The air feels still. Like the house is holding its breath.
I glance toward Carlos.
He seems to sense my curiosity. “I give my employees Sunday off,” he says. “They’re all at church. Come, follow me to the studio.”
Something about his timing and his calm invitation into a silent house makes my skin crawl. But I follow anyway.
We ascend a staircase and enter the studio, which is more minimalist, colder than Sterling Records’s was. The walls are pristine white. The enormous windows overlook the hills.
“What would you like me to sing?” I ask, turning to him.
“Well, that depends on you,” he says, his boyish smile appearing. “But first, I insist, take your jacket off. You look so uncomfortable. I get hot and stiff just looking at you.”
His words make me cringe. I do feel hot and stiff. But his intonation was odd.Almost dirty.The charming smile that seemed professional at the party now seems slightly off.
But I have a silk tank top beneath, so I slip out of the jacket and fold it over a chair.
“Back to what you want me to sing…”
“Do you know ‘Lollipop Blues’?”
I frown and shake my head.
“Have a listen,” he says, flicking a switch on a nearby device.
A few bars in, I pick up on the lyrics. Suggestive. Cheap.
I’m not a prude, but this isn’t audition material.
“I don’t know that one,” I say.
“Well, how about ‘Cigarette Blues’?”
This one’s even worse, with the singer describing hiscigaretteand suggesting his girlfriend draw on it “all night long.” The pattern’s becoming clear.
“How about ‘Over the Rainbow’?” I suggest.
“Excellent.” He nods. “Would you like some background music?”
“No. I’m fine.”
He settles into a seat in the front row.
When I look up, I pull in a sharp breath at the expression he wears. His eyes glint, as though he harbors a secret.
It’s probably just your nerves, I tell myself.Just paranoia. It’s been a weekend full of everything. Celebrities. Headlines. Emotional whiplash.
I close my eyes to ground myself in the song.
But when I open them again, Carlos has his hand resting on his crotch. Obvious. Intentional.
Through his tailored pants, I can see he’s fully aroused.
Creepy.
Alarming.
I force myself to keep singing. My voice stays steady as I pretend not to see what I see. If I show fear or disgust, will it escalate?
