Bo & Ember Page 6

  “Love?” I placed my hand in the center of her back, brushing it smoothly from side to side. “What’s this about?”

  “Don’t you ever think things are too good to be true?” Her voice started shaking, and it was then that it clicked she was having a panic attack.

  To my knowledge up until that point, she’d never had one. I received my PhD in panic after my parents died and, luckily, that training took over. I moved so I was kneeling in front of her, and tugged her hands away from her hair.

  “Hey, hey, hey …” With each word, I dropped my volume lower in order to get her to focus on it and not whatever mess was trashing her insides. “Babe, look at me, okay?”

  I had to say it one more time, but she finally did. Her hands were shaking like crazy and had a thin sheen of cool sweat covering them. Her eyes darted around the room, no doubt searching for an escape.

  “November, look into my eyes. Take a deep breath. In through your nose until you can’t take in any more, then puff your cheeks as you force the air out, okay? I’ll take one with you.” I opened my mouth wider than necessary to get her to focus on the breath we were about to take together.

  Her shoulders didn’t lower all the way in her exhale, so I encouraged one more deep breath. Then another.

  “Don’t stop looking at me, okay? Watch my eyes. You’re safe.”

  At those words, it seemed, the last of her breath left her lungs. She leaned back against the headboard, and I let her hands go. They immediately covered her face.

  “What the fuck was that?” She panted and sniffed as the remains of the attack littered her senses.

  I turned and sat next to her, not wanting to show her how rattled it had me to have watched that from the outside. Then I realized how she must have been feeling. “I think it was a panic attack.”

  “My tongue went numb, my fingers were tingly and I thought I was going to die…” Ember shook her hands, undoubtedly trying to encourage feeling back into them.

  I’d tried it a million times myself, and the only conclusion I drew was you couldn’t shake anything in to anywhere.

  “What do I have to panic about? It came out of nowhere and then I started blathering on about the True Hollywood Story of Bo Cavanaugh and I didn’t mean a word of it. I was just trying to find out why I was so … afraid.”

  I stretched my arm out and she leaned forward, tilting her body into mine. She was still shaking a bit, and I expected that would last throughout the night, but for now she seemed mostly tired.

  “We’ve had a really intense few days, Em. Lots of possibilities, even more uncertainties, and … it’s just a lot.”

  “You and Regan aren’t freaking out.” She sounded smug and irritated.

  I shrugged, hoping to pacify her. “Not everyone is wired the same way. Maybe we’ll freak out tomorrow in the middle of a song at Tavern Nine. Maybe one of us will lose our ability to speak during an interview. Everyone handles things differently.”

  “Jesus, that was embarrassing.” Just like that, Ember’s dry and snarky tone returned as she growled and groaned.

  I kissed the top of her head. “It wasn’t embarrassing.”

  “Do you still get them?”

  When Ember and I started spending the night regularly with each other when we were dating, she often woke me from dark and loud dreams. I started seeing my therapist again after a week had gone by and Ember looked like she hadn’t slept at all. I was keeping her awake with things I should have packed away.

  I nodded and twitched my lips. The fact was, I was beginning to think the panic attacks would never go away. I would have to learn how to manage life with them. “Sometimes.”

  “Like when?” She looked up, concern for me masking her own fear.

  “At night.”

  “When you’re sleeping?”

  “More when I’m trying to fall asleep. I’ll lay there awake sometimes, trying to turn off my brain, and … then it happens.”

  She scrunched her eyebrows and rubbed my knee. “Why don’t you wake me up?”

  I grinned, placing my hand on hers. “I’m thankful my tossing and turning doesn’t wake you up. If there’s ever anything I need help with, I’ll ask. Okay?”

  She twitched her lips skeptically. “Promise?” She arched her eyebrow.

  “Promise. So…” Once I saw her face relax, I knew I could play a little bit. “Do you wanna just cuddle, or…”

  Ember bit her lip and playfully lunged forward, knocking me onto my back on the bed. “Would it be crude of me to ask that we pick up where we left off?”

  I grabbed her hips and leaned up, kissing the tight skin on her stomach. “Hell no.”

  * * *

  The next day, Regan, Ember, and me found ourselves in the smallest of three studios Tavern Nine had in their offbeat looking building. There was exposed brick on the interior walls of the general areas, and each studio was painted with incredible colors and had wild furniture, like a zebra printed chair and a polka dotted love seat.

  Tavern Nine had produced some great musicians over the last two years. Still in their infancy, they were able to snag artists who were up and coming and dissatisfied with the lack of attention some of them were receiving from bigger labels. They were able to offer more studio time, fresh PR ideas, and a more personal experience. They focused mostly on small country-western acts, but the fact that Yardley Honeywell had contacts with such a smooth operation comforted me.

  We’d arrived about forty-five minutes before Yardley asked, hoping to get some time to warm up before we were under the spotlight. Thankfully, they weren’t booked this morning. Right at noon, when Yardley entered the studio, we felt well oiled and ready to go.

  “Thank y’all for coming on such short notice,” she started, keeping her professional smile from last night.

  Her accent was pleasing to the ear, I had to give her that. It didn’t sound forced, and that added another layer of my comfort that Yardley wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She wanted to run a business.

  Ember stepped forward, extending her hand. “Thank you for having us.” Suddenly, Ember focused her attention on the recording room, behind the glass. “Beckett?”

  A quick click over the speakers and Beckett’s Ivy League-cum-surfer voice filled the studio. “Morning.” He grinned and clicked off the mic, offering nothing else.

  It was noon.

  “It won’t be a problem that he’s here, will it?” Yardley lifted her chin, keeping her friendly smile despite the somewhat challenging gesture.

  “Not at all,” Ember asserted. “I wasn’t aware you two knew each other.”

  A flash of pink ran through Yardley’s cheeks. “Well, Beck’s been helpful in some of the details of my takeover of the New York offices of Grounded Sound. For the last several months he’s been rounding up talent for me to listen to on my trips up there.”

  Half of Ember’s mouth formed a sly grin as she focused on the control room. “That’s nice of him.”

  For a moment I felt like a foreigner in the room, incompetent in the ankle-deep subtext between the three of them.

  “Okay,” Yardley redirected the conversation. “I’d like you guys to play whatever you want. Two or three songs and I won’t come back in here until you’re done. You can practice more if you’d like, but let me know when you’re ready to go.”

  Ember whipped around, looking ready to say something, but Regan chuckled and pressed his index finger to his lips, pointing skyward with his other hand. Reminding Ember we weren’t actually alone despite the closed door. Microphones were everywhere.

  She comically cleared her throat. “Ready, guys? Let’s start with that bluegrass jig?”

  Regan and I nodded, and got situated in front of our microphones. Whatever nerves and uncertainty Ember had grappled with the night before, all of that seemed to have vanished as she slung the strap of her guitar over her shoulder and immediately entered the fast-paced song. I glanced at Regan, who shrugged, grinned, and took off when his
entrance came up.

  I struck my guitar on cue, and before my vocal entrance, I closed my eyes for a brief moment and breathed in a small prayer that everything would work out as it should.

  We ended up playing three songs, choosing to use the maximum opportunity we were given. Two slow, one fast. Sure, sometimes songs with trios involving a violin are more fun to listen to when it’s a rapid beat, but there is precision in a slow song's tones and swells. Holding longer notes on an instrument and with your voice shows stamina needed for long shows and for a variety of songs.

  Our gut instincts appeared spot on, as I watched Yardley nodding with the pad of her index finger pressed onto her lips. She seemed to be suppressing a smile as she stole a glance to her left, where Beckett stood. Beckett’s eyes never moved from Ember. When we finished, he grinned and gave her an overly friendly thumbs-up. Did you know a thumbs-up could be overly friendly? Neither did I, until I watched that one. But, I wasn’t about to let some caveman jealousy based on precisely nothing screw up this opportunity.

  Yardley leaned for the mic and flipped the switch. “Thanks, guys. I’ll give you a few minutes to pack up, and I’ll meet you in Conference Room One.”

  She clicked the mic back off and walked out of the control room, Beckett strolling behind her with his hands in his pockets.

  “She’s got one hell of a poker face,” Regan mused as he put his violin back in its case.

  “That’s good though, right? I mean we don’t need someone who’s going to fawn all over everyone or tell them they suck and to get out … right?” Ember shrugged, a smile still on her face from her killer rendition of our new ballad.

  I nodded in agreement with her. “Let's get to that conference room and see what she has to say.”

  With our clunky cases and nerves in hand, we walked a few doors down to the conference room. Yardley was alone, and I was grateful to be free of Beckett for a few moments so I could think clearly, rather than try to interpret his intentions with my wife. Old friends or not, he’d slept with her. I don’t care if they were in high school, connecting with a girl like Ember does something to your insides. I saw it on his face and wanted to smack it off. There was no way in hell I wanted to talk to Ember about any of this since it was fleeting, and Beckett and I would eventually get over our silent pissing contest.

  Yardley motioned for us to sit around a large round table. I liked that the table was round; there was no positioning of sitting down from her. We were all on an even plane, but even if it was imaginary it made me comfortable.

  “As you know,” Yardley started without any lead in, “Grounded Sound has several divisions. We’re open to all sounds, all artists — except rap. We just don’t have a good ear for that.” She chuckled, folding her hands in front of her as her southern accent poured out like honey over her words.

  “I like your sound,” she continued. “You’re a few steps ahead of an exciting emerging trend, and we can’t ignore it. People are craving musicians. Not just people who can match a pitch to an electronically produced note. You’ve got talent on all sides. And stage presence, which can’t be taught. Look at you, for goodness sake. You’re all beautiful.” She waved her hand toward us and smiled.

  It was hard not to return her smile. Regan blushed, and so did Ember. I lifted my chin, begging my cheeks not to turn. They stayed cool as I spoke.

  “We want to thank you again for listening to us this afternoon.” I kept my voice pleasant and even. Business was in my blood, and if Yardley had done any homework on us whatsoever, she’d know that about me.

  Yardley exhaled quickly through her nose before lifting her chin to match mine. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Cavanaugh. I’ve been following you three for several months, and it was my good fortune to mention you to Beckett Roth, who was more than helpful in arranging this meeting today.”

  Instinctively, I clenched my teeth together, feeling my jaw twitch once before I took a breath.

  Ember sat forward, placing her hands on the table. “I’m thrilled the timing worked out.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation. I shot a glance to Regan, who looked at me and shrugged slightly. We all seemed to want to ask her what the purpose was for this pow-wow, but there was no way we’d be the first to speak, lest we seem too self-important.

  Yardley sighed audibly but with grace, seeming to use the breath to prepare her next words. She took three careful seconds to make eye contact with each of us who sat around the table before she opened her mouth.

  “I’m prepared to make you an offer.”

  Ember

  Back at The Six’s campsite, where they’d rented a few cabins, eight sets of eyes, Georgia and Willow included, stared back at me, Bo, and Regan. Regan had talked with Georgia beforehand, and a tentative but wistful smile shone on her face.

  “So…” Bo clapped his hands once and took a cleansing breath. “That’s the deal. Finish the tour with you all, fly to New York to record for a few weeks, and the label is going to put together an Indie Tour.” Bo put air-quotes around the phrase.

  It was a false term, since we’d be signed with a label and would, therefore, not be independent, but Yardley knew the marketing value of those words. She’d been working her ass off over the last year, scouring festivals and open mic nights, collecting the most popular and most talented unsigned artists she could. Putting a tour together with a sound like ours and with newly signed artists was a way to market the artist and the new “Indie” side of Grounded Sound she was hoping to develop.

  I watched my parents closely. They’d said over and over again that they would be supportive of whatever offers we received, if we ever received any. The Six remained adamant that they wanted to stick to the West Coast and maybe a few other dates throughout the year, but they’d had “their day” and wanted to give us ours, if it came.

  “Of course,” Bo continued, "any songs that we worked on with the band or ones we re-wrote would—”

  He was cut off by the entire group of middle-aged hippies jumping to their feet with elation in their eyes. Cheers and whistles cut off whatever it was Bo was in the middle of saying, but I could hardly focus on that as we were tackle-hugged by the Essential Oil Brigade.

  “We’re so proud of you three!” my mom squealed as she tried to hug the three of us at once.

  Bo and I looked at each other nervously, causing a quick calm to settle through the room.

  “What is it?” Solstice asked, pulling in her eyebrows.

  Regan cleared his throat and grabbed Georgia’s hand. “I won’t be joining them.”

  The gasp from the group nearly sucked air from my lungs. “What?” they said nearly in unison.

  “But you said—” Michael started, but was cut off by Regan.

  “The deal Bo described is also the deal I was offered. But Yardley and I spoke at length, and I was able to negotiate a contract with one of her West coast projects. Same style of music, same amount of control. But … I don’t want to leave Georgia behind.” He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

  “I told you you could go,” she whispered, blushing slightly as she seemed to try to hide her face in Regan’s shoulder.

  “Of course I can, babe,” he grinned, “but I don’t want to. The deal I have is just as amazing. Sure, it’ll suck to be separated from those two,” he playfully pointed at me and Bo, “but I’d rather be with you. We’ve spent our whole first year and a half together seeing each other for a few days at a time at most. This is good.”

  I walked to Regan’s side and put my arm around his waist while I addressed the anxious group. “While it sucks that after this tour we won’t be performing with him anymore, a year ago I’d have made the same decision.”

  “I would have, too.” Bo grinned and winked at me, sending warmth through my chest.

  Yes, it would certainly be bittersweet to leave Regan and the San Diego sun, but by the end of the meeting with Yardley, I was grateful that Bo and I we
re getting signed together as an act. Everything we did from here on out with music would be together.

  As it should be.

  The group in front of us broke into people congratulating Regan, and asking him questions about his deal, and hovering over me and Bo.

  “Well done, son. Well done.” My dad shook Bo’s hand and gave Regan a hug before turning to me. “You amaze me, Baby Blue. Every day.”

  Tears stung my eyes as I hugged him tightly. “Thanks, Dad. I never knew this would feel so good.”

  I truly hadn’t. My love affair with performing was slow and unassuming. Sneaking up on me and slowly coming into focus the way rainbows do after a storm. Never all at once. Bo’s spot as my soul mate wasn’t revealed through chance glances or years of missed chances. It was inside of one song. In the music. It had thrown me full force into a life I’d tried to escape for years prior. I’d needed Bo to love the music, and the music to bring me to Bo.

  Once the twittering of kisses, hugs, and congratulations subsided, Mags spoke up on practical matters.

  “How’s the deal? Not money wise—that can always be negotiated. Creatively. What’s your control?”

  I grinned. “We agreed to profit sharing. It’s a lower advance, but we retain more control and will get more money if certain songs or albums do well. Since we’re already somewhat established in our specific audience, there is less legwork they need to do in certain areas. We already have half an album recorded, thanks to Willow’s help, so that’s some cost savings for the label as well.”

  Bo nodded in approval of my interpretation of the meeting. He and Yardley had gone back and forth a few times hammering out details and I’d made sure to pay close attention. My business sense had been exercised in the non-profit sector for years before, and the music industry was a far cry from a 501(c)(3) operation. There would be no tax exemptions granted since profit was definitely the name of the game. Thankfully, though, my focus was in grant writing, so I had to learn the language for all kinds of businesses, including multi-million dollar outfits.