Chapter Eighteen

Trent

C rushing my fourth lollipop in my mouth, I smoothed out the lapels of my suit as I paced in front of the tall building downtown. I had trouble sleeping after the insanity of the fundraiser and the outpour of positive comments about my idea for the gym. The negative jabs only proved that I had to try my best for people to feel safe in my future gym.

Still jittery from the three coffees I had this morning, I set thoughts of owning a business aside and let the excitement of watching 77 Rotary Road recording today set in.

I knew jack shit about music, but I was looking forward to witnessing the magic happen at the studio.

“Whoa, a suit?” Charlie’s voice came from behind me and I pivoted on my heel, nearly dropping the newspaper and magazine in my hand.

“I can pretend I’m your manager.” Making a serious face, I straightened my back. “I wore it to my brother’s wedding last year, so I figured it’s nice enough.”

Charlie kissed me briefly and whispered in my ear: “You’re wearing that tonight, stud.”

Yes! I mentally punched the air. Charlie would make sweating in this uncomfortable outfit worth it.

“Looking professional, Pancake Boy,” Trixie said, rolling up the sleeves of her flannel.

“I have something for you.” Sabrina skipped my way and presented a bracelet with pink, yellow, and blue beads.

I gasped, recognizing the pansexual flag colors. “Wow, thank you.” I touched it to my chest, then slid around my wrist.

“You don’t have to wear it, but I was making some for myself and wanted my closest friends to have them, too.” Sabrina’s left forearm was always decked out in bracelets, leaving her right hand bare.

She’d told me that it was to not bang the bass strings with beads.

She handed an identical one to Charlie, and another with trans colors. He added them to the leather studded cuff on his left wrist.

“I have mine here.” Trixie showed off her lesbian flag-colored bracelet as she passed by us, heading towards the entrance of the building.

We took the elevator to the eighth floor and exited to a lush carpet in a long corridor.

“Trent, you should be able to stay behind the glass and listen.” Charlie touched my arm. “I’ll understand if you get bored and want to talk around or leave. We paid for eight hours and since we practiced most of the songs, we should make it in time.”

“Most? Did you write something new right before the recording?” Trixie crossed her arms.

“Last night.” Charlie repositioned his guitar case to the other hand. “We’ll vote if it’s any good. Let’s start with the set we know.”

In the bright lights of the corridor, Charlie’s eyes looked tired, with dark bags under them, as if he didn’t get any sleep. Was he that worried about today?

“Go rock the socks off this studio.” I grinned and succeeded in making Charlie smile.

“Come on, Cupcake. It may be cramped as we took the smallest studio and paid only for the recording engineer.” Charlie took my hand, and we entered a space with a huge console in front of a glass window, overseeing a space with black foam on the walls and musical equipment. A guy sitting in a rolling chair turned towards us.

“Hi, I’m Charlie and we’re 77 Rotary Road ,” Charlie said, shaking the guy’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, guys. I’m Dan. The room is yours.” He motioned to the space behind the glass.

For the next forty minutes, I watched the band settle and record the first song several times and redo pieces they weren’t happy with. I swiveled on the chair behind Dan but was ready to do some reconnaissance of the building.

During our late-night chats, Charlie had told me how breaking through in the music industry depended on as much luck as talent. That gave me an idea I was about to test.

I walked from one empty waiting room to another and through corridors on several floors with The New York Times in one hand and Rolling Stone in the other. Finally, I saw a commotion in an alcove on the tenth floor.

Ah, of course—a working coffee machine in an alcove brought people in. I threw a pod into it and made a brew in a thick paper cup, then sat in an armchair, facing two smartly dressed ladies drinking the same coffee.

A gray-haired dude in chinos and a shirt with a fancy-looking watch on sat next to me and set his briefcase on the floor.

Who carried briefcases anymore?

“What time is it?” I asked him in my most serious voice.

“Half-past eleven.” He glanced at the magazine in my hand and back to my face. “Are you waiting for Steve?”

“I’m here for the band recording on the eighth floor, but the coffee machine here is better.” I pointed to the glorious device in the corner. “Once I’m fully awake, I’ll head there.”

“Who are they?” The guy perked up with interest.

“An up-and-coming rock band. Very edgy. The way I see it, they’re destined for greatness.”

“Really?” He glanced at the door in front of us, then his watch. “I’ll go check them out too.” He picked up his briefcase and headed to the elevators.

“I’ll be right there soon.” I lifted my coffee.

As discreetly as I could, I craned my neck. Yup, he pressed the button to go up.

I did a similar speech in a few more waiting places, then got into the elevator with a lady in a faux-leopard coat.

“Have you heard of this new band recording on the 8th floor today?” I asked her conversationally. The pass on her lanyard said her name was Flora.

“No, I’m on my way to check out The Screaming Tomatoes,” she said, never lifting her gaze from her phone.

“I’m here all morning bouncing from studio to studio, but I’m heading to the eighth floor now, as I’ve heard great things about 77 Rotary Road on the grapevine.” I folded and unfolded my magazine, wishing it would be appropriate to crunch some lollipops.

She stopped tapping her phone and touched her gigantic silver necklace with her long nails. “I’ll go with you. If there’s a newcomer or drama, I hate being the last to know.”

The elevator pinged, and the doors opened on the eighth floor. Hopefully, I didn’t fuck it all up with my blabbering again.

I clicked the door to the studio area open with the pass on my lanyard and let the lady through first.

Trying to keep my composure, I took in the crowd of about a dozen or more watching 77 Rotary Road record from behind the glass.

Well shit. Did my yapping work?

Upon seeing me, Charlie gestured for us to step outside.

He burst out the door, then dragged me by the sleeve into the bathroom.

“I don’t know who most of those people are, but at least one of them is a producer who already asked to speak to us when we’re done. Something weird is happening, but the recording is going great. I’m so happy to see your face.” He squished my cheeks and kissed me. “I figured you got bored, which is fair, but I’m glad you’re back.”

“Bored? No way. But I did wander around the building.” I kissed the inside of his palm. “The lady is from a record label, judging by the info on her lanyard. Those two gay-haired guys are agents, as is the girl with the blue hair. The dude in the leather jacket is a journalist from Rolling Stone magazine.

“How do you know all that?” Charlie frowned. “Holy hell, it was you? You brought them here?”

I grinned. “I talked to them in the halls and in the elevator.”

“This is huge, Trent. What did you tell them?” The joyous smile on Charlie’s face was worth talking to stiff people for hours.

“I said I heard fantastic things about this band recording on the eighth floor and that they should check you out. All of it is true.”

“You created such a buzz, they’re interested in us.” His expression fell, and he ran a hand through his red-tipped hair. “But what if we’re not good enough?”

Platitudes wouldn’t work now. “That’s for them to judge. You always said you need people to know of the band first. Now they will and they can see how great you are and go from there.”

“You’re crazy.” Charlie hugged me tight and buried his face in my neck. “This is nuts.”

“Maybe.” I pushed him away and towards the door. “So go kick some ass and show them what the music industry has been missing.”

He cupped my face, his calloused fingertips razing my cheek. “I love you, Trent.”

“I love you too, babe.”

He kissed me and ran out of the bathroom.

I joined the producers, agents, and journalists, listening to their comments. They analyzed their style as a mix of pop-punk with vibes of classic British punk-rock but with a new twist and edgy lyrics.

Two people were texting furiously, three left the room and were talking on the phone in the corridor, and one guy was glued to the screen as if he wanted to go through it.

Me?

I listened to my boyfriend’s voice as he stood in front of the microphone, baring his beautiful soul.

I opened a few top buttons on my shirt and took off the jacket. I hated stiff clothes, but hopefully, they served a purpose today.

Charlie met my gaze and smirked. “The next song is called Lollipop Kisses. ”