Page 2 of A World Apart (Between Worlds #1)

I t’s been three weeks since I started working at Pisces Studios and I was still not quite used to it.

Before I started working here, I’d had some big misconceptions about what a commercial recording studio was actually like.

It made me laugh to think about how I used to picture it.

I’d always envisioned it to be some tiny little building, niche and unspeakably cool where you just went in and magic came out.

I feel like such a tit even admitting that to myself.

My imagination was based on the recording studios we had at university.

They were small and purpose built, basically an office with an enclosed booth separated by a pane of glass.

Professional, but small and identical to the half dozen others in the same building, a rabbit warren of aspiring musicians and technicians.

She also managed client expectations as a secondary responsibility.

“Needs, wants, and wishes,” she called it.

These varied from things our guests absolutely needed, like a specific brand of mic, to their ‘wants’, like a specific brand of soft drink, to ‘wishes’, where they might demand to have a masseuse present for the whole booking to massage their throat with jasmine oil in between sets- to my knowledge, that’s never happened, but with some celebrities, you really never know.

“Do they get everything they wish for?” I asked once.

“They can certainly ask.” Was all she’d tell me.

Me? Nothing so glamorous. Broadly, my job role was ‘intern’.

What that actually meant was that I was technically under the general operations team, which covered social media, marketing, public relations and the bookings team.

I, however, did none of that but it was the only team that Becka could get me a job in because the production team ? musicians and technicians- didn’t take on interns.

I was a paid intern, but barely. I made enough to split utilities and food with Becka, but not the rent, which she covered on her own.

Then again, I wasn’t here for the money.

I was only here on a year-long Visa. When it expired I’d go back to the UK with 12 months of hands-on experience at a famous LA recording studio.

Or at least, that’s what I’d put on my resume.

I’d probably gloss over the fact that I was pretty much just the person that you’d get to make the coffee for the meetings, but work was work and there were worse places to be a paid intern.

“Meet you for lunch?” I asked Becka as we rode the elevator up to the top floor.

“Natch,” she replied as the doors slid open. “See ya later!” She called over her shoulder as she sauntered off down the corridor to her office. I took a more leisurely pace down the corridor directly in front of the bank of elevators to the general operations unit.

There were three corridors up here that went left, straight, or right.

The one to the left has three meeting spaces: a casual lounge and two meeting rooms. Each one had a large table and enough chairs to seat a dozen people, complete with a total audio-visual set up for conference and video calls.

The one that went straight on from the elevator led to general operations.

The corridor that went to the right was social media, bookings, and PR.

The first time I’d gone in one of the conference rooms during a meeting, the camera had followed me around the room as I carried in a tray of drinks.

I was thoroughly creeped out, thinking some perv was focusing in on me and I said as much to my boss once I’d gotten out of there.

Jeremy had laughed as he explained it tracked movement and sound to make sure all speakers were always in the frame.

Some random creeper was not remote controlling the camera to follow me around the room; I’d just been so noisy clattering around with the tray that the camera had automatically focused on me.

Jeremy was the head of Gen Ops and was my direct line. He was an alright guy and had a plaque on his desk that read Jeremy Olsen - Gen Ops and Chief Cat Herder which made me laugh every time I saw it.

He was sat at his desk when I knocked, the door slightly open as usual.

“Come in, Kaiya,” he called.

“How’d you know it was me?” I asked pushing the door open. He didn’t look up from where he was tapping away at his laptop; just pointed at the clock on the wall. It was 08:50.

“Same time every day.” Half of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

“Only when we take the bus.” I countered.

“You must be saving Rebecca a fortune,” he mused, finally closing his laptop and turning to look at me.

“I consider it my great act of charity.”

Jeremy scoffed and leaned back in his chair. I guessed that he was in his mid-40s with nondescript dark brown hair, a perpetually scruffy chin and kind eyes. He was exactly the kind of person you could imagine as running the Ops team of a studio.

“Remind me, who were you with yesterday?” He asked, running a finger over his chin.

“Foley.” I answered at once, smiling. Jeremy returned the smile.

“Ah, yes. Make anything interesting?” Foley artists were such a trip.

Whenever you heard rain, footsteps on gravel, or even horse hooves on grass in a film or whatever, chances were you were hearing a Foley artist, sitting in a dark cupboard with a whole bunch of random crap around them making every sound you can imagine .

“A bar fight,” I responded. Jeremy raised his eyes. “No shit? Who’s that for?”

I opened my mouth to tell him, but Jeremy quickly interrupted me. “Forget I asked. It’ll be ‘That Pain In The Ass again.’”

I pursed my lips to hide my smile. It was, indeed, for the rap artist. Began with a D, ended with an E.

“Anyway,” Jeremy continued, “nothing so exciting today, I’m afraid.

Tech team just received a bunch of new guitars, for some reason.

” He rolled his eyes. “They’ve asked for someone to tune them.

Why they can’t do it themselves, fuck knows.

” He huffed. In the short time I’d been here, I’d noticed that the different departments were constantly at each other’s throats for one thing or another.

“I don’t mind,” I replied gamely.

“That’s what you spent three years at University for, right?” He glanced up at me, raising an eyebrow wryly. I didn’t think he would appreciate me reminding him of the donkey-work he regularly had me doing that similarly had nothing to do with my degree either.

At least I’d get to play with some cool gear.

It was a good thing I was proficient at both bass and guitar because the tech team had indeed just shipped in a load and all of them needed tuning. I wasn’t a particular enthusiast, but even I had to sigh in appreciation of some of them.

They were absolute works of art, no other way to describe them; perfectly curved bodies of ash and alder, so shiny the overhead lights were dazzling as they bounced off the varnish.

There were also a lot of them. So many that it took me right up until lunch time to get it done.

My fingers were throbbing by the time I put down the last electric guitar.

My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out, sparing the screen a glance as I headed towards the elevators.

Becka

Meeting room 2. I got news x

[Sent 12:09]

I raised my eyebrows with interest and took the stairs up to the 3rd floor.

Pushing open the door to meeting room 2, I saw Becka sitting at the head of the conference table.

Blessedly, the AV setup was quiet and still.

Becka had our lunch spread out on the table in front of her, the meal prep containers I insisted on buying us when I moved in coming in clutch, yet again.

Before I moved in, Becka lived off of take-out and Uber Eats.

Even though I didn’t pay rent, I liked to think I was saving her money.

“Yo,” I said in greeting as I pulled out a chair and sat down, pulling a container of chicken salad towards me.

Becka waved her fork at me, her mouth already full.

“Good day?” she mumbled around a mouthful of leaves. I made a non-committal noise and then we sat in companionable silence while we ate.

Once I was done, I put the lid back on the glass container, slid it across the table, and picked up my water bottle. “What was your news?” I asked as I unscrewed the wide lid.

“Hmm? Oh, that.” Her words were casual. Entirely too casual, which caught my attention. Warily, I eyed her.

“Remind me,” she said, wiping her mouth on a napkin and twirling her fork around. “What’s the name of the KPop group that did that collab with Haley a couple weeks ago?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “You know full well that was GVibes ? I’ve played the song enough times.” And I had. Ever since it came out recently, I’d been playing it multiple times a day. That song slaps.

“Ah, yeah, you’re right.” She speared an olive with her fork and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“And?” I prompted.

She finished chewing before she said, “There’s like, a lot of them, right?”

“Five,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah.” She took a sip from her straw.

“Which one is the tallest one?” She asked casually, like she was asking after the weather. For a moment, I was caught off-guard.

“Baek Jihoon,” I said tentatively, the words more question than answer.

She tipped her Stanley cup towards me. “That’s the one!” And then she put her cup on the table and rummaged around in her bag before pulling out her compact mirror and a tube of lipstick. Silence fell as she took her sweet time .

“Becka!” I almost shouted. She only laughed at me before opening her compact.

“Okay, okay,” she chuckled, “I figured you might be interested to know that that one-” she waved her lipstick at me, vaguely.

“Jihoon,” I finished.

“Yeah, that one.” She nodded, before uncapping her Mac lipstick ? shade Retro ? “is booked in for Thursday.”

Silence.

Becka slicked the lipstick across her bottom lip as I watched mutely before ?

“FUCK OFF!” The words burst from my mouth in an exhalation of disbelief.

Becka flinched, smudging her perfect application at my almost-shout.

“I’m sorry?” She looked at me, affronted.

“Are you joking right now? Is this a joke?” I leaned towards her; drink forgotten. She was lucky I hadn’t spat it at her.

“Ok, first of all,” Becka started, giving me a side-eye as she took a napkin and delicately wiped at the smudged corner, “chill the fuck out. Secondly, no, absolutely serious.” Seemingly satisfied with her repair, she began on her top lip.

I waited until she had finished and blotted, but she held her hand up to stop me.

She recapped and put the lipstick away before she swivelled in her chair and for the first time all lunch, gave me her full attention. The Rebecca Hanson take-down.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

Gradually, her lips relaxed, and her eyebrows went back to their normal altitude.

“I’m glad you’re excited, but it’s actually kind of a total fuck-up.

” I watched as she almost went to bite her lip, before she remembered her recent application and relaxed her mouth.

Despite my overwhelming need to squee, I put that aside for the moment and dug deep for my ‘supportive friend’ mode. It was an effort, but I got there.

“Why, what’s occurred”? I asked, which made her smile. For some reason, that phrase in particular always amused her.

“In a nutshell, booking buggered it up.” It was her time to amuse me with her phrasing; one she’d picked up from the year she’d spent studying in London. British curse words coming out of her all-American mouth was endlessly funny to me.

“They need to be letting us know weeks in advance for a booking for an SCC,” she groused, referring to a ‘special category client’ ? someone crazy famous .

“Two fucking days is not enough time!” Becka threw her hands up.

“Bugger.” I sympathised. “Is there anything I can do?” I offered. She gave me a side-eye that had me holding up my hands. "Hey, I mean it,” I pressed. “Can I help?”

She sighed. “Thanks babes, but no. There’s no chance Celine will want an intern anywhere near him.”

Disappointment gnawed at me, but I pushed it down.

“Who’s working with him?” I asked, trying for casual.

Becka curled her lips, which would have been answer enough, but she said, “Trevor.”

Ah. Trevor. I thinned my lips and nodded.

Trevor Kyle was the top producer at Pisces and had worked with basically every big name that walked through the door. He was also a total douchebag.

Bossy, arrogant, and kind of grabby ? from what I’d heard. I’d never actually worked with him myself, of course. I’d only ever seen him in passing and he’d never deigned to glance in my direction, but I’d heard enough about him to have firmed up my opinion of the guy.

“Isn’t this something Booking should be handling?” I asked. Becka sighed again.

“I mean, yeah, to a point. They’re handling transpo and the hotel. He’s got his own management and security so we’re hands-off with that, but everything he does or needs within this building falls on client relations, which is...” She pointed both thumbs at herself.

“I mean, to be fair,” she began, glancing over to the wall of windows that overlooked the street, “his team hasn’t laid out many demands. Mostly needs and wants, y’know? No wishes. So far anyway.” She laughed.

“No cordoned-off toilets or bowls of rose-quartz crystals, then?” I laughed with her.

“Not yet! There’s still time to be surprised.”