Quentin might have been just another motherfucker—but at least he was a real artist. That was saying something, especially as she considered some of the producers she’d worked with in that past. Maybe she was in the right hands.
But she couldn’t help but feel trapped here in this prison. Still, some deep part of herself was grateful for it.
Chapter 6
Even though she had plenty of time, Raine refused to go to breakfast early. Instead, she got up with enough time to shower and put on some makeup, and then she put on a black t-shirt, torn jeans, and boots. Afterward, she sat on the bed going through her notebook to review the songs she’d been writing over the past years…some of which she’d originally planned to have on her new album.
Now, though, in terms of her songs, she was feeling gun shy. One song in particular, one called “Take,” she’d been working on for a while. Now, it was absolutely off limits. She’d initially hoped it would be the first single for her next album but, after her disastrous performance at the charity concert that had caused everyone to treat her like a leper, she knew it had to stay on the page and off the airwaves.
At five minutes to eight, she walked up the stairs and headed to the kitchen. Quentin was nowhere to be found, but the kitchen held the lingering scent of toast and jelly. The way her stomach clenched made her regret not coming in sooner.
There were no bottles of water in the fridge—but surely he didn’t expect her to sing without having hydration nearby? After hunting down a glass, she filled it with tap water. She smelled coffee, but she never drank anything with caffeine or dairy before a singing session, and she assumed she’d be doing that this morning. When she’d gotten serious about her career, she’d nurtured her voice and those were the only two rules she never broke…even though most people didn’t know it. Mal did, of course, but few people outside her close circle did.
On her way out of the kitchen, she spotted a bowl of fruit by the fridge that she hadn’t noticed the night before. In fact, she was pretty sure it hadn’t been there. She had no doubt that it was real and not fake fruit, because this guy didn’t seem to like decoration of any kind—and that could be her breakfast. Tucking her notebook under her arm, she picked up the glass and an orange and went back down the hall, this time taking the stairs up to the studio.
The door was open and she entered, not completely surprised to see Quentin already there in the control room—but he was looking right at her as she entered. Had he been waiting for her? “You’re pushing it,” he said, tilting his head to the clock on the wall behind her.
She turned to look at it. “I’m on time.”
“Barely. But you’re right. You are. You’re just cutting it close.” After a second, he added, “And…I have refillable water bottles in the kitchen to protect from spills.”
“I couldn’t find them. I can go—”
“I’ll show you where they are at lunch. Just be careful not to spill, but I don’t want to waste any more time. Let’s get started.”
Letting out a small breath, she felt a little gratitude that, at least, he didn’t want to fuck around. He was probably as eager to get this shit over with as she was.
His clothes looked a lot like they had the day before—a black t-shirt that looked similar to the one she wore, black jeans, and those same work boots that made her imagine him working on the fence along his property.
She asked, “So where are we doing this—in the control room or here in the live room?”
Completely ignoring her question, he zeroed in on her hand. “What are you doing with that orange?”
“You said I could have anything in the kitchen.”
“And you can,” Quentin said, his eyes unreadable, “but in the kitchen. I spent a lot of money on this studio and would prefer to keep it pristine.”
God, he was a fucking asshole. “Fine. I won’t eat it here.”
“Thank you.”
“So how do we start this?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. Maybe if they got to work, she could tolerate him better.
“I’m pretty familiar with your body of work.”
Raine snickered. “All two albums. Impressive.”
“It is actually. You’re what? Twenty? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-two.”
“I only had one album under my belt by that time—and it wasn’t just me. That album was a group effort. So, in terms of being an artist, you shouldn’t belittle yourself. Not everyone can create the kind of art you do.”
Hmm. This guy might have been a prickly dick…but she had to give him props. His words weren’t just flattery—she knew that much after having been sucked up to the last five years of her life. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Pull up a chair,” he said, sitting at another chair by the small table near the wall in the heart of the studio outside the control room.
Before sitting, she placed the water glass and orange on the table away from equipment. Then she pulled her phone out of her back pocket and the notebook out from under her arm and sat at a chair, waiting for him to say what she knew he would.
