Page 66 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
“Not bad,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re getting better.”
Ryder frowned. “But…?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“No, please. Tell me.”
Tess sighed, as if deciding whether to snuff out a candle or burn down the whole room. “It’s just… it feels like you’re writing your songs at a desk. Like you’re filling in boxes: verse-chorus-verse. Impeccable precision, yes, but missing the kind of imperfection that cracks your heart open. The kind that makes you say:there, that’s me.”
Ryder stared at her, strung tight like a wire about to snap.
She allowed herself the faintest smile. “You should let yourself be guided by intuition. By chaos. That’s how Lev Mirov did it. He didn’t write music. He wrote truth.”
Then, with timing worthy of a stage director, Tessturned slightly, motioning gracefully toward the man behind her as though presenting the ambassador of some obscure republic. “Zane, meet Bernie.”
Bernie, who at that moment was examining a road case as if it were interactive art, merely turned half his profile and let out a low, guttural grunt devoid of any recognizable emotion.
Ryder looked at him, then at me, as if checking whether this was a joke. I shrugged: the universe had just decided Bernie was part of the script, and our job was to roll with it.
Meanwhile, Tess carried on, unfazed. “He’s an extraordinary saxophonist. He’ll never tell you that, but his music is… pure. No compromises. No concessions.”
Bernie, as if to prove the point, grabbed a tambourine sitting on the case and gave it a lazy shake. Unfortunately, the open mic nearby amplified the sound like a maraca explosion in a crowded elevator. A stagehand popped out from the wings and shot him a look that saidtouch that again and I’ll break your hand.
Ryder inhaled slowly, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Fascinating.”
And in the silence that followed, I thought it was the first time in my life I’d ever seen a man usefascinatingas a synonym forI have absolutely no idea what the hell is happening.
Tess took another stepcloser to Ryder, lowering her voice as if revealing a secret reserved for a chosen few. “What you’re looking at is… a survivor. Bernie has played in the worst places at the best times. He shared a stage with Miles Vannister in New Orleans, back in ’92, when the club had a hole in the roof and rain was pouring in—but people kept dancing anyway. Once, in Chicago, he finished a solo while the stage was literally on fire. And he’s never—never—recorded an album. He says music should die in the air, like a stolen kiss.”
I glanced at her sideways, wondering how many of those stories she was making up on the spot. Ryder, on the other hand, seemed entranced—or at least intrigued—following the thread of her tale.
“And you know the most incredible part?” Tess continued, brushing her fingers lightly across Bernie’s saxophone as though it were a holy relic. “He doesn’t play for the audience. He doesn’t even play for himself. He plays for the only thing that matters.”
Ryder leaned forward just slightly. “Which is?”
Bernie, who had been motionless until that moment, let out a loud grunt and crunched on an ice cube he’d fished from an empty glass.
Tess smiled, perfectly synchronized. “The present moment.”
Ryder stared at Bernie for a few seconds, as though trying to solve a riddle in an unfamiliarlanguage. Then he ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair and gave a faint smile. “So… an artist of the moment.”
The words sounded neither ironic nor convinced—more like an attempt to label something that didn’t fit into any known category.
“Exactly,” Tess confirmed, with the poise of someone who’d just planted a bishop in the center of the chessboard.
Ryder stood up from the road case he’d been sitting on and took a step toward Bernie, studying him closely. “You know, you remind me of someone. No—actually… it’s like you remind me of an idea I had when I was younger. The kind of musician I wanted to be, before I…”
He stopped short, as if he’d almost said something too personal. Then, pointing at the saxophone, he asked, “Will you play something for me?”
Bernie stared at him for a long moment, then lowered his eyes to the sax and grunted.
Ryder chuckled softly, a little uncertain. “I don’t know if that’s a yes or a no, but… I like it.”
And right then I realized Tess’s trap had just snapped shut: Zane Ryder was officially intrigued by a man who, barely an hour earlier, had been trying to convince a seagull to give back his sandwich.
Ryder turned to one of the assistants andgestured for a mic. “Come on, play me something,” he said, nodding at Bernie’s saxophone.
I looked at him the way you look at someone about to stick their fingers in an electrical socket, but Tess didn’t flinch. This was the moment she’d been waiting for.
