Author's Preface
The next stop had security and metal detectors at the entrance. But Meika was recognized on sight, and Sevan followed Farren and Meika straight through the scanners and down a hallway after a woman with a yellow name badge.
The building was dressed down compared to the other places Sevan had been to in LA. Worn, tan carpeting covered the floors. The walls had cluttered arrays of photographs and plaques, as well as the nail scars where such things had been removed. Some famous person’s guitar was framed in a glass display case against the wall.
The woman stopped in front of a door and opened it.
The space inside was dark and small. Technology filled the little room. A laptop and multiple monitor screens on one side, then a long metal panel covered in slide switches on the adjacent side.
There was a man and a woman already in the room. The man stood up and slipped a set of headphones around his neck as Meika, Farren, and Sevan entered. He held out his hand to Meika.
“Lelo Gavé, as you know. I’ve been working closely with Seraphina on this track. Nice to meet you, Avis.” He turned briefly to the woman beside him. “This is my assistant, Danna.”
There was a window behind the switchboard—a window into a small lit space with a microphone setup and a small portable sheet music stand. Most of the light in the dark switchboard room was coming in from that window.
“Lelo, Danna.” Meika smiled politely, a little awkwardly.
The door shut. The woman with the yellow name badge had disappeared. Farren quietly put his back to the door.
“Do these people need to be in here?” Lelo asked with a brief gesture between Sevan and Farren.
“They do, I’m sorry,” Meika responded.
“I see. I have a sheet for you here.” Lelo passed Meika a piece of paper. He held out a stubby pencil as well. “You’ve listened to the demo?”
Meika’s brows lifted. “Uh—yes.”
“Pardon my need to ask, you would be surprised,” Lelo offered briefly. “I’m going to play it now just so it’s fresh for everyone.” He hit a button on his switchboard, and a tune started up from a speaker somewhere in the dark room. A simple instrumental, then the soft voice of a woman filling the empty space with lyrics.
Meika hummed softly along to the vocals and started circling things on his paper sheet. Circles, lines, some arrows, a few asterisks.
Sevan suddenly wondered if he was randomly doodling.
“You got it?” Lelo hit a pause button and looked up at Meika.
“Yep.” Meika gave Lelo a smile. “Yep, yep.”
“Alright, let’s see what you have.” Lelo gestured to the door to the little window room. “Feel free to warm up if you need.”
Meika entered the small space within and lifted a pair of headphones off a hook beside the recording microphone. He adjusted the height of the microphone, then lightly tapped it.
“It’s on, Avis,” the producer muttered.
Meika smiled. His eyes met Sevan’s through the glass, though he couldn’t possibly see through it to the dark switchboard room as clearly as Sevan could see him under the full light. Meika’s brows flicked mischievously, and he smiled again.
“Okay, let’s just take it from the top, Avis.”
Meika raised a thumbs-up.
It was weird. Surreal. Hearing Meika’s voice for the first time. No, it wasn’t the first time, in reality. But it felt like it. Strong, accurate, melodic when it was meant to be—then dipping with tension, gravity. Adding emotion to words that were just words until he sang them.
Meika slipped one side of his headphones off his ear and moved into the chorus. His eyes lifted to the window like he was going to check the producer’s face. But he found Sevan instead. He smiled on the next lyrics and quickly looked away. But then he was smiling again. He stopped mid-sentence. “Fuck.” It was quiet, barely audible from the feedback speaker in front of Lelo. He had turned his face away from the window like he was trying to hide how hard he was smiling.
“Let’s take it from the top, Avis.”
“Mm.” Meika nodded and adjusted his headphones, turned back to the microphone. His eyes flashed again in Sevan’s direction, and another brief smile crossed his lips before he abruptly sobered.
Sevan found himself smiling. Smiling harder at the floor when he looked down. And no idea why. It was hard to imagine. So hard to force the reality through—of the fact that this man had been declared mentally incompetent by a court, that he had overdosed on oxy, that he had stepped off the eighth floor of a parking garage in Miami…
Unlike Lacey, medication worked for Meika.
* * * *
Meika went to the gym. A gym that was apparently somewhere in the condo building. Sevan didn’t see it. Maybe he was due for a workout, but he was far too tired to consider it.
So instead, Sevan collapsed on the sofa in the living room. He took out his phone and found a new text.
Private Number: These are all very innocuous things. What things have you found that are not innocuous?
Sevan sat upright on the sofa. “What the fuck do you mean?” he asked aloud in the empty apartment. And his fingers moved across the touch keyboard, tapping out the question—minus the swearing.
The response came within the same minute.
Private Number: I’m not paying you to tell me about the innocent characteristics of Avis’s life that anyone could guess/see.
Sevan frowned at the message. Was this person looking for dirt to sell to the tabloids? Frustration welled up in Sevan’s core. A gut-deep disgust. And he wasn’t sure if it was at this nameless person or at himself.
Sevan: How do I know you’re not going to sell this stuff to the media and get me implicated?
The response came almost instantly.
Private Number: You can rest assured that my directives have nothing to do with selling pictures or information because I am paying you far more than anyone would buy at.
A new text message appeared on his screen.
Private Number: Remember. If you come through for me, I double your pay. I can only imagine what it would feel like to get out from under those monthly restitution payments. Especially when Oliver S. clearly doesn’t need the money as badly as you do.
Something close to rage climbed in Sevan’s throat. It burned across his skin, cut his airway. Acid may as well have seeped into his brain.
But then he was breathing through the anger, taking it down notch by notch. Sevan squeezed his eyes shut for five seconds. Then he looked back down at his phone. He bit his lip. Bit until he could taste blood. His fingers moved back to the screen. Hesitated. Then started tapping out a new message.
Sevan: Meikhyel is a legal dependent of his parents. His parents also own his record label. A large part of his life seems to be controlled by them, not just whatever medication he’s on. Last night, he had to ask his bodyguard for Advil because it’s kept in a locked cabinet in his apartment.
Sevan paused. And more came out of him. Like it had built up alongside the bottled frustration, it came out onto the little text bubble on his screen.
Sevan: There’s a razor blade in the drawer in his bathroom. He has scars on his arm under the sleeve tattoo. His relationship with the bodyguard that lives with him is not good. His bodyguard sometimes acts more like law enforcement than protection. Meikhyel lies to him about things that really shouldn’t be important enough to lie about.
Letting Sevan borrow his car. An explanation for why they were both awake after Sevan woke Meika from a nightmare. That “no physical contact” rule that Lara had laid down, then Farren had picked up and enforced.
A bank app notification flashed at the top of Sevan’s phone screen. He swiped down on it.
“New deposit processing: $500.00,” the notification read. And just seconds later, a text came in.
Private Number: A small advance.
Sevan swallowed and swiped away both the text and the bank notification. Good. Finally, this nameless person was happy.
But Sevan couldn’t shake the sick feeling in his gut as he lay back on the sofa. What the hell is this person after, exactly? He blinked up at the ceiling. He turned over onto his side. And why the hell am I participating in it without knowing?
Money. $500 instantly. Just like that.
Meika’s dark brown eyes flashed in Sevan’s mind. His smile. Those scars under the sleeve tattoo. The way he had looked at that little girl.
It’s not that deep, Sevan told himself. He fixed his eyes on the leaves of one of Meika’s houseplants.
And this is literally not my pony parade.
Sevan tried to stay awake.
He thought he was staying awake…
Pretty sure he was staying awake…
But then he was startling awake to the sound of the front door opening. He quickly sat up on the sofa and watched Meika and Farren enter.
“I don’t see why they need to be so last minute about these things,” Farren was saying. His voice was quiet like he was saying something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Yeah, I guess they were probably working today,” Meika responded. He saw Sevan and smiled.
He was sweaty, breathing hard. Sevan watched as Meika took out his phone, then approached.
Meika stopped at a distance. He wiped his wrist across his chin. “So, my parents want to meet you this evening at their place.” He paused for a moment, grimacing at a flowering tropical plant. “Um…do you have any swimwear?”
Sevan’s brow dipped. “What? Uh—swimwear?”
“It’s stupid, they have this pool they’re obsessed with, and it’s just the expectation that we hang out there when the weather’s good.” He held out his phone, a clothing website pulled up on the screen. “Can you pick something you like? I’ll ask Nina to bring it.” He stepped back as soon as Sevan hesitantly received the phone. “Sorry, I need to shower, I probably smell like armpits.”
Sevan glanced abruptly up at Meika. Do not laugh. He shut his jaw, smiled. Armpits?
Meika took one look at Sevan’s expression, and his face flushed. “Sorry. Um. Just…show Farren what you pick.” He made a gesture toward the hallway, then simply turned and walked away.
A notification popped up on the phone Sevan was holding. Some kind of health monitoring app likely connected to a smartwatch or smart ring: “Stress alert! Your heartrate is high. Tap for a quick breathing exercise.”
“Aw, jeez…” Sevan whispered. He swiped the notification away. All he had smelled was Meika’s faintly sweet cologne.
For about two seconds, Sevan stared at the clothing webpage. And then it suddenly hit him that he was holding Meikhyel Callisto’s phone.
No. Sevan’s thumb contacted the screen, and he swiped blindly on the clothing listings. No, I won’t. I don’t need to.
But ten months ago, had this been Ollie Sanchez’s phone, Sevan would’ve gone through everything on it.
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