The bell on the door chimes as more patrons join the restaurant. By instinct, Taio and I both look toward the door.Nothing.We’re unnoticed as the pair makes a beeline to the hostess stand.
A couple walked in ten minutes ago and did a double take when they spotted me, but they just smiled and went to their table. An older man at the counter glanced over, seemed to recognize me, and then returned to his calzone without comment. That’s Vegas for you. Celebrities are furniture here. You notice them, maybe appreciate the design, and then you move on with your life.
It’s blissful.
“Okay.” I wipe my hands on a napkin and reach for my phone. “Are you ready?”
Taio groans. “Charlie…”
“You promised.”
“I promised I’d listen. I didn’t promise I’d be helpful.”
“Just try.” I pull out my AirPods and hand him one. “I need actual feedback, not just you telling me everything is perfect.”
“But what if everything is perfect?”
“Then you’re useless to me.”
He grins and tucks the AirPod into his ear. “I’ve been called worse.”
I queue up the first track—a stripped-down piano version of “Hurricane Season” that I recorded last month in a studio the size of a closet. No production. No backup vocals. No dancers or lights or spectacle. Just me and an old Steinway and whatever truth I could pull from my chest.
The opening notes fill my ear, and I watch Taio’s face as he listens with casual interest, at first, then his focus sharpens, his head tilting slightly the way it does when he’s really paying attention.
The vocals come in. My voice, raw and unprocessed, carrying the melody without any of the usual studio polish.
I dove into the deep end, aimed for the ocean floor
I let the waves block out the noise
But what I thought would drown me
Taught me how to breathe
Taio’s hand finds mine. He squeezes once, twice.
The song ends. Silence hangs between us for a moment.
“Well?” I prompt. “The lyrics are shaky, but I like the melody. Needs a little more time in the lab. A good producer.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Can you take a moment, Tweety? Before you start nitpicking? Charlie, you made this. It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you, babe. But that’s not feedback. That’s a compliment.”
“It’s both.” He pulls out the AirPod and sets it on the table between us. “That bridge note? Goose bumps.” He rubs his forearm. “The piano’s haunting. Your voice is raw. It’s perfect. It’s ready.”
“So no constructive criticism at all…”
“Okay, fine. I think maybe you should consider…” He pauses dramatically. “…recording more songs exactly like that one.”
I throw a balled-up napkin at his head. “Useless.”
“Not true. I’m arm candy, baby. That’s my whole job now.” He catches the napkin and tosses it back. “Speaking of which—I heard back from two more authors this week. One’s got a fantasy trilogy she wants some developmental help with, and the other is working on a historical fiction project set during the Gold Rush.”
“That’s…good, right? Do those interest you?”
“Well, I told them both I’m taking some grammar refresher courses first. It’s been a while since my literature classes, and I will be honest—‘who’ and ‘whom’ still eludes me, but yeah. I’m interested in helping. Maybe taking some inspiration from my girl and seeing if I can monetize my passion.”
