon, I stop writing songs. I begin to cry again. I grab my notebook and start to write a letter to my anonymous lover. It is a plea that will go unanswered since I have no way to contact him. As I write this letter, I keep repeating the plea, “Come back to me. Whatever I did wrong, just come back to me. Whatever you want me to be, come back to me.” I keep writing the same type of sentence over and over again until I start to sing those words to myself.

I put down the pen and pick up the keyboard. I begin to sing my desperate words. In minutes, my letter becomes a song. I call it, “Come back to me.” I keep playing it over and over again hoping that somehow, the universe will transmit my plea to my anonymous lover. It’s wishful thinking from inside of a lonely bedroom. But it does help make the pain go away.

The evening comes. I emerge from my bedroom at 9:00 and head to the Arrow Bar. My mood is still bleak. My body still hurts. The only reason why I am going to the bar is in the hopes that maybe my anonymous lover will be there. Perhaps he will give me a second chance. It’s my only hope.