Page 142 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“Hey, Gabriel, it’s Barry. Haven’t heard back from you.”
“So you thought you’d leave twenty messages a day.” I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and wandered out tothe deck, hoping to catch a glimpse of Cleo, but, unlike me, she was probably working. “I still have until September 1st,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” In the background, I heard horns honking and a siren wailing. He was probably picking up an overpriced Frappuccino from his favorite coffee chain. “But listen, I’ll be out in The Hamptons next week, so I thought I’d swing by and check out your performance. We haven’t heard any of your new music yet, so I wanted to get an idea of what direction you’re going in. Not that we don’t have total faith in you, but we want to ensure that we’re all on the same page here.”
Barry was one of those guys who walked around in Birkenstocks and concert tees with his hair in a ponytail, pretending to be a chilled-out hippie, but he drove an expensive sports car and lived in a McMansion funded by the pop stars and boy bands who’d made him a mint.
After a reshuffling at the record label, my A&R guy left, and I’d ended up with Barry. A creative match made in hell. We hadneverbeen on the same page.
“Same page, different book,” I said. “My contract specifically states that I have full creative control. So, let’s be real here. I’m not going to change or tailor my music to fit your mainstream vision. If that’s your intention, I’ll see you in court.”
He sighed in exasperation. “Come on, man. You wanna get real? Stop acting like a fucking diva. We’ve invested a lot of time and money in you. You’ve been given a lot of leeway and we cut you a hell of a lot of slack. So how about we work together on this? We don’t want a lawsuit on our hands, but I need a good album from you.” I heard a bell ringing and then his voice was muffled as he put in his coffee order.Called it.“We’ve already reserved the studio for September, which means you need to get in there and lay down tracks. Not be dicking around trying to figure out which songs are going on the album?—"
I cut him off before he wasted any more of my time. “First of all, I’m not a diva,” I said, insulted by the accusation. “I’m a musician who is passionate about music and gives a shit about what I put out in the world. As for agood album, that’s highly subjective. But I can tell you right now that if the lyrics are just empty words and mean nothing to me…if the music is generic, overproduced bubblegum popbullshit…it’s not going on my album.”
If he thought I’d ever allow him to producemyalbum, he was out of his fucking mind.
“I know what I need to do so with all due respect, Barry, just leave me the fuck alone so I can get it done.”
“All right,” he said after a lengthy silence. “As long as we’re clear. I’ll see you next week.”
I retreated to the front porch with my guitar and a notebook and got to work. Not because I owed Barry or the record label or because I gave a shit about a lawsuit, but as a point of pride.
I owed it to myself to honor my commitments, and as far as I was concerned, there were only two that really mattered.
The commitment I’d made to Cleo and to music.
It was already dark when I looked up from my guitar and found Cleo leaning against the doorframe in short shorts, only the hem visible under a paint-splattered Jimi Hendrix T-shirt with a stretched-out collar.
“Hey. I didn’t want to bother you.” She twisted her hair up and secured it with a clip. “But I thought you might be hungry. I made pasta.”
Now that she mentioned it, I smelled the scent of garlic and my stomach growled loudly enough for her to hear it. Shelaughed and crouched in front of Otis, who was sniffing her bare feet, and scratched behind his ears.
I took a mental snapshot and committed it to memory. The light spilling from the open door behind her. The purple strap of her bikini where the T-shirt slid off her shoulder. The smile on her face, and the pure joy while she played with Otis.
What struck the deepest chord from her notebook entries was the way she’d captured the simple, everyday moments.
Eating Lo Mein on the sofa. Dancing to R&B music in the living room. She cut my hair. I trimmed her bangs. We chased the moon and kissed in the rain and (reading between the lines) never went a day without an orgasm.
What a fantastic life we must have had. So fucking fantastic I wanted to weep.
I couldn’t even remember what sex was like when it wasn’t my own hand doing all the work.
Now I was hyperaware of the swell of her breasts under the thin cotton. The light spilling over her bare shoulder. The curve of her hips that swayed when she walked.
Those lips. Those lips. Those lips.
Bee-stung and lush, naturally pink, the bottom one currently clamped between her straight white teeth.
I stared at the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her breaths coming out in short spurts, like maybe she was thinking about sex, too.
I wanted to tug her into my lap with her bare thighs straddling me on the wicker sofa, grip her hips and lift her up to my face. A flash of glistening pink. My tongue. My fingers.
Would she scream my name when I made her come?
Would I taste her on my tongue for days?
Show mercy on me, Cleo. I’m begging you.
