IntheMood (4 page)

He broke the kiss and touched his lips to the tip of her
nose. “Do you want this? Your choice.”

Like a gentleman, he’d given her breathing space, a chance
to regain her senses. She appreciated that. “We should go.” Her shaky laugh
revealed her state of mind. “I thought— I had no—”

“Tell me.” His hold on her gentled but he didn’t let go.

“Well, we got so carried away that I thought, well, you
know, it was just one of those things, a night. And you are so fucking cool I
thought, yeah, well, at least I can say I fucked one famous person in my life.
And now I’m a groupie.” It had meant much more to her, but she didn’t know if she
was ready to admit it to anyone else yet. This was so intense she was losing
herself. Treating it flippantly might help her to regain her equilibrium.

His laugh broke the remaining tension and she relaxed into
his hold. “Except, darling Violet, I’m the groupie and you’re the musician.”

“No, I didn’t—” She broke off and gave a self-deprecating
grin. “Yes I did.”

He held her firmly, gazing down into her face. “Look, V. You
want a one-nighter, then that’s what you’ll have. I won’t push you for more if
you don’t want it. Like I said last night, the business part of it ended
outside the café. It can start again this morning, if you want, and we can be
just colleagues.”

She swallowed. He meant it. “You’d do that?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“Is my playing on the track so important to you?” She could
feel his intensity, and it wasn’t all for her. Little signs of nervousness, the
way the muscles around his mouth had tightened, a look of tension that was
different from the way they’d appeared last night.

“What?” Frowning, he stared at her, then his brow cleared.
“Fuck, yes. I want to be honest with you. Yes, it means a lot to me. I let the
band down, badly, a couple of years back and this is my chance to make it up to
them. I want this album to be the best I can make it, and it’s fucking good
already. Can I be frank?”

“You can be Harry if it helps.”

Her mild joke released his smile. “For you I’ll be anything
you like. Okay, then. When I left the band, it wasn’t under the best
circumstances. I was wasted, unreliable. What was reported in the press—it
wasn’t the half of it. All I did in the band was sing and play harmonica,
although they put my name down on a few songs as writer. Truth is, I didn’t
write any of them. I did learn production and discovered I liked it, but my songwriting
is feeble at best. They left my name on the songs, which was a pretty cool
thing to do.

“My share of the royalties paid for my rehab. But when I
left the band, it wasn’t voluntary like they reported. They said I’d left for a
few months to go into rehab and I’d be back, but it wasn’t the truth. The band
fired me. They had to.” He met her eyes steadily, and all she saw in his now
was honesty. And a simmer of desire, something she’d thought he’d burned out
on. She was glad to see its return. “Jace took me to the facility and shoved me
inside. That was after I ODed for the last time.”

“So if not for Jace, you’d be dead.” She remembered Jace,
the lead guitarist with Murder City Ravens. Tall, dark and sultry. Or sulky,
they both worked for him.

“Yeah. I thought he’d taken away my life and I was bitter
for a long time. Too long.” He sighed. “In the facility, they taught me to face
my own problems and take responsibility for my own mistakes. That was when I
called each member of the band and apologized. Thank fuck Jace took his call,
because I’d missed him. We started to be friends again. This recording session
is a way for us to start over professionally. The press has been nosing around,
but we’re sticking to our story that I left voluntarily when my bad habits got
the better of me, and started a new career here.”

Heady, for him to give her that much power. All she had to
do was make a call, and their carefully constructed story would be in the
toilet. The press loved rumors and she could start the circus with the
information he’d just given her.

So this gig was far more important to him than he’d told
her. “Am I your secret weapon?”

He gave her a long, lingering kiss. “More than you know.
After last night it’s far more than that.” She swallowed, and he saw it, his
attention going to her vulnerable throat. He bent and touched a kiss to one
side of her neck. “You can back out from the job if you want, but I want to see
you again personally, if you’re willing. We started something last night and
we’re not done yet.”

She had to know one thing before she agreed to anything
more. “The junk? You’re off it?”

“I didn’t even drink for a year. Alcohol was never my
problem, although God knows I enjoyed a bottle of bourbon with my junk. But I
could stop drinking whenever I wanted to, and I did, just to give the band some
shit when they told me to quit. I stopped because I wanted to prove to myself
that I didn’t need anything at all, that I could live my life totally sober. I
even think twice before popping aspirin. I swear it.”

She had to believe him. Either that or walk away. “My family
has been in the music business on and off for years. Now it’s just the club,
but at one time it was more. My uncle Reggie, Claud’s brother, died of, well,
everything.”

His face clouded. “I’m sorry.”

“In his case the stuff he took killed his gift. He played
the sax, like me, but he went the whole Charlie Parker length and paid for it.
He was never as brilliant as Bird, but he wanted to be, and when he was high,
he thought he was.” She shrugged. “He died before I was born, but Claud always
reminded me about that after I started to play.”

“You’re good,” he assured her. “Not like Bird though. Your
gift is different. Shall we go and use it?”

She glanced around, saw her instrument case propped against
one wall. She really should ask for her key back from Jack. They were in
business together, but that didn’t mean he could come and go here anymore.

But today, she had to admit it was useful. She found her
jacket and picked up her case. “I’m ready when you are.”

Chapter Four

They got a cab to his studio, which was, like the club, in
the blues district. V had heard of the enterprise, the news had made quite a
stir in the music industry, but she’d never been there before.

The studio turned out to be a nondescript building, a shiny
brass plaque outside the only indication of the function the building now
fulfilled. But on opening the door, all doubt was eliminated. A receptionist
sat behind a glass-topped desk, and behind it was a proud display that read “Kismet
Studios”.

“Fate?” she queried, turning to him with a smile.

He shrugged. “It sounded good. Don’t you think?”

“Sure.” It could, after all, be as simple as that.

“Teresa, this is V. Put her name down on the list. V Hamid.”

“List?” she asked.

“People allowed straight through. You’ll have to sign the
guest list, but you can come and go as you wish after that.”

This was a privileged world. As a musician amongst
musicians, she took the world for granted, but people hounded by the press and
others would come to this place. A studio should provide them with a degree of
peace, since it was their place of work. She was stepping into a different
position here, maybe into a new part of her life.

What happened last night had nothing to do with it, at least
that was what she told herself. Until she felt his presence at her back and
knew she was lying to herself.

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Just like acquaintances who’d never touched each other’s
bodies in the deep of night, they walked side by side through to a studio at
the back.

It wasn’t V’s first time in a recording studio, so the
relative smallness of the control booth and the studio beyond didn’t bother
her. Her uncle Claud had sometimes recorded in a tiny place that had closed
down five years ago.

Someone was already there, an African American of maybe
forty, tall, his head shaved bald. Hot. He cocked a brow at Matt.

“V, meet AZ.” Matt sighed theatrically. “This business is
full of initials.”

“Pleased to meet you, V,” said AZ in a voice of pure velvet.
“You’re a Hamid, aren’t you?”

He was probably a native of Chicago, or had lived here for a
long time. Outside the city, Hamid meant the thing her father had invented.
Inside, it meant the family, and their tentacles of interest and influence.

She nodded. Matt put her sax case down in front of her.
“Guess it’s a good job I met you first, hey?” He took a seat in a well-worn
leather chair and motioned to the one next to him, not so well worn. “How do
you want to do this?”

She sat down. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. “If I
go in there, can you play the track to me on a loop? I’ll tell you when I’ve
got it.”

“I heard V last night,” Matt said to his engineer, “and if
the band agrees, she’s just what the new track needs.” He gave her an
apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, V, but I have to ask you to sign a nondisclosure
agreement before you hear the track. It’s not me, it’s the band.”

She understood perfectly and if he expected trouble, he
wouldn’t get it from her. Bootlegging could wreck the impact the band needed
from the first release of the album. The agreement was simple and it had no
tricky clauses. She had no problem signing that.

She walked toward the door connecting the control booth with
the studio. “This new track got a name?” V asked from the door.

“
She’s So Sexy
.”

V groaned, but it was their track. Matt’s laughter followed
her into the studio. She found a stool and tested the keys, pulled out the
bottle of water she’d grabbed from the refrigerator in her apartment, wet her
throat and her lips.

He played the track. She loved it, and it took her two
listens to settle down and absorb the melody and chord changes. On the fifth
listen, she thought she had it. When he looped it again, she added some riffs
and trills. Then just before the band broke into a new key, she played a fast
scale, linking the keys and adding a melancholy note. This track was sultry,
slow, the kind of power ballad that could go right into people’s hearts, but
Matt was right—it needed something else. Something new, and she could do it, she
had no doubt about that.

He looped it again without comment, and she did it again,
leaving out some notes this time, giving the notes that remained a chance to
breathe. She left that scale, and added another one later, exactly the same,
where the lyrics reminded the listener that the person he was singing about had
gone. Clever not to say how or when the person had gone, or the gender—it added
to the universality of the song, and the atmosphere.

She decided she loved it, and would feel proud to be associated
with it, if they decided to use her piece. Furthest from her mind was the
thought that this could help her career, such as it was. She just wanted to add
to this creation, help it to be the best it could. She’d played on songs she
hadn’t loved before, but this was different. They’d used electronic elements,
but very, very subtly.

Recognizing the creative trance when it fell on her, she
went with it and let the song tell her what to do. At first, her noodles had
been experimental, playing on her technical skills, gauging where the notes
would work best. Now her soul came into play, turning the expertise into
artistry. She entered the place she loved, somewhere she couldn’t push. It
either came or it didn’t. Without it she could create a reasonable job and
please most people. With it, she could please herself.

She couldn’t remember how many times Matt looped the track,
but he let her work with it until she had what she wanted.

Quietly, she put down her sax. She was done.

He didn’t loop the track again, but played a different one.
He hadn’t invited her to add to this one, and while she listened, she thought
it needed nothing else. The track finished and the door between the control
booth and the studio opened. A man entered, one she knew well but had never met
in person.

“Matt was right,” he drawled. “A sax track was just what we
needed.
Your
sax track. Did he get you to sign a contract?”

What they had couldn’t be deemed a contract. She shook her
head, smiling. “It was just a tryout, that’s all.”

“I want it. I want you.” Jace made it sound like more than a
business deal. His dark-blue gaze roamed over her, taking in every part of her
jeans and sweater, making her feel naked. Vulnerable. But she was used to
opening her soul in her music, or at least, she knew what it felt like.

This technique might work on the women he usually
encountered; he’d have to try harder with her. He wasn’t opening his soul here.
Only his fly, and she recognized the tactic. So Matt hadn’t informed Jace of
their relationship, only that she was a session musician he was trying out.
Silently, she thanked him for that. It told her Jace was used to using his
sexiness to get the advantage, which in turn, told her he knew exactly what he
was doing.

“My father’s my agent.” She couldn’t think of anyone better.
Everybody in the family came to him with their contracts. He supervised their
music contracts, property deals and any other damn thing. He’d once found a
loophole in her brother’s rental agreement that saved him a hundred dollars a
week, and Darius was still paying a nominal rent for his restaurant on the
Loop. “If you want a deal, give me the name of your agent and we’ll do it.” She
added a hip shimmy and a knowing wink.

A raucous laugh echoed through the studio, startling her.
“She got you there, sexy boy!” came the disembodied voice of AZ. She glanced at
the booth, grinning.

“You do.” To do him justice, Jace didn’t seem to hold any
rancor. His grin was more open, less calculated and far more attractive, to her
at least. He also lost some of the Cajun drawl. “Seriously, you did add sex to
that song. And you didn’t use any dirty sax clichés either. I’d really like to
use it.” He glanced at the booth. “The bastard’s right about you. He said he
found you in a blues club and brought you in to see how you worked with the
track.” But he smiled when he said it, and if there was any real rivalry, V
didn’t hear it. Fondness, rather.

He turned back to V. “I meant the other too. You’re sexy.
You have that aura about you, especially when you play.” He picked up the end
of her ponytail and flicked it back. “I can see this loose, clinging to the
sax. I’d like you to play with us sometime. Just this track for now.” He
paused, biting his lip. “I can’t promise, because the rest of the band needs to
hear the track and approve, but maybe have you in the video. You up for that?”

“Maybe.” She wouldn’t tell him how much the thought excited
her. If she got credit, and her father negotiated a percentage, she’d get a
small amount every time someone played the video. More than anything else it
would get her name out there as a session musician. She might get regular work,
have a chance to go with her heart’s desire rather than the practical career
she’d decided on to please her family.

“May I listen to the rest of the CD?” She wanted to know
what else she’d be putting her name to. Only overt sexist or racist lyrics
would make her back off. This song had none, it was a simple, beautiful lament
to love, but she hadn’t really listened to Murder City Raven’s work recently. Not
since Matt left.

“Sure.” Jace shrugged. “But you have to listen to it here.
You can’t take a copy away.”

“Of course not.” She understood that. “I just want to hear
it.”

“Add some tracks. See how it goes,” Jace suggested. “As I
said, no promises, but I’m interested. But that would be unpaid unless we
decide to take it. On spec, so don’t feel you have to.”

“I’d love to.” She’d heard enough of the music to know she’d
like to play, even if only for her own benefit. And she hoped she’d be spending
more time in this studio.

“You know who she is?” AZ said through the intercom.

Jace studied her, more warily now. “Should I?”

AZ filled in the blanks. “She’s V Hamid. The Hamids own one
of the oldest blues and jazz clubs in Chicago. At least one that’s been in the
same hands. You name them, they played in that club. She’s one of the family
known as the Rainbow Nation of Chicago. How many kids, V?”

“I’m one of twelve.”

AZ’s rich chuckle filled the room. “Yeah. A while back, old
man Hamid invented a valve regulator doohickey. Something that helped with
energy conservation in cars. All I know is that every new car has one and Hamid
gets a cut on every single one. So he knows his way around contracts. He
negotiated a better deal than any lawyer could have done for him. He and Mrs.
Hamid started adopting. Brangelina don’t have anything on the Hamids. Where
d’you come from, sugar?”

She thought she was used to explaining, but with Matt
silently listening, she found it harder than she’d imagined. The others didn’t
matter. Only him. “Chicago. I was born addicted and they thought I’d die. When
the hospital let me go, Mom took me home. They don’t like interracial adoption,
but it wasn’t as if anybody else wanted me. She took me and kept me and
eventually the authorities gave in and they let them formally adopt me. That’s
what they did with the others too. We were the no-hope kids, the ones nobody
wanted, but we got a home with Mom and Pop.”

It wasn’t as if her parents couldn’t have children of their
own. They’d had three before they’d begun the adoptions. They’d never
discriminated between their children—once they started making serious money,
her mom indulged her desire for a big family. “Sometimes you can’t walk through
town without bumping into a relative.” She smiled, loving the thought. Her dad
had once remarked that they owned the city. The Hamids formed a solid family
unit and she was more than proud to belong.

So how had Matt taken the news that she was the child of
some nameless addict? She’d been lucky not to have been born with HIV, but she
had been spared that. Just the heroin addiction. And as far as she knew, no
brain damage.

His deep, sexy voice finally broke the silence that had
fallen after her revelation. “And look how good you turned out.” He’d left the
booth, and now he walked across the studio floor to take her by the waist and
swing her down from her perch on the high stool. She saw no condemnation in his
gaze, no doubts.

Although she knew her origins weren’t her fault, she still
had a kind of residual guilt. It hadn’t helped that finally, with a little
wangling, her brother Bran, who had a store in town and could work computers
like nobody else she knew, discovered her mother’s identity. The poor woman had
died shortly after she’d dumped her baby at the hospital. Nothing more to know.
A sad victim, that was all.

Nobody else knew what they’d found out. Bran agreed to keep
it secret. Once she knew, it surprised V how little difference it made to her.
She felt sorry for the poor victim who’d never had a chance, but the woman
who’d birthed her was a stranger. Nobody she wanted to know more about.

Now she stared at this man who behaved like a confident blue
blood, and forced a bold smile. She was good at that, appearing in control when
she was screaming inside, but it didn’t get any easier. Especially now, when he
was paying her extravagant compliments.

“That was great.
You
were great. I can mix the track
from what you gave me. I liked the colder, more analytical stuff to start with,
merging with the soul-deep stuff at the end. You’re something else, V.”

“Aren’t I, though?” She turned the smile cheeky and pulled
away from him. “Anything else I can save?” She laughed at the expression on
Jace’s handsome face. “I was only kidding. The track was great without it.”

“That’s just it. It was great. I wanted
knock-your-socks-off. I was thinking a single female voice, but the sax is even
better.” Jace cast Matt an apologetic look. “I want this album the best.
Hopefully our breakthrough.”