Page 10

You’re obsessed with Zhavia’s studio. Working with her, one of your two favorite producers, is always like hanging out with a really good friend who, somehow, also elevates your art to stratospheric heights.

You can’t see her on the other side of the smoky mirrored glass—and it’s okay, you prefer it that way—but you know she’s watching and listening.

Nodding her halo of curls, humming along, tapping the toe of her worn-out Reebok trainer as she makes notes.

Inside the studio, it’s womb-like. The walls are panelled in mahogany, retro and moody, and there are candles lit everywhere.

White tapers cast flickering shadows. You’re on the overstuffed couch, cross-legged, a warm red blanket over your lap.

You’ve got your hair pulled back, and your eyes closed, with one hand resting on the stem of the recording microphone in front of you.

Sensuality and intimacy surround you like tropical air, despite the fact that you are in Greenwich Village in July, and the actual breeze outside is redolent of car exhaust and hot garbage.

Here, there’s the skin-prickling current of creativity , alive and rushing.

“All right, Ster.” Zhavia’s voice is low on the other end of the speaker. It barely stirs the trance you are in. “Let me get that pre-chorus again. Try it the way we talked about, with the moany-groany at the end.”

With a deep breath, you lean in.

Touch me like I want, take it slow

What’s between us, only God knows

You and the phone line, it’s chemistry

Got me hot on the thought of you over me

The way you miss me, kiss me, make this body rock

I’ll be breathing your name, touching my mm-m-m

In the split second before Zhavia speaks, you know it was a perfect take.

“Yes-s-s!” she coos. “Damn, baby. Pretty sure I got pregnant just listening to that. Love it.”

You can feel yourself blushing, just a little bit. “Zhay,” you protest.

“I know you haven’t decided on a title yet for SG10, but I think you should get to the point: Music to Fuck To .”

That makes you snort, breaking the spell. “Can you imagine? The Family Research Council would have my head on a spike.”

“Screw the FRC,” she says dismissively. “Last time I checked, you’re grown. It doesn’t matter what you call it. People are gonna be making babies to this track. Being all loved up agrees with you creatively.”

“That’s a lot of talk about getting knocked up,” you say dryly, trying to hold back a smile. “You trying to tell me something, Zhavia?”

“I don’t know. Are you, like, ovulating?” she shoots back. “I’m not the one wailing into the mic like I’m in heat. You wanted to demo that sad draft next. The untitled one. Go dump an ice bucket on your head or something. We need to change the energy up. Wanna take 20? Does that sound realistic?”

You laugh. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

It feels good to pull the over-ear headphones off.

You stretch big on the couch, and scratch idly at your side.

Your phone is face-down on a side table, powered off.

There’s no need for you to have it on during recording sessions; there’s always someone who can get in touch with you if the situation is urgent enough.

As soon as your home screen loads, several message notifications ding and pop up.

Maeve: Have you eaten today? We both know how you get when you’re in the studio. Take a few minutes and eat something with protein. I can order Uber Eats for you.

Noemi: I’m going to kill dad if he doesn’t stop talking about pickleball.

He’s joined a league, and they are getting matching gear.

Apparently Tony, his old pal from Accounting, knows somebody who might be interested in sponsoring them for a tournament.

Who wants to fund a bunch of old men whacking a wiffle ball around? ?? WHY DID I MOVE BACK HOME? :(

GOALPOST DANCER SQUAD GROUP CHAT: Who’s hitting up the Katy Perry audition in LA next week?

GOALPOST DANCER SQUAD GROUP CHAT: omg liana are u going? I got a call

GOALPOST DANCER SQUAD GROUP CHAT: KP is washed up, sorry not sorry.

GOALPOST DANCER GROUP CHAT: I wanna wear a bikini and shake my a$$ to California Gurls, idc if she’s washed up. I heard she treats her crew well.

GOALPOST DANCER GROUP CHAT: Triniti ur just saying she’s washed because u didn’t get a call be so for real

GOALPOST DANCER GROUP CHAT: First of all, bitch…

Maeve: Sterling, I’m going to call Zhavia. PROTEIN.

Kai: hope the song is going well xxx [IMAGE]

GOALPOST DANCER GROUP CHAT: …

Your breath quickens. The 10 seconds that it takes to mute the group chat is too long; you want to see whatever photo Kai sent you.

You are… not disappointed.

It would be out of character for him to send you a nude.

You would never do the same for him, as you have a lot of strong feelings regarding naked pictures of yourself floating around the invisible boundaries of cyberspace, no matter how many firewalls are in place or how much you trust the recipient.

It’s the same reason you won’t indulge in dirty video calls with him or any of the lovers you had previously, no matter how far the distance or long the separation.

Hackers exist. Regardless of how quickly your career would or would not recover from an X-rated leak, you know yourself.

You would never, ever be able to walk out on a stage again or look some talk show host in the eye if they had all seen you in a private moment.

It’s hard to imagine anything worse. So you don’t do nudes or lewds.

Kai hasn’t voiced an opinion either way, but you expect nothing, since you can’t reciprocate.

The picture isn’t, like, pornographic or anything. Technically, he’s fully covered. Technically.

You haven’t been in the Cyclones’ locker room, but you can guess that’s where he is.

Steam floats around his heels. Clearly, there’s still a hot shower going on in his vicinity.

He’s wearing only a towel. It’s slung low on his hips and held in place with one hand, the one not taking the picture in the full-length mirror before him.

He’s not putting much tension on the towel, which isn’t very big to begin with, and it’s slipping.

Just above his knuckles, the dark bristle of coarse, trimmed hair rises from the delta between his legs.

His phone is covering most of his facial features, but you could swear that you see the corner of a grin on the other side of the screen.

Under the towel, his thighs are thick and muscular.

Kai is a rather talented photographer; the picture is framed perfectly.

It’s pretty much a guarantee that your face is giving everything away. You take a quick peek around and thank god for the fact that Zhavia has wandered off. Your cheeks feel hot.

You: Wow…

Kai: is that all I get? good wow/bad wow?

You: Umm… kinda speechless. Definitely good wow.

Kai: want the back view? think I’m boutta drop this damn towel ;)

You should not be this het up about the sight of something you have seen at least one hundred times in person by now.

Your thumb’s still on your phone. There is a very real concern that you are going to pop a boner in the middle of Zhavia’s studio.

You gather the blanket further onto your lap and are silently grateful for the fact that the couch is against a wall.

You: Let’s see.

The phone dings, and you nearly jump out of your seat. He clearly had the photo locked and loaded. Your throat feels thick when you swallow, and you sink further down the couch cushions.

Kai: [IMAGE]

You give him credit; he’s not showing his face.

He’s in full rear profile to the camera, which he’s aimed over his shoulder.

And you do mean “rear” profile. His trapezius and latissimus dorsi muscles stand out in stark relief, but your eyes are drawn to his ass.

It’s absolute perfection. Sculpted and firm, yet with a juiciness that makes you want to sink your teeth in.

You have sunk your teeth in it before. Your mouth has a sense memory of his skin, of the saltiness where his ass cheek meets his upper thigh.

All that dark skin on display. Beneath the blanket, you are definitely reacting to his photo.

Kai: you like?

Anything you say now is going to be inadequate.

You type out and delete multiple filthy responses, mentally weighing just now much you are comfortable saying.

In the end, you are too chickenshit to cast your horny thoughts into the wide-open expanse of the cyber sea.

Knowing that he can see you have been typing for a while, you finally settle on something innocent, hoping he will read into the subtext.

You: I’m coming down to Miami tomorrow.

Kai: oh? news to me

You: I just decided.

Kai: when?

You: 30 seconds ago. ;)

Kai: hoping you’d say that. I’ve got the night off.

You: Not anymore, you don’t. ???

Kai: come and get it. gtg

You decide that it’s best not to reply. Surreptitiously looking around, you flatten your palm over your crotch, willing your dick to relax. You make it look like you’re just stretching your shoulders, which is a good thing. Because a split second later, Zhavia breezes through the door.

“Maeve’s not happy with you,” she announces by way of greeting. “She says I’m supposed to barge in here and not leave until you eat something.”

“That’s going to be tough considering that one of us needs to leave to go get sustenance,” you mutter dryly.

Zhavia waves her phone. “Oh, she’s got that covered. She ordered enough food for everyone. Asked how many assistant engineers there were, and if you had any musicians recording. If anyone had any food allergies. Sounds like she’s bought out the Korean place down the street.”

Raising an eyebrow, you look at your phone’s screen. You didn’t hear it chime again, but, sure enough, there’s a minutes-old message from Maeve.

Maeve: You didn’t answer, so you don’t get to choose. Hope you’re in the mood for bibimbap.