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We hadn’t done anything else that night in his hotel room. I’d stayed a while, drying off and relaxing while we talked about nothing and watched TV on his oversized bed, and then I’d gone back to my room. The next morning he drove me back to Portland, and he talked about his life in the “Ice Cream Girlfriend” era. Everything he’d said was fascinating, but it had also made the hair on the back of my neck stand up in a way I couldn’t explain.
Suddenly, even though I had no regrets about the time I’d spent with him, I wanted a do-over. I wanted to go back and see the things he didn’t want to show me. It was important that I see him again, on my terms this time. Because I wasn’t sure that Finn was fine at all.
Still, I said it again, just to try the words out. “He’s fine.” It sounded hollow, so I added, “I fooled around with him.”
Denver was looking down at his cup, concentrating on fishing the tea bag out of the hot water. His expression didn’t even flicker at this news. “Cool,” he said without looking up. “Is it serious?”
I stared at him. How the hell was I supposed to answer that question? “I don’t know.”
“Ah.” The tea bag successfully wrangled, Denver tossed it in the trash.
“What?” I asked.
“I asked if it’s serious, and you didn’t say no.”
“I didn’t say yes.” Was that a smirk? That was definitely a smirk, so I threw a bomb at him. “I think I should sing backup on some of these songs.”
Denver blinked, and then he wasn’t smirking anymore. He frowned as if my words were hitting him in slow motion. “I sing my own backup,” he said.
This was true. In live shows, Neal sang some backup, because Stone couldn’t sing at all. In the studio, Denver sang all of his own backup tracks and harmonies, recording them one by one so they could be mixed together by Roy, our engineer. It was a common practice, especially for singers as good as Denver was.
“I think it would sound good,” I said. “I know my voice isn’t as strong as yours, but our tones are similar, and we’d mix well. It would give a different vibe to some of the songs. It would add complexity.”
From the look he was giving me, it was obvious that no one had ever dared suggest this to Denver before. I had made him forget about my weekend with Finn, at least. “Which songs?” he asked.
I motioned to the door, behind which Stone and Axel were working on a new song called “Awake at Midnight.” “That one,” I said, because I had thought about this a lot. “From past songs, I think it would work on ‘Starlight Woman’ and ‘Fuck You, California.’ And ‘Bad Night.’”
His chin rocked back a little when I said that, as if I’d taken a swipe at him. I knew exactly what he was thinking. “Starlight Woman” was a song Denver wrote about Callie. “Fuck You, California” was one of the few songs Stone had written, and it was about a tragedy in his past. “Bad Night” was one of the Road Kings’ first songs. It was one of their best-known numbers, a fan favorite, and they closed every live show with it.
A few months ago, I was playing with Checkerboard Sadness, and now I was telling Denver fucking Gilchrist that I should sing with him on one of his most famous songs. I should laugh myself out of this studio and save him the trouble. But I was done with being a lesser version of myself. I had done that for too long, and I wasn’t going back.
“No,” Denver said.
“Yes,” I shot back, because I had expected that. He wouldn’t say yes right away.
“No,” he said again.
“Give me one take,” I bargained with him. I pointed to the door again. “We go in, we record one take with me singing backup. Then we play it back for everyone and see what they think. If it sucks, I accept that. I won’t bring it up again.”
He put his cup down and leaned back. He was probably recalling who was here tonight: Stone, Axel, Neal, Roy the engineer. Will Hale was here, too. Will was Stone’s half-brother, the band’s manager and their money guy. He wasn’t a musician, but he was part of the operation.
There was just me, willing to audition for six guys, one of whom cut my check, the rest of whom could fire me, except for Roy. It could backfire spectacularly, but I’d take the risk. I hadn’t come here to be part of the wallpaper.
Denver was quiet for a moment. “Fuck,” he said, because he knew what I was risking, and he kind of respected me for it.
“One take,” I said again, just to push him. “Five minutes. Or four, depending on the song.”
“Fuck,” he said again. He stood up. “’Starlight Woman,’ Jules. One take. Let’s go.”
Twenty minutes later, I stood in the control room, listening as the last notes of the improvised take of “Starlight Woman” that we’d just recorded wound down. Sweat stuck my shirt to my back. My throat was dry.
The music ended, and all of the guys looked at each other, waiting to see who would speak first. None of them looked at me.
Stone scratched his beard thoughtfully and said, “I like it.”
“So do I,” Axel said.
Denver, seated at the sound board, leaned over it, crossed his arms, and rested his head on them. He groaned as if in pain.
