What He Bargains (What He Wants, Book Nineteen) (64 page)

She walked into the room, turning on all of the lights to get a good look at it. The place was clearly sound proofed, and there was a sort of control room with a large mixing board, computers with huge monitors, and plenty of space—enough that there was a large leather couch and a few comfortable chairs for people to hang out on.

Raven exited the control booth through a narrow doorway and found herself in a wide open room that had a few different microphone stands, lots of amplifiers, guitars, a grand piano, keyboard, and then a separate sealed off room with a full drum set.

Microphones were everywhere, wired up to record the musicians who theoretically might play inside this space.

She stared around, wondering when Jake had built this place, and for what purpose. Had he actually recorded any of his previous albums here?

It looked and smelled like it hadn’t been used in some time—there was a mustiness, and much of the equipment was covered in a light layer of dust.

After strolling around the studio, Raven finally decided she’d seen enough. Also, she was afraid Jake might come in and accuse her of snooping.

Giving the room one last parting glance, she turned off all the lights and closed the door behind her.

Raven went back into the TV room, turned off the television set. Jake stirred on the couch, groaning.

“What’s going on?” he asked, squinting up at her blearily.

“You fell asleep,” she told him.

“So?”

“So, the TV was on full blast and you weren’t watching it.”

“I was listening.”

“Jake,” she said, shaking her head.

“Raven,” he mimicked her annoyed tone.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” she replied. “Why don’t you go up to bed?”

Jake sat up on the couch. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, grabbing the remote off the table and turning The Godfather II back on. He even turned the volume up a few notches.

“Real mature,” she sighed, her blood beginning to slowly boil.

“Yeah, I am really mature—thanks for noticing.” He sat back, grabbing a slice of pizza from the box and taking an enormous bite of it.

Raven was going to tell him off. She wanted so badly to give him hell for the way he was treating her, but she could see from the look in his eyes that Jake was spoiling for a fight. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“Well, I guess I’m going to bed now,” she muttered, turning and walking away from him.

“You’re going to miss all the fun!” he called after her.

“That’s okay!” she called back, rolling her eyes. She walked up the stairs and went into the bedroom, taking off her clothes and crawling into bed. Tears were in her eyes, and she willed herself not to sob.

Don’t be such a baby, Raven. He’s being an ass. Don’t let him get to you.

But he was getting to her, and she was tired of it. She was tired of him jerking her around, acting one way and then changing five minutes later.

Perhaps he was just sick of her—maybe he regretted bringing her to Florida with him. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew that the breaking point was very near.

T
he next morning
, Raven was up early. She vaguely recalled waking up as Jake stumbled into bed, smelling of pizza and beer and mumbling to himself that “Fredo didn’t deserve it.”

She’d had no idea what he was talking about, and didn’t care. She’d fallen back asleep moment later.

Now, she got to her normal routine of an early morning swim, had some yogurt, went for a run on the beach, came back and took a shower, got ready for the rest of the day.

Only this time, as she was doing her makeup and drying her hair, Raven started to find herself getting angrier and angrier as she pictured Jake eating his greasy pizza and turning the volume up on the television.

Her hand clutched her brush and then suddenly she threw it across the bathroom, where it smashed the wall, leaving a slight gray mark on the tile.

She was breathing fast, and her hands felt numb, and Raven realized it was time to take action.

Leaving the bathroom, she saw that Jake was still sound asleep—of course.

She went downstairs, walking with a purpose now. Then she opened the door to the studio, went inside, and got what she needed to get, turning around and immediately marching back upstairs with it.

When she re-entered the bedroom, Raven was glaring at Jake with an intensity she’d rarely felt.

He’s probably going to kick you out of his house—and his life—after you pull this stunt.

But Raven was past caring. Something needed to change, and it was going to change.

She was holding one of Jake’s expensive acoustic guitars, and she put the strap over her shoulders so it hung across her chest. And then, not knowing how to play anything, she simply strummed the strings as loud as she could, causing a cacophony of sound that was so loud it even surprised her.

Jake sat up in bed, wide-eyed. “What the hell?” he yelled.

She stopped playing and stared back at him. “You don’t like the way I play?” she asked.

“Where’d you get that, Raven?” he said, his eyes hardening. “Why are you holding my goddamn guitar right now?”

“Fine, I’ll stop holding it,” she said, ripping the strap off her shoulders and then throwing the guitar directly at Jake.

He caught it deftly, but it shocked him, from the look on his face. “Raven, you’ve lost your mind.”

“No, Jake,” she replied, pointing an accusing finger at him, “you’re the one who’s lost your mind. And I’m fed up.”

He blinked at her. “So this is how you communicate your frustration? By snooping through my shit and stealing my instruments?”

Raven had to laugh. “I hardly stole anything. Stop whining for one second and look at yourself.”

Jake put the guitar gently to the side on the bed and stood up. “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but this is my house and my life. If you don’t approve, I really don’t give a shit.”

“Yes you do,” she said, folding her arms.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, yes. You. Do.”

Jake shook his head. “Let me explain a few things to you…”

“No, I’m done listening to you. For the last five days I’ve waited for you to get over this mood you’ve been in, waited for the amazing trip that you promised me, to finally start to happen. But then I realized, it’s not going to happen. You’re just going to sit around in your boxers and eat pizza and drink beer and watch shitty old movies.”

“The Godfather is not some shitty old movie—it’s a classic of modern cinema, and if you’d given it half a chance…”

“Jake, just stop,” she said, wearily.

He seemed to finally catch himself, running a hand through his unkempt hair and looking down, noticing the pizza stains on his t-shirt. “Shit,” he said, sounding suddenly tired and lost.

“What’s going on with you, Jake?” she asked, her voice softening. “What was that phone call about, the one you took the night we first got here? Ever since then, you’ve been different.”

Jake couldn’t meet her gaze. “My label—they dropped me, but they’re also suing me for breach of contract. It’s a fifteen million dollar law suit and they’re going to win.”

“Maybe there’s something you can do—“

“There’s nothing to do. I’ve committed career suicide, Raven. I’m finished.” He finally made eye contact with her, and she could see the pain there in all of its rawness.

“You said this was what you wanted.”

“I know what I said,” he replied.

“So you’ve changed your mind? You wish you’d gone on tour?”

“No, I don’t,” he answered, looking around the room. “But that life was the only way I knew how to live, it turns out. I guess maybe I don’t actually remember how to be any other way anymore. I’m broken.” He met her eyes again, daring her to say differently.

“You’re not broken,” she told him. “You just need to start searching for the new way, the new path.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

She nodded toward the guitar on the bed. “Maybe you should start there.”

“What—play my old acoustic guitar by the fire? I don’t think that’s going to solve anything for me.”

She walked over to the bed and picked the guitar up again. “You told me that you pursued music because it was your dream—and then you let the label convince you to become a type of artist that wasn’t true to yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, since you committed career suicide, you have nothing to lose now. You can make whatever kind of music you want, Jake. Nobody’s going to stop you.”

She handed Jake the guitar and this time, as he took it, he seemed to consider it thoughtfully. “I guess you have a point,” he sighed. “But I don’t know if I can change back to what I was.”

“It’s not about changing back to what you were,” she told him. “It’s about finding out who you’re going to become.”

R
aven couldn’t believe
how much had changed since yesterday morning’s big blow out.

Jake had taken her suggestion very much to heart, and he’d spent the rest of the day and night digging up copies of some of the old songs he’d been working on in the beginning of his career.

And then he’d practiced those songs, hour after hour.

Raven had sat transfixed, as Jake had sang and played a kind of music she’d never realized he was capable of or interested in playing.

At just after midnight, he’d asked her what she thought of his new material.

“I love it,” she’d told him, and it was true.

Jake had immediately gotten in touch with some musicians and a producer that he knew in the area, and they’d come to the house to help him record some demos.

Now, Raven was sitting on the black leather couch, watching as Jake and his fellow musicians set up to play his new material for the first time. In the control booth, the producer and his assistant were poised to begin recording.

She felt nervous for Jake, because he’d confided to her that playing this new stuff was much more nerve wracking for him then his popular material. It was much more personal—his lyrics were obviously more autobiographical and raw, and the songs themselves were vulnerable and emotional.

You can do this
, she thought, willing Jake to hear her mental prayer for him.
You have the heart and soul to make this transformation, Jake. I know you can do it.

Jake was standing at the microphone, the acoustic slung over his shoulder, strumming a few chords while the bass player tuned and the keyboardist ran his fingers over the keys.

Meanwhile, the drummer, in his separate walled-off room, rolled his drumsticks aggressively across the snare drum and pounded the bass drum a few times.

“We ready?” the producer asked into the intercom. He was young, brash, with a thick curly head of hair and a big beard that somehow made him look younger instead of older. His name was Hector Power, and apparently he was a big shot producer amongst some of the new, trendy young artists.

“Ready,” Jake said, nodding.

“Okay, then—let’s make some magic.”

Jake took a deep breath, as Raven leaned forward, her hands entwined, almost like she was praying, her chin resting on her knuckles as she willed him to feel the confidence that he deserved to have in his own songs.

He started to play, and the band kicked in aggressively behind him. As he sang, he looked uncomfortable, almost ill at ease in his skin—which she’d never seen before.

His acoustic guitar was overwhelmed by the other instruments, and his voice sounded somehow small, too.

Hector, whom everyone called “Hec,” was shaking his head, and he interrupted them about halfway through the song. “Jake, let’s start from the top, brother. We need more intensity, man. Let’s try and kick the energy up a notch.”

Jake nodded, but Raven could tell that he was losing confidence fast. His eyes were shifty, his body language was slumping. They started the song again, and then Hec interrupted them again, asking for more energy.

They ran through the song another five or six times, with Hec cajoling, asking for different sounds, different feels. Finally, Hec turned to his assistant in frustration. “This aint working,” he sighed.

His assistant, a skinny guy that looked even younger, was named Rory. He shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “I think there’s something here—“

“No,” Hec said, impatiently. “We need to move on.” He leaned forward and hit the intercom again, speaking into his microphone. “Yo, Jake. Let’s try the next song, see what we got. Okay?”

Jake nodded once more.

But as they began running through Jake’s other material, Hec became increasingly impatient, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

Raven was getting upset too. She knew that the songs weren’t sounding very good, but she also knew that when he’d played them for her the previous night, she’d been amazed and moved by how incredible he’d sounded.

Finally, they decided to take a break.

Hector started rolling a joint, as Jake and the rest of the musicians came into the control room. Jake sat down in one of the chairs across from Raven, while the others sat on the couch or stood around. They were drinking beer, joking around lightly, but Jake was tense and hadn’t cracked a smile.

“What do you think, Hec?” Jake asked.

Hec licked the rolling paper, sniffed, raised his eyebrows. “Honestly?”

“Yeah, honestly.”

“I think the new stuff is garbage, man.” He continued rolling the joint. “I mean, it’s not grooving, it’s not alive—it’s just…” he shrugged. “It’s not hot.”

Raven clenched her jaw. She wanted to say something, but knew it wouldn’t look good to step on anybody’s toes.

Jake nodded, sighing, as if he’d been expecting this result. “I guess it was worth a try.”

“Look, bro, you need to come out hard, come out swinging—the new tunes are soft.”

Raven glanced at Hec’s assistant, Rory, and saw that he also looked annoyed at what Hec was saying.

“What do you think, Rory?” she said.

Hec shot her an annoyed glance. “Rory aint paid to think. He’s my water boy, he just does my grunt work while he learns the ropes.”