Taking Something (2 page)

Tonight was going to be a true testament of my skills. I would be working at the hottest new nightclub in town, in more way than one. The club was owned by a big-time record executive and would be filled with tons of celebrities and other industry moguls. This was my chance to parlay this deejay career into something a little more lucrative. I was going to be the next big music producer, come Hell or high water.

“T
HIS SOUNDS
amazing!” a hot little blond number screamed in my ear as I was starting up the final song of my first set. She'd told me her name at one point, but I couldn't remember it and I didn't really care. She was just another pretty face to pass the time with as far as I was concerned.

The night had been going perfectly. Everyone at the party was eating up the tracks I was mixing and there wasn't a person in the room that wasn't dancing or singing along. I'd spotted a few of the bigwigs I wanted to schmooze. As soon as I went on break I was going to hit the floor and get to work. Now, I just needed to ditch the groupie who obviously wanted to be my one-night-stand. Any other night, I would have let her hang all over me and stroke my ego—among other things—but tonight was all about business.

As the last beat of the song played, I tossed her my trademark Nick Kline panty-melting grin. “Hey sweetness, can you stay here for a minute and watch my gear while I take a quick break?”

“I thought maybe you'd want to take a break with me.” She licked her full lips, raised her eyebrows, widening her heavily mascaraed eyes. For a second I considered taking her up on her offer. She had the kind of lips that would look incredible wrapped around my dick and I knew it would only take me a minute to get her on her knees. She was willing and eager to please. I could tell by the tight dress she had on. It left little to the imagination and hugged all of her surgically enhanced curves just right. This girl was here for business, too. The kind of business that included hooking up with an up-and-coming superstar. I knew the type all too well. Even though she thought I was a big deal—and I kind of was—I wanted to take the next step. I wasn't going to spin records for the rest of my life. Or settle for blowjobs in nightclub bathrooms.

“Next break.” I leaned and kissed her cheek. “I've got a couple things I need to take care of first.”

“Okay,” she pouted. “I'll wait here. But, next break...I'm taking care of you.” She smiled.

“You know it,” I nodded with a wink as I made my way out of the booth.

The club was dimly lit and provided all the big names inside with the privacy they all claimed to want on their night out. The crowd included stars from reality television to big screen icons, but there was only one person I was thinking about and most people didn't even know what he looked like. Hollace Westwood. Not only was he the host of tonight's party, he was the “hit maker” on the music chart. Everyone who was anyone was signed with Westwood. If I wanted in quick, he was the one handing out the golden ticket. I knew from my research that he wasn't big on hiring rookies and since I had nothing but deejay experience on my resume, I'd have to get creative.

I slipped up to the velvet ropes of the VIP lounge and greeted Rodney, the bouncer I'd let beat me at poker last week after the club closed. I hated losing, but at the time I had been thinking it might be beneficial to have this guy feel some sympathy for me at some point. Tonight was the night.

“Hey, man,” I greeted him.

“Hey, Nick.” He grinned as he slipped his hand into mine. “Don't tell me you're coming over here to set up another card game. I felt bad enough for wiping the table with your ass last time.” He chuckled.

“Don't worry about it,” I played it off. “You win some, you lose some.” I paused. “I was actually wondering if you'd do me a favor. You know seeing as how I've been a little down on my luck lately.”

Truth was, I didn't believe in luck for one second. As far as I could tell, you made your own luck in life—which is exactly what I was trying to do. I needed to get into that VIP section and figure out a way to impress Hollace Westwood.

“Sure, man. What's up?”

“Any chance you'd let me slip in and take a quick lap?” I nodded toward the lounge.

“I don't know,” he said, eying me cautiously. “Boss might not like it.”

“If I get caught, which I won't”—I chuckled—“I'll say I snuck in.” Despite my popularity as a deejay, I'd yet to solidify my place in the VIP section. I was still just considered the hired help to the people sitting in there.

“Five minutes,” he finally agreed, unhooking the rope and letting me in. “Be discreet.”

“Discreet's my middle name.” I nodded as I stepped into the room before Rodney had second thoughts.

Black carpet lined the floor and plush white sofas were filled with the asses of people who had more money than they knew what to do with. To the right I noticed one very drunk metal band's lead singer with a girl on each side of him and one dancing between his legs to the pre-made tracks I'd set to play. To the left, members of the most sought-after boy band in the world were engaged in a sing-a-long fueled by the contents of the empty Cristal bottles that were strewn across the table. I contemplated pulling out my cell and snapping a couple photos of the underage crew. If I didn't get a job tonight, I could sell those pics for a quick buck. As much as I loved easy money, I decided against it. I was in here to do recon and I'd spotted my target. Westwood. Back corner. Private table. And wearing a look on his face that said he was having anything but a good time. It wasn't until I stepped a little bit closer that I was able to hear what had him on edge.

“I'm serious, Hollace. I need you to find me someone that isn't a complete dipshit.” Her voice was familiar, even though she was speaking through what I assumed were gritted teeth. Chick was not happy. “I'm so sick and tired of you sending me people who don't understand what I'm trying to accomplish. This is my career. It's like you don't even know who I am!”

“Believe me, I, more than anyone, want you to be happy,” he replied almost apologetically. “I'll keep looking. I'll have someone new in the studio by Monday.” From what I knew about Westwood, he was a hard-ass. The never-take-no-for-an-answer, we-do-things-my-way kind of guy.

I moved over to get a better glimpse of the diva spouting her demands to Hollace Westwood. She had to be a big deal for him not to tell her to get lost.

That's when I first saw her. In the flesh anyway.
Sadie Sinclair
. You had to have been sleeping under a rock to not know who she was. Her auburn hair cascaded down over her shoulders in loose, wavy curls, which was such a contradiction to the hard intensity of her bright green eyes.

The riot act she had been reading Hollace made perfect sense now. She was his number-one client—his biggest earner—and probably the only person who could have gotten away with talking to him the way she was. She'd been churning out a collection of platinum albums since before she could drive. Bouncing between a successful television show that she had landed when she was eight years old and her multimillion-dollar music career that followed, she was America's favorite rags-to-riches story. Sweet little trailer-park girl goes Hollywood.

“I swear on my label, I'll find you a producer that understands your vision, Sadie.”

How perfect is this?

It was like life was saying, “Here you go, Nick! Here's your shot!”

“I need people to start seeing me like an adult,” Sadie continued. “I'm so sick and tired of singing about first kisses that it makes me want to puke.”

She'd been doing a pretty good job of shedding her good-girl image over the past couple years—drinking, clubbing, and a slew of short-lived relationships.

Hollace tried to calm her down. “Sadie, your next album is going to be amazing. I will find you the perfect producer.”

“You get one more shot,” she threatened. “If the next person isn't perfection, I'm leaving.”

“What do you mean leaving? You're under contract,” he reminded her.

“Please,” she scoffed. “You send me a shitty producer and I won't record another song until my contract is up.” With that she stood up from the table and stomped away on her six-inch heels. I quickly turned my back to her, not wanting to get caught listening in.

I gave Hollace a couple minutes to let the dust settle before approached him. The look of dissatisfaction on his face almost made me second-guess talking to him. It was times like this I wished Lila were still working with me. She had a way with men. They just couldn't say no to her. She would have had Hollace agreeing to hire me as the Vice President of Westwood Records by the end of the night, but I was on my own this time.

“Mr. Westwood,” I said with the false confidence I'd perfected over the years. “I think I can help you.”

“And just who the hell might you be?” he replied.

Maybe I didn't let the dust settle long enough.

I answered as I extended my hand. “Nick Kline, sir.”

He hesitated before he wrapped his hand around mine. The dark skin of his fingers were accentuated by the 24-karat gold rings he was wearing, each of them blinged out with diamonds.

“The deejay, right?”

“That's me,” I smiled. “But I'm also a music producer.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. And I think I can help you with your Sadie Sinclair situation.”

“Look, kid. I think you've got a great ear,” he said in a tone clearly meant to be patronizing, “for music—and apparently eavesdropping. But I'm not about to send a first-time producer into the studio with Sadie Sinclair. As I'm sure you heard, she's giving me one more shot to find her a producer she deems acceptable.”

“Who are you going to send?” I asked, gesturing to the empty seat for permission to join him. I paused, not wanting Hollace to think I was too pushy. When he nodded for me to sit down I breathed a sigh of relief. Subconsciously, he was giving me a shot.. He was going to hear me out.

Don't screw it up.

“I'm thinking about Will Voison.”

I pretended to think it over for a second. “Bad choice. Voison is good with bands. He's never worked with a solo artist.”

“Bobby Reynolds,” he suggested.

I shook my head. “Nothing like putting two divas in a room together. Do you want her to walk?”

His shoulders went back a little and his eyebrows rose. “Hal Felix.”

“He's been dead for ten years, Mr. Westwood. But I think you already know that.”

“Well, it looks like you've done your research.” He laughed as he shook his head. “Look, kid. I'm not doubting the fact that you know the industry, but what exactly makes you think you can get the job done?”

“There are two things I know inside, outside and upside down, sir. Music and women. There is not a doubt in my mind that I cannot only please Miss Sinclair, but you also. I just need a shot.”

He pulled a cigar from his inside jacket pocket and took his sweet-ass time lighting it. I wasn't sure if he was buying my spiel or just stalling for time as he waited for security to show up and escort me out of the lounge.

“You got balls. I'll give you that much,” he finally said. “Let's just say I give you chance—put you in the studio with Sadie. What are you going to do when she tries to convince you that she wants to sing something that's not going to sell worth a shit? Which I know she'll do. She's got in her head that she's a songwriter these days and it couldn't be any further from the truth. If you're as smart about music as you seem to be, you know as well as I do that she's a computer-generated pop singer, plain and simple.”

“It won't be a problem.” I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. “I'll just convince her that she needs to sing what you want her to sing.”

“That simple, huh?”

“That simple.” I nodded. “The way I see it, sometimes the best ideas people have are the ones others put in their heads.” Which is exactly what I planned on doing with Sadie. There was only one woman that had ever said no to me and I considered it a fluke. I'd have Sadie Sinclair eating out of the palm of my hand within minutes.

Another long, slow drag off his cigar. As the smoke seeped off his lips, I hoped my idea was seeping into his brain.

An attractive, sleek-looking brunette stepped over to Mr. Westwood and said something too low for me to hear. He nodded and turned his eyes back to me. I could practically hear him trying to figure out whether or not I was full of shit. He stood, so I did the same.

“Can you be in LA by Monday?”

I fought the urge to let the triumphant grin spread across my face. “I can be there yesterday if you want me to.”

“Well then, let’s see what you’ve got, kid.” He smiled around his cigar and extended his hand to me.

I took his hand and gave it firm shake. “Thank you. You won’t be disappointed, sir.”

He gave my hand a fucking grizzly bear squeeze that felt like it cracked at least two of my bones before releasing it to remove his cigar from his lips.

“Better not be. This isn’t the boy scouts, Nick. You fuck this up, you don’t work in this business again. Ever.”