Jesse's Girl
Page 16
After about twenty minutes, we pull into a reserved parking spot on Music Row.
“Omni Studios!” I exclaim as Jesse yanks off his helmet.
He takes his cowboy hat from my hand and helps me climb off the motorcycle. We store our helmets in the Harley’s saddlebags.
This is amazing. I pretend I’m heading inside to record my own album. I strut my stuff as we pass guitar statues and go through a security booth. Security guards wand the people patiently waiting in line, but Jesse waves at a guy and pulls me right on through.
Inside, people mill about the hallway. When Jesse appears, they scatter like ants at a picnic. He pays no attention, striding into a studio labeled with his name.
“You have your own studio?”
“I don’t share.”
Go figure.
Drums, a piano, and, like, a bazillion guitars and basses fill the brightly lit studio. I can’t believe I’m here! My eyes dart from the speakers to the mikes to the control room and its mixing equipment. The “On Air” sign is off. Wouldn’t it be amazing to watch it turn red and then dive into a session? I take a seat at the grand piano and drag my fingers across the keys.
“You play?” Jesse asks.
“Nah. But I’ve always wanted to learn.” In the past at band practice, Hannah taught me a few easy songs on the keyboard. I slowly play a few low notes.
She texted me a few times this week, asking to talk, saying she had no idea the guys wanted to replace me, but I haven’t felt like talking to her. Loyalty means a lot to me, and she just stood there and said nothing while the guys kicked me out of The Fringe.
Jesse squeezes in next to me on the bench, takes his cowboy hat off, and sets it on the piano. He cracks his knuckles, then stretches his fingers. “You know ‘Heart and Soul,’ right?”
“Nope.”
He flashes a look at me. “Where did you grow up? Antarctica?”
“Actually, Franklin.”
“Like I said, Antarctica.”
I elbow him in the ribs. “It’s not that bad.”
“I know…I wish I still lived in the country. My parents live an hour away down in Hillsboro, but I need to live closer to my studio and the airport.”
“You’ve got the money to build your own studio and the Jesse Scott International Airport out in the country, right?” I tease, and he gives me a look that says he doesn’t know what to do with me.
He takes my right hand in his and guides my fingers to the keys. That’s when I notice the blue ink stains on his hands. The ink is so ingrained that it looks as if soap doesn’t do the trick anymore. He must spend a ton of time writing lyrics.
“You’re gonna do the easy part—the upper register.” He shows me which notes to play, then makes me practice it a few times. “I’m gonna play the lower register now. Keep the beat, okay?” His fingers effortlessly drum the keys. “Start…now!”
I join in, and the music seems to relax both of us. Jesse starts telling me that along with Garth Brooks, Tim McGraw, and Keith Urban, he’s big into Neil Diamond, James Taylor, and Simon and Garfunkel—all the boys from way back. I confess that while I love badass girl musicians like Fiona Apple, most of the music on my iPhone is from the eighties. Prince, Madonna, Pat Benatar. My mom got me hooked on Queen.
“I love them so much I named my Twitter account QueenQueen,” I tell Jesse.
He smirks. “A Tennessee girl who dresses like Madonna and sings Freddie Mercury.”
Our musical tastes are very different, which makes me nervous, considering Nate never liked anything but metal, and I don’t want to spend my entire day with Jesse listening to country. I want to listen to the music I like. So it’s great that we discover a mutual love of Bon Jovi; he starts playing “Living on a Prayer” for us to sing along to, and I can hardly believe I’m practically doing karaoke with the king of country music. My voice stays steady through the song, just like when I sing backup.
“Your voice didn’t crack that time,” Jesse says. “That’s good.”
“I can relax more when I’m not the only one singing.”
We play until a gorgeous blond woman wearing this long, flowing bohemian dress sails into the studio. She lifts her sunglasses and squints at us.
“Jesse?” she asks. “Who’s this?”
Jesse and I stand. “Holly, meet Maya. Maya, meet Holly. She’s been my voice coach for forever.”
The woman beams as we shake hands. “Jesse’s never brought a guest to one of our sessions before.”
“Omni Studios!” I exclaim as Jesse yanks off his helmet.
He takes his cowboy hat from my hand and helps me climb off the motorcycle. We store our helmets in the Harley’s saddlebags.
This is amazing. I pretend I’m heading inside to record my own album. I strut my stuff as we pass guitar statues and go through a security booth. Security guards wand the people patiently waiting in line, but Jesse waves at a guy and pulls me right on through.
Inside, people mill about the hallway. When Jesse appears, they scatter like ants at a picnic. He pays no attention, striding into a studio labeled with his name.
“You have your own studio?”
“I don’t share.”
Go figure.
Drums, a piano, and, like, a bazillion guitars and basses fill the brightly lit studio. I can’t believe I’m here! My eyes dart from the speakers to the mikes to the control room and its mixing equipment. The “On Air” sign is off. Wouldn’t it be amazing to watch it turn red and then dive into a session? I take a seat at the grand piano and drag my fingers across the keys.
“You play?” Jesse asks.
“Nah. But I’ve always wanted to learn.” In the past at band practice, Hannah taught me a few easy songs on the keyboard. I slowly play a few low notes.
She texted me a few times this week, asking to talk, saying she had no idea the guys wanted to replace me, but I haven’t felt like talking to her. Loyalty means a lot to me, and she just stood there and said nothing while the guys kicked me out of The Fringe.
Jesse squeezes in next to me on the bench, takes his cowboy hat off, and sets it on the piano. He cracks his knuckles, then stretches his fingers. “You know ‘Heart and Soul,’ right?”
“Nope.”
He flashes a look at me. “Where did you grow up? Antarctica?”
“Actually, Franklin.”
“Like I said, Antarctica.”
I elbow him in the ribs. “It’s not that bad.”
“I know…I wish I still lived in the country. My parents live an hour away down in Hillsboro, but I need to live closer to my studio and the airport.”
“You’ve got the money to build your own studio and the Jesse Scott International Airport out in the country, right?” I tease, and he gives me a look that says he doesn’t know what to do with me.
He takes my right hand in his and guides my fingers to the keys. That’s when I notice the blue ink stains on his hands. The ink is so ingrained that it looks as if soap doesn’t do the trick anymore. He must spend a ton of time writing lyrics.
“You’re gonna do the easy part—the upper register.” He shows me which notes to play, then makes me practice it a few times. “I’m gonna play the lower register now. Keep the beat, okay?” His fingers effortlessly drum the keys. “Start…now!”
I join in, and the music seems to relax both of us. Jesse starts telling me that along with Garth Brooks, Tim McGraw, and Keith Urban, he’s big into Neil Diamond, James Taylor, and Simon and Garfunkel—all the boys from way back. I confess that while I love badass girl musicians like Fiona Apple, most of the music on my iPhone is from the eighties. Prince, Madonna, Pat Benatar. My mom got me hooked on Queen.
“I love them so much I named my Twitter account QueenQueen,” I tell Jesse.
He smirks. “A Tennessee girl who dresses like Madonna and sings Freddie Mercury.”
Our musical tastes are very different, which makes me nervous, considering Nate never liked anything but metal, and I don’t want to spend my entire day with Jesse listening to country. I want to listen to the music I like. So it’s great that we discover a mutual love of Bon Jovi; he starts playing “Living on a Prayer” for us to sing along to, and I can hardly believe I’m practically doing karaoke with the king of country music. My voice stays steady through the song, just like when I sing backup.
“Your voice didn’t crack that time,” Jesse says. “That’s good.”
“I can relax more when I’m not the only one singing.”
We play until a gorgeous blond woman wearing this long, flowing bohemian dress sails into the studio. She lifts her sunglasses and squints at us.
“Jesse?” she asks. “Who’s this?”
Jesse and I stand. “Holly, meet Maya. Maya, meet Holly. She’s been my voice coach for forever.”
The woman beams as we shake hands. “Jesse’s never brought a guest to one of our sessions before.”
