More Than Anything (7 page)

At least I’ve got my inner dialogue to keep me from developing any self-esteem. Although in this case, I can’t help but agree with it. People just don’t go from the streets to…this. It doesn’t happen. At any moment I’ll wake up.

But in the meantime, I’ve got Sebastian Stalt waiting to meet me and a limo downstairs. No pink champagne on ice, but then again, it’s not nighttime yet.

I debate changing into something more presentable, but decide that Girl Power (my only other choice at the moment) doesn’t exactly say serious musician, so I might as well stay with the tried and true. Besides, he’s recording me, not the other way around, so I’ve already done something right. He’s probably seen everything, working with as many big acts as he has, so nothing I could do is going to impress him anyway.

I plug my charger in and leave my phone on the counter. It’s not doing me any good dead, so there’s one less thing to worry about. I look around the apartment and inspect the basket one more time – all the chocolates have French names and look super expensive – and an idea occurs to me. I open the refrigerator, and it’s fully stocked with everything I can imagine. I settle for some orange juice, feeling guilty about drinking it, and shake my head. It’s not like I broke in and am robbing the place. This is all for me. It’s mine. I can pour the OJ into the bathtub if I want and bathe in it.

But I still feel like there must be a camera somewhere and the joke’s on me.

I take care to lock the door and go back downstairs. Steve’s still parked in the red, and when he sees me, he practically leaps out of the car to open the rear door. I decide I could get used to this, and I flash him a smile. His face could be carved out of wood. Steve’s not the smiley type, apparently.

The studio’s ten minutes away. When we pull into the lot, a security guard eyes us warily – like dozens of limos a day show up to drop people off. Which I realize, just as I think this, is entirely possible. There’s already a new Mercedes in the lot and a canary yellow Porsche Carrera convertible, along with a Ford Expedition and a Toyota Sequoia.

Steve pulls into the slot next to the Sequoia and shuts off the engine, then repeats the door opening trick, which I have to admit I haven’t gotten tired of, even if it’s kind of embarrassing, like I’m a toddler playing dress up, wearing Mom’s shoes and dress. But I choke back any misgivings and get out. Steve shows me a steel door.

“That’s the entry. Ruby said they’re expecting you. Go right in. I’ll wait out here.”

“You sure?”

“Of course.”

I wonder giddily where Steve goes to the bathroom if he’s sitting around waiting for me all the time. Dammit, I need to pull myself together. I’m about to meet
the
Sebastian Stalt. The borderline hysterical internal monologue’s got to go.

I’m reaching for the handle when the door swings open, and a shockingly beautiful blonde wearing painter’s pants and a sweater is smiling at me like something out of a magazine. She holds out her hand and steps forward, and I realize she’s probably only a couple years older than I am.

“Hi there. I’m June, Sebastian’s sister. Come on in. They’re just finishing up a mix,” she says, in a musical voice.

I shake her hand. “Hi. I’m Sage.”

“I know. I swore to Sebastian I wouldn’t go all fan girl on you, but it’ll be hard. I watched all your performances. I told Sebastian that if he didn’t produce you, I’d never talk to him again.”

Score one for little sisters, I think.

“Thanks.” I’m not sure what else I can say, but I don’t have to worry because June’s talking enough for both of us.

“No, really. I’ve never seen anything like those last songs you played. I think you’re going to be huge. Beyond huge. And I told him so. He’s always working in this pit, so if I didn’t tell him what was going on out there in the world, he’d never hear about anything. I made him watch you on YouTube. He agrees. You’re all that, plus ten, with whipped cream and a cherry on top.” She closes the door behind me, and I notice she smells expensive. She brushes past and waves a hand. “The studio’s this way. On your right is the lounge and the bathrooms. Oh, and the kitchen. Over there’s the arcade,” she says. “Video games, old pinball machines, the works. He’s got a thing for them. Says they’re great for stress relief.”

I follow her down the hall into a large wood-paneled lobby, where there’s an oversized wooden door at the far end.

“The control room’s in there. See that light?” she asks. I nod. Can’t miss it. Red, over the door. “When that goes off, it’s okay to go in. Probably doesn’t matter right now because they’re not tracking, but he’s real anal about it, so red means full stop.”

“That’s easy to remember.”

She laughs. “He had a green light and a red one, and I asked him what would happen if I was color blind. You’ve never seen a guy so stumped in your life. He switched it to just on or off after that.” She plops down on a leather sofa. “You want anything? He’s got it all. Soda, water, a full bar…and anything he doesn’t have, he can order out for.”

“No private chef?” I ask, and realize when she looks totally serious that she doesn’t think I’m kidding.

“He’s on call. When you start tracking, you can just tell him what you want and he’ll whip it up.”

I feel like a moron, but nod like it’s the answer I was expecting. “Do you work with your brother?” I try, figuring that’s safe.

“Oh, God, no. We’d murder each other inside of a day. No, I just wanted to meet you and hang out. I’m pre-law at UCLA, but we’re out for the long weekend.”

Pre-law at UCLA. I don’t need to ask whose Mercedes that is, then. Melody was telling me about colleges and what they cost, and I remember UCLA isn’t cheap.

“How do you like it?”

She frowns. “It’s okay, I guess. A lot of studying. I wish I were in your shoes. A star with a mega career about to start. You must be stoked all the time. I’d be amazed every morning I woke up.” She pauses. “Oh, sorry. Of course I read all the stories about you. Being homeless and all. Was that stuff true?”

“Not the alien experimentation or sex with Santa, but everything else.”

We laugh together, and any tension evaporates. She’s telling me about places around Westwood when the light over the door goes out. Moments later it swings open.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but the guy who steps out of the studio isn’t it. He looks like he’s maybe late twenties, model good looks, longish dark brown hair with natural blond highlights. He’s wearing cream-colored linen pants and a long-sleeved white linen button-up shirt with the top three undone, revealing a deeply tanned chest. He spots me and his face lights up with a perfect smile, and for a moment I’m speechless.

June stands up. “Here she is! Sebastian, this is your new superstar. Be nice. She’s a doll.”

Sebastian approaches, and I struggle to my feet. I hope my mouth isn’t hanging open. He’s the male equivalent of June, recipient of the lucky gene pool, and looks like some kind of Danish tennis star. He shakes my hand, and I can’t tear my eyes away from his face. The dusting of golden stubble doesn’t hurt his sapphire blue eyes any, and his grip’s firm but not overly strong – not like those dudes who try to crush your hand to impress you. Then again he’s already impressed me just fine. I was expecting some forty-year-old guy with long, stringy hair and a beer gut, and instead…

“Hey, Sage. It’s great to finally meet you. Hopefully my sister hasn’t scared you off. She has a way of putting things that can make me sound like the devil.”

“No. I mean, it’s good to meet you, too. I’m a big fan.”

He smiles again, and it lights up the room. His teeth are so white they almost glow. “I’ve been really lucky with the acts I’ve worked with,” he says, which I know is complete BS. I’ve heard some of his tracks. He’s the genuine article and has a Midas touch.

“Well, sweetie, you won’t need any luck with Sage. I predict this will be your biggest to date,” June pipes in. I can’t help but roll my eyes.

Sebastian grins. “But no pressure or anything.”

We all laugh, and another figure emerges from the control room. I recognize Heavy M from MTV, and I’m struck dumb. He slaps Sebastian on the back and waves at June.

“All sounds good, bro. Tomorrow for the final? I think it’s almost all automated now. Just want to lobby for some more background vocals on the chorus.” He nods at me. “Anyway, I gotta run. Want to say ten tomorrow morning?”

“Sure thing. Bring some decent coffee this time, you cheapskate.”

“With what you charge per hour, I’m lucky if I can afford 7-Eleven.” The rapper tilts his head at June. “Later, June.”

“Bye,” she says and returns her attention to me.

I watch him walk down the hall and can feel my mouth hanging open. “That’s…” I begin.

“Yeah,” Sebastian says. “You’ll get used to it. A lot of names will drop by during the week. Occupational hazard. But hey, let me show you around. Can I get you anything?”

“I already offered,” June says. “She’s good.”

“Well, then, let me show you where all the fun happens.” He hesitates. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you looked…bigger on TV.”

June frowns. “It’s not like she’s one of Santa’s elves.” She turns to me. “How tall are you?”

I look down at my Chucks and wish I’d borrowed some of Melody’s hooker heels. “Five three.”

“A perfect size, I’d say,” June says, nodding as though it’s decided.

Compared to Sebastian, who’s easily six two, and June, who’s half a foot taller than me and like a bikini model off Malibu beach, I feel like a munchkin. “The camera adds something,” I offer, hating that I’m blushing.

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that your voice…I mean, you’ve got the biggest voice I’ve ever heard. I’m just surprised, is all,” he says, and his compliment does nothing to reduce the amount of blood rushing to my face. “Anyway, come on in. You’ll see all the usual stuff and a whole bunch of secret weapons. If you tell anyone about them, I’ll have to kill you.”

“Ha, ha, Sebastian. Don’t scare her. She doesn’t know you’re joking,” June says. I relax. With her at my side, I feel like I’ve got my own attack dog on a short leash.

“I’ve actually never been in a studio,” I admit, figuring I’ll get that out in the open.

Both of them stop in their tracks and exchange a glance, like I’ve announced I eat uranium for breakfast.

“Really? No demos or anything?” Sebastian asks.

I shake my head. “Nope. But I’m hoping you’ll do whatever you do and it’ll turn out okay.”

Sebastian nods. “Perfect. It’s just pretty rare to run into a virgin around here,” he says and doesn’t seem to notice the effect his words have on me. June pushes past him into the control room and looks back over his shoulder at me.

“Come on. He doesn’t bite.”

The room is wide, housing a console that looks like the helm of a starship. Sebastian points at various things and identifies this and that, but he might as well be speaking Russian for all I understand. I play along, hoping I don’t look like a complete idiot, and realize about halfway through the tour that I’ve still got my sunglasses on, like some kind of fading starlet. I take them off as he’s patting a rack of devices with knobs all over them.

“And these are forty-eight tracks of Neve preamps. I use them on tracking and again on mix for some things. They really sweeten the bottom end. And you’d be amazed at how they work on ambient mics – for acoustic guitar and cymbals.”

“That’s great,” I say, quickly running out of terms that don’t make me sound like somebody’s slow cousin.

The actual recording room turns out to be three chambers: an isolation booth for vocals, a wood-paneled drum room, and a larger room with sound baffles everywhere for other instruments. There’s a Baldwin baby grand piano in one corner, gleaming like an ebony sentry in the overhead lights. If there’s one word for the studio, it’s ‘impressive.’

Sebastian is equally impressive, and his enthusiasm, his love for what he does, is infectious. He obviously cares about every detail, and where I might hear a snare drum, he hears an orchestra. By the time he’s done showing me around, I’m convinced Saul was right – I got extremely lucky with Sebastian.

We exit the control room, and June goes to the kitchen to get a bottle of water, leaving me alone with Sebastian. He focuses those startlingly blue eyes on me and nods. “So what do you think?”

“I…it’s all kind of overwhelming. I hope I do it justice.”

His smile warms the room. “Don’t sweat it. That’s my job. Yours is to forget all of it’s here and just do what you do. I’ll get it on tape. With the way you sing, trust me, you won’t need much of my help.” He clears his throat. “I’m full up all day tomorrow, but maybe the day after we can spend the day bouncing around ideas for preproduction? I like to take a week or two before we start tracking to make sure we’re both on the same wavelength. We need to decide on songs, get label approval of the list, organize any guest artists – which is a pain with everyone’s schedules – and then we can go to basics.”

“Basics?”

“Sorry. Basic tracks. The framework we’ll build from. Instrumental, then vocals, then I’ll handle the rest.”

“I…this is probably a dumb question, but do I just sit in there and play and sing?”

Sebastian laughs, but not unkindly. “No, that went out around 1964. I mean, we could, but the way we do it is track the guitar, any drums and bass we decide on, and then once we have that dialed, layer on other instruments.”