I wasn’t going to fall for anyone’s sweet promises. Not even my idol. If someone wanted to work with me, they had better provide contracts. They could keep their dicks to themselves.
People talked in this industry. All knew the creepy, rapey stars and producers to avoid. While I’d never heard anything shady about Gio, I had to keep it all business with him. Nothing more.
His voice went serious. “Did I go too far with that question?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll make sure to be more behaved in the future.”
The future? He wants more songs? Yes!
All I could manage was, “Great.”
“You’re talented.”
Another blush hit me.
Just business, Simone.
His words did things to me. Things they shouldn’t. They made me addicted. Obsessed.
In this month, I’d spent more time sitting by the phone and waiting for his call than living my life.
He returned to business. “Your manager will receive your check and the new contracts in an hour.”
“I’ll send the tracks to you tonight.”
“When will you have some new songs for me? I don’t want to rush you, but I’m...eager. Or maybe I should say eager to hear them.”
“I planned on working on the new ones tonight.”
“Oh wow,” he said. “I didn’t think it would be that fast. Christmas Eve is tomorrow. You don’t have plans?”
Embarrassed with my lack of social life, I avoided the question. “I’m just excited to write more songs for you. I’ll definitely start tonight.”
“And…your boyfriend won’t be upset with me for having you work?”
“If I had a boyfriend, I think he would be proud that I’m writing for you.”
“Interesting. Why’s that?”
“I wouldn’t date a guy that didn’t have taste in music, and your songs are amazing. He would totally be a fan.”
“No cuffing season for you then?”
I grinned at his question. One of his many number one songs was Cuffing Season. It was the idea that during the fall and winter, people who would normally rather be single or promiscuous found themselves along with the rest of the world craving to be cuffed and tied down to a serious relationship. Mainly, they jumped into a relationship so they wouldn’t be alone during the cold weather.
“Correct,” I said. “No cuffs over here.”
“And will you be with family?”
Shocked, I couldn’t believe he was still pushing for more personal information. Sadly, I didn’t like that I sounded so boring and plain. I was sure for the holidays, he’d been invited to all types of celebrations and galas, whether he decided to go or not.
“No, my family is in the south. I just moved to New York, so I only have a few associates, mainly my vocal coach and manager. Basically, for Christmas, I’ll be eating a pint of eggnog ice cream and watching ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ for the fiftieth time.”
“You’re an ice cream during the winter type of girl?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know why, but when you answer one of my questions, I just want to ask you five more.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I hadn’t even thought he would be interested in anything about me.
“Either way, you should be with someone who loves you,” he said. “I’m not judging. I just had to say that. Life is short.”
“I’m going to work on talking to other humans next year. This year, I’m focused.”
“Me too, which is probably a good thing for both of us right now.” He sighed and moved onto another topic. “I really should go.”
“Okay.”
“I can’t wait to play with your songs this evening.”
Excitement rippled through me.
“Have a Merry Christmas, Simone.”
“You too.” I hung up with hard nipples and wet panties.
Why does this always have to happen?
I put the phone down and dove my hand down my panties. Slickness covered my fingers. My sex pulsed with desire. It wasn’t the singing that turned me on. It was him.
Remember your promise to your heart. No more dating musicians. Stay focused.
At eighteen, I had become a member of my ex-boyfriend’s band H.O.T.R.A—Hut of The Reflecting Afterbirth. My ex, Bobo, had only wanted to write the songs, so our music was as bad as the band’s name. We still had mild success in the U.S. and even toured Belgium, Austria, and Canada. But my ex drowned in the idea of fame and groupies versus the beauty of music. I’d caught him cheating with bright-eyed fans more than I heard him say he loved me. By the time I turned twenty, I’d realized I’d given all my power to him. All my joy and respect.
I left the band, failed at being a solo artist, and dedicated five years to writing for others. Now, at twenty-five, I had to decide whether I would repursue a solo career or continue focusing on songwriting. Bob Dylan claimed that music was a young person’s game. As each year stacked up, I hoped he was wrong.
Focus. Get Gio and anyone else off your mind. Figure out your path and stay on it.