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CHAPTER TWELVE

DECKER

Gustav directs me down a narrow hall, past plaques and framed metallic records flanking either side of us.

This is the last place I expected to be after practice today, but when Jason called with new orders from Lena’s team, I couldn’t turn them down.

Not if I’m really going to give this thing my all.

I’ve been in recording studios before for team promos and whatnot, but seeing the names and faces lining the surrounding walls is intimidating—reminders that in this place, I’m out of my element.

These musicians are legends, people who have changed lives with their lyrics alone.

At the end of the hall is a door, and right beside it, I see a familiar face, although it’s several years younger.

Lena Lux’s first platinum record gleams back at me, and just through this door, I’ll get to see her again for real.

Something in my stomach wobbles like pre-game nerves as Gustav pushes the door open to a dimly lit room.

I hesitate, but when he lifts a meaty arm to show me in, I obey.

This place has a vibe to it. It’s a whole mood on its own.

My eyes adjust to the single lamp in the corner, throwing shadows across the space.

In the low light, everything looks beige and gold and monochromatic.

It’s warm and pretty inviting, considering one half of the room looks like the inside of a computer.

A window looking into another room lines one wall and casts just enough light for me to see the two smiling faces perched in white leather chairs in a corner near it.

I smile back, wondering if they can even tell I’m looking at them.

Gustav joins the two, leaving me to stand awkward and alone, debating if I should follow.

Someone sneezes, and I jump. Straightening my shoulders, I recover quickly and turn toward the sound.

A man sits in a swivel chair behind a board lit by pinpricks of colorful light, his hands skimming over it, adjusting the series of buttons and dials as he stares out the window.

I follow his sightline to the other side of the glass until my gaze lands on a very serious Lena.

I can’t help but smile as she taps out a rhythm, nodding along in her clunky headphones, her brow furrowing and knitting with every beat.

It’s always refreshing watching people doing what they love.

She lifts her hand and gives a signal, and the man on the board flicks something on.

Music pours from speakers dotting each corner of the dimly lit room.

Lena closes her eyes, and when her lips part, the gentlest sound emits.

First a murmur and then it swells into full-on lyrics.

A tingle races over my skin and up my arms. I run my hands over my forearms, trying to swipe away the sensation, but the goosebumps stay put.

I’m mesmerized. It’s amazing to see her in such raw form, despite all the high-tech recording equipment.

She’s hitting every note. This girl is living, breathing autotune.

To me, she sounds best this way. Forget the finished albums. All of the high-tech additives just bog everything down.

“She’s good, isn't she?” someone whispers somewhere below my shoulder.

I whip around to find a little woman with slick, dark hair.

“I’m Blythe. Lena’s manager.” She extends a hand. “And mother.”

I take it and am shocked at how firm her grip is. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Did you think you’d meet the parents so soon?

” She elbows me in the ribs like we’re old pals as she sidles up beside me.

I’m lost for a response and am grateful when she continues.

“You know, this is her tenth take. She can be a bit of a perfectionist?. I said we were good at eight, but she wanted to try again. And then again. The pressure from her label must be starting to get to her.” She shakes her head, pressing her fingers to her lips as she stares through the window ahead.

“She’s very talented,” I finally say.

Her mother nods and watches her daughter through the glass.

As the song begins to dwindle and the final instrumental comes back in, Lena opens her eyes, lifting them to the window, searching through the glass.

What she’s looking for, I’m not sure. Approval most likely, if there’s anything I’ve picked up about her.

My stomach does that pre-game wobble again as I consider that maybe it isn’t a what but a who. Is she looking for me?

I get my answer when her eyes finally land on me and go shockingly wide before narrowing.

She mouths something at me and pulls off her headphones, stepping out of the booth just as the song completely fades.

Briefly, she disappears out of her room’s exit before reappearing through some seemingly hidden door in the room I’m in.

“Look who’s here,” her mom simpers, gesturing to me like I’m some game show prize.

I lift my hand to wave, but Lena grabs it and shoots it down.

“Yeah, I see,” is all she says as she yanks me to the edge of the room like moving ten feet away will award us more privacy.

I shake free once her mom’s eyes stop tracking us. “Nice to see you, too.”

“What are you doing here?” she whispers.

“Watching you record, I guess.”

“You guess?” She crosses her arms. “When I told you I’d be stuck here all week, I didn’t think you’d stalk me.”

A laugh bubbles awkwardly out of my mouth. “ Stalking? You should be so lucky.”

She glares up at me.

“I got an invite. How else do you think I got the address? Someone named Antonia contacted my manager, and— bam —here I am.”

“Ugh. Of course she did. Apparently, this information wasn’t pertinent to tell me.” She brushes a loose hair from her big eyes, checking our surroundings.

When the guy sitting behind the window glances our way, she grabs my hand, a wide smile finding her lips like he just flipped some switch for it on his board.

Her skin is soft and warm in my palms, but her grip is rough.

Cold. Squeezing. Ow. For such a little person, she feels like she could do some damage.

I shake one hand free and boop her on the nose with a finger.

Her smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes turn murderous before averting toward the board guy again, who is no longer looking at us.

She shakes her hand free and immediately flicks me in the chest. She’s fuming, but when she speaks, I know it isn’t entirely my fault. “They know I never invite my boyfriends to the studio. Not even the real ones.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you knew.” After yesterday, I figured she’d maybe even want me here.

I shove my hands into my pockets to keep from fidgeting.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. Stalk y ou. Whatever you want to call it.

” I offer her a smile, but I wish I could hide somewhere or teleport to my car and drive home.

Or maybe curl up and die or something. “Plus, aren’t you the one who was less than thrilled to be stuck here?

I thought maybe I’d bust you out. At least for a little bit. ”

At that, I swear Miss I-Hate-Decker perks up.

“Well, I guess,” she lifts her wrist and checks her chunky gold watch, “I’m due for a break anyway. Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

She smiles up at me, and this time, it seems more genuine—more relaxed—than any of hers I’ve seen. “Good.”