“Well,” I said, ignoring how my skin prickled. “Let’s get going.”
Forrest’s other long-time producers and assistants almost fell out of their chairs when they saw us enter the studio, but he snapped his fingers imperiously at them, and they hurried to set up the equipment for us.
And I thought his big blonde friend Jerry would faint when Percy started in on the fourth stanza of his polka.
“That was good,” I said, daring Forrest to contradict me. “I think you really did that old Polish wedding song justice.”
Forrest met my eyes and didn’t look away. He was infamous for his control freak ways in the studio, how every single album he produced had to meet the demands of his musical genius.
“Pretty good, Percy,” he said. “A few of those notes were a little flat. Let’s take it from the top, shall we?”
“There’s also a little arrangement with Mortimer that’s really going to wow the audience,” I put in, adjusting Mortimer’s bubblegum-pink bow. Only the best for a Davies-Jones production.
And Forrest sat in his chair and recorded eleven songs involving his ex-wife, oldest child, and an angry Pekingese.
Of course, I couldn’t resist doing one of my songs either, one of the folk ballads I had written myself. It was in a very old-fashioned style, but it seemed to fit my voice well.
I wasn’t trying to sing in the classical style, either, but the one that suited me.
The songs I had done on America’s Most Enchanting Virtuoso had never really suited my voice either. And I had tried lots of classical songs, but they weren’t really my range.
This was.
And I knew he wasn’t lying about how my voice affected him.
His shirt was open a few buttons at the top, a sight that might have driven me mad with lust in the before times, and his heart was pounding so hard I could see it through the silvery hair on his chest.
There was a muscle throbbing in his cheek.
“That was—beautiful, Birdie,” he said in a voice low with throbbing emotion. “Absolutely stunning.”
“Yeah,” I shrugged. “I know.”
There were times a casual word of praise from him would have sent me into ecstasy for days. But now I knew he wanted my voice to himself out of jealousy, I threw myself into the song, allowing each note to really sit in my throat and gut and between my thighs.
“What do you think?” I asked Jerry as we finished. Like all Forrest’s friends, he too was wealthy and handsome,
“You have a gorgeous voice,” he said.
“Oh, thank you,” I said, taking another step closer. “Forrest always said my voice was too rough for commercial success.”
Jerry looked shocked at this.
“Absolutely not,” he said as I dropped my cellphone in front of him and he bent eagerly down to get it. “I would totally disagree with that assessment. You’re a star, Birdie.”
Jerry reached his hand out with the cellphone, and I took it, my fingers sliding slightly down his palm.
He gulped, his eyes glued to the inches of belly above my low-hanging sweatpants, but as I took one step closer, Forrest yanked Jerry’s rolling chair backwards so the other man had to clutch the sides to keep from falling off.
“Sheisa star. She’smystar. So you can put that slobbering tongue back in your mouth.”
Jerry looked wary, but I made sure to hold his eyes before I finally dropped my own, so he knew one thing for sure.
I no longer do what Forrest says.
“He can appreciate my voice if he wants,” I said coolly.
But Forrest stepped between us.
