Page 13 of Hot Shot Rock Star
Chapter 6
Jazzy
Hal’s arranged for some fans, mostly teenage and college girls, to come backstage and get autographs while the main show is setting up. This is my second-favorite part of the singing gig—making a difference to young girls, giving them a piece of my soul to take solace in.
“Jazzy, your song hit me so hard. I want to be strong like you.” The girl can’t be more than thirteen, fourteen maybe, and she’s got tears coming down her cheeks and her hand quivers as she extends the program for me to sign. My heart clenches and I reach out and brush the tears from her cheeks.
“What’s your name, honey?” I want to hold her and console her.
Ben and his friend Kodi catch my attention as they tower over the crowd of young women and I scribble my name on the girl’s program. Whatever she told me her name is gets lost in the hubbub as Ben makes his way to my side.
He wraps me in his signature hug, making the false world of Jazzy the famous musician who little girls weep for disappear as he whispers to me, “I’m so proud of you baby.” His presence grounds me, warms me, and I wonder if I should tell that young girl that this is what gives me strength. But when I unwrap myself from Ben, the girl is gone, and Hal is ushering the rest of the crowd toward the exit.
“That was some performance, Jazz,” Kodi says, his playful grin in place. The guy is a nuisance, like an eager puppy that you don’t have time to play with, but you can’t help yourself because of his enthusiasm.
“I didn’t realize you were a music aficionado,” I say in official piss-mode, the exact opposite of gracious. Just like that, I revert to my crutch, my comfort zone, far from the vulnerable singer who wipes tears off little girls’ cheeks.
“I get around.” He winks, undaunted.
“Let’s get out of here,” Ben says. He’s all smiles, but his tension is palpable, and I know it’s being in the presence of the evil Hal that gets under his skin. At some point this evening, I’ll need to remind him that Hal’s the one who put together this gig. Opening for the up-and-coming Foals in their first U.S. concert is big.
“Yeah, we need to get out of the way of the headliners, the real musicians—”
“Don’t sell yourself short, babe.” Ben says as we head toward the elevator to take us down to the dressing room area. “There were some real fans out there. I felt the genuine appreciation for you. You owned that crowd.”
I snort, brushing the words aside before I have a chance to fully absorb them, to let my soul acknowledge any truth in them. The elevator doors open, and Hal catches up with us. He puts his arm around me and sweeps me away from Ben and into the elevator.
“We need to talk about an appearance I have lined up for you, Jaz.” He looks up at Ben. “We’ll only be a few minutes.” The elevator doors start to close, but Ben stops them, taking the hit on his broad shoulders. I grab hold of Ben’s hand as I disengage from Hal, my heart pounding with the sudden escalation in tension as if a time bomb were ticking down. The pressure in my chest doesn’t stop me from playing it cool. I smile and wink at Kodi.
“Come on, guys. Let’s go back to my dressing room.”
“This is business, Jasmine. Ben and Kodi can wait—”
“We’re coming with her,” Ben says. His voice has that nearly unrecognizable edge that only Hal brings out in him. My first instinct is to scream at them both and run from the elevator before the doors slide closed. Once they shut us into that cocoon of violent silence, my second instinct is to smack the arrogance from Hal’s face, the expression he almost always wears.
No one says a word until we get to my dressing room, which is small and has one chair and a couch. Flopping onto the couch because the rush of adrenaline from the performance is winding down, I pull Ben with me, taking up all the space. Kodi sits in the only chair, leaving Hal standing. Which would be great if this were a game of musical chairs. But it’s not.
Standing like the general in command suits Hal’s inflated sense of self-importance just fine.
“I’ve got you booked for three nights next week, small venues downtown. Good exposure. We need to rework the last song on the album, test it live this week and see how it plays before we send it to distributors. There’s some interest from music-subscription services, but we still need social proof.” He stops his monologue and stands in front of me, hands on hips, staring as if there’s no one else in the room. Knowing him, no one else is on his radar right now. His superpower is ignoring people who don’t matter to him, and that includes anyone and everyone who’s not his musician or in a position of influence and power in the music industry.
“Go on. I know you have more.” I roll my hand to get this over with. So far there’s nothing earth-shatteringly new that required this extra post-performance meeting.
“And we have an interview lined up for you on Music on the Couch. Should be epic. I have the talking points you need to hit, but more importantly you need to sell the sex—”
“What the fuck—” Ben leans forward and he’s about to jump from the couch, but I hang onto his arm.
“That’s my line.” For a change I’m the cool and under-control half of our duo. I keep my response calm and frown at Hal, willing him to back down with my so-far-in-life ineffective mental telepathy. I realize too late I should have used body language, like a kick to the groin.
“The fuck is sex sells. Don’t act like a prissy amateur. We’ll send your outfit to your apartment. The interview is tomorrow, and you need to sling it hard, own the sex appeal that is as much a part of you as the music. Don’t pretend you’re someone you’re not, Jazzy.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I stand because I’m perfectly capable of going toe-to-toe with this bastard, and Ben doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t stand with me, but I know he’s there behind me, giving off waves of moral support in the form of tension I can feel. And silence I appreciate.
“It means you need to act like the independent, unattached, owned-by-no-one, badass, take-no-prisoners woman you are.” There’s a beat of silence because I don’t know where to go with this. Everything but the unattached notion fits me to a T or fits who I want to be. While I’m sorting through my need to hear those words and separating the con from the truth, Ben stands and his sidekick Kodi follows suit.
“We’re done here,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulder, and we walk as one, like we’re doing pairs figure skating, sashaying from the room.
“That’s all you got?” Hal says to our backs, and I feel the flinch, the shock of tension pulse through Ben. I grip his arm because the fear of violence jumps forward from the depths of my soul where the demons live, and I hope my instincts are more paranoid than on point.
