Page 11 of Legendary Rock Star
I handed it back and for a second our hands brushed. A spark rushed through me when he said, “Once the show ends, he’d meet with you, if you’re interested.”
I sucked in my bottom lip, but that only made me think of more kissing, so I stopped. Focus on the opportunity here.
“Mark Powers?” I asked.
“That’s the one,” he said, and put his phone back in his pocket.
I was clearly going insane. I needed a fan to cool my skin, or maybe a bucket of ice. I went up and down on my tiptoes and said, “Maybe you’re not completely evil, Phoenix.”
“Glad you think so,” he said, and clapped me on the back like we were friends.
Maybe we were. But my name was being paged. I squeezed his hand and left.
Alone now, my head cleared. There had to be a way to find balance and focus on work. One kiss wasn’t going to throw me off my goal.
Phoenix and my active imagination just needed to be held off for a few weeks. He lived here in L.A., and so would I, once I won.
As I headed to where I was supposed to be, I was calm again. Until I met with the judges. They were all seated and I stood in the middle of the room. The critical British judge said, “Right, now Maggie, you wowed us with your ballad but we’re going to need you to pull off a pop song.”
Bubblegum and fun. I met the gazes of every judge and said, “I’m on it.”
The pop star of twenty years ago then said, “Good, because you’re charged with arranging and vocalizing ‘That’s All Right’ for tomorrow’s live show.”
What in the world was that song? I gave a thumbs up and a stagehand handed me the sheet music as I left.
This was super old fashioned. I pulled up my phone and searched for the original to know what viewers might remember and Elvis popped up.
I’d never have his lip, and the rhythm and blues style of the song wasn’t going to appeal to anyone my age.
And while I was great with vocalizing, songwriting usually took me weeks.
As I wandered back to my room to work, Phoenix and his wall of muscles blocked me. His black t-shirt clung to his chest and left little to the imagination. He had more muscles than a musician should.
“So what song did you get?” he asked.
My heart raced even more now as I admitted the truth. “One I don’t know. It’s by Elvis, I think.”
He glanced at my page. “Arthur ‘Big Boy’ Crudup was the original singer and songwriter.”
Great. So I was at a complete disadvantage. I asked, “What about you?”
He showed me his paper again and this time I read the lyrics while he said, “I’m on ‘Rockin’ Robbin’. I know it, so it’s just about making my own arrangement.”
“Lucky,” I said, and read his notes.
This was completely different. He was clearly good at this, which was why his bandmates had him helping with songwriting and crediting him, even after they kicked him out.
Somehow I needed to take him down on stage.
But then he said, “Look, I’ll help you.”
Phoenix had way more songwriting credits to his name than most people knew. Yeah, I’d stalked him online, not that I’d admit that.
I half shook when I handed him my pages and asked, “Are we allowed to help each other?”
He pointed to a table and said, “I don’t see a rule that says we can’t.”
He sat down and started writing notes on my song.
