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Remy extended his fingers to the design, running them across the clef. It was raised a tiny bit; he traced the shape until Vivi shied away.
“That tickles,” she said then tugged her shirt back down. “Do you have any?”
“I don’t. My brother does, though. He gets them for every musical milestone. Does anyone even know you have it?”
“Sort of? I think some old photos might have it showing,” Vivi said. “I don’t, like…show itto anyone. No one’s seen it on purpose, exactly.”
“Not even Noel?” Remy asked. Vivi shook her head then seemed to understand what Remy was really getting at. If Noel had never seen the tattoo, it meant he’d never seen Vivi naked. Ifno onehad seen the tattoo, it meant—
“I guess you could say I showed it to Jonas on purpose,” Vivi said slowly. “A long time ago.”
Remy scoured his brain, thinking back through Vivi’s boyfriends. Jonas was the one he’d read about ages ago—the one before Noel, the one she’d supposedly lost her virginity to. The fact that Remy knew that before Vivi told him suddenly felt embarrassing and toxic.
“Anyway,” Remy said, shaking off the burn of tabloid news as best he could. He stepped forward and kissed her on the forehead, taking as quiet a breath as possible so he could capture the scent of her hair. “Get out of here. I’m recording percussion. You know how to use the program on my laptop?”
Vivi narrowed her eyes. “Please, Young. I used the old version of that program to record my first demo.” She started toward the control room then glanced back at him. “I’ve got another tattoo, you know.”
“Really? What of? Where?” Remy asked as he slid onto the stool behind the drum set. It was an overly complicated set, with shiny bells and whistles that no one really needed but rich people liked to buy.
Vivi gave him a mysterious sort of smile. “I’ll never tell.”
Vivi Swan and Producer in the House
America’s Sweetheart takes a break from her world tour to record new music
Vivi Swan and new producer-slash-tour-drummer Remy Young (of Quiet Coyote fame) stopped by Casa Oro studios in Madrid yesterday morning. Sources say they were inside for approximately four hours and recorded a single. Paps swarmed the two as they arrived and left the facility, but they were all business—leaping into separate cars to jet back to the concert venue before their four o’clock sound check.
Who is the song about? The studio manager claims to know but wouldn’t tell. Given that Vivi and boyfriend Noel Reid arrived together to publicist Anne Richard’s birthday party in Portugal, we think Noel is safe from being the subject of the song—but then again, maybe Vivi just wanted a fresh dose of breakup emotion before the big recording session.
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Author: Bianca Treble
Then
Getting to Nashville wasn’t particularly difficult, especially since they hadn’t really intended to go there.
Staying in Nashville, however, was tricky. Val mowed the lawns of the rich and famous in Brentwood, and Remy waited tables and made coffee at a place downtown during the day. This left them free to play music at night, which they did to the point of exhaustion. Between the two of them, they managed to rent a studio apartment, which was comically small but still larger than their bedroom at home.
“We can do two shows tonight if we don’t stop and try to sell merch afterward,” Val said, peeling the bandage off a new tattoo—the word FREEDOM in massive script down his arm, a celebration of arriving in Nashville and pursuing music. He winced when the tape stuck fast but went on, “Besides, I won’t have time to tune again unless you drive.”
“I can’t drive. I don’t have a license,” Remy said.
Val gave him a withering look. “You know how to drive. Just don’t do anything to get pulled over, and we’ll be fine. The venues aren’t that far apart.”
So they played both shows—Remy driving between them, sticking to the slow lane and using his turn signal to the point that Val said the clicking was driving him crazy. When they took the stage at the second venue moments after the headlining band finished, the crowd cheered with boozy abandon. Val grinned at them in such a way that they understood: he was one of them, so drink up, boys.
“We’re the Lake City Millionaires,” Val said. “And this first song is called ‘Feverish.’”
Val kicked off the song with a quick, sharp guitar solo; the bassist, a friend of theirs they’d met at another gig, joined in, then Remy on the drums. The keyboard effects were run entirely off a keyboard Val and Remy pooled their money to buy used. It froze, occasionally, which meant they’d gotten used to improvising should it suddenly go off-tempo or become nonexistent. They played through their set to an increasingly wild crowd; Val whirled them up with microphone tricks and dance moves that weren’t so much choreographed as convulsed. He’d done more and more of this lately, breaking into spontaneous movement, like his body was cracking and breaking now that it was free from Florida.
When their set ended, a group of girls gathered up around them; the bartender slid the brothers their comped PBRs, which neither particularly liked at that point but both had learned how to confidently swig.
“Where’s Lake City?” one of the girls asked, shouting over the thumping house music.
“Florida,” Remy said back, though the volume made his head hurt. “There are approximately zero millionaires there.”
“Oh, yeah?” the girl asked. “How many bands?”
“As far as I know, there’s us, and then the church group that plays praise songs,” Val said.
The group laughed and ordered another round of drinks. The taste of beer was still strange and new to Remy, the sort of thing he was trying desperately to train his taste buds to appreciate but largely failing. Val claimed to like it instantly, but Remy knew his brother well enough to know he was lying. They’d never had it before Nashville—too afraid that if they snuck it while playing gigs, their parents would smell it on them. It was a reasonable fear—in a house totally void of alcohol or caffeine, the scent of booze would have stood out like high beams in the dark.
Val didn’t get sloppy when he drank—not yet—he just got darker. His eyes, his hair, his expression. It all became brooding and angrier and, if the people who draped themselves over him were any indication, sexier. Those who couldn’t hold court on Val’s lap reluctantly sat beside Remy, largely having conversations with one another over him. During a particularly loud conversation that involved squealing and shoving and delighted giggles, one of the guys that had joined them interrupted the girl on Remy’s right. She responded by holding up a hand to him with her middle two fingers pressed to her thumb, pinky and pointer fingers extended into the air, like she was making shadow dogs on the club walls.
“What the hell is that?” the guy asked as she shoved her dog-hand in his face.
“Gang sign,” Val said, and even though it wasn’t a great joke, everyone laughed.
“It’s a thing from elementary school,” the girl explained as the laughing subsided. “You don’t know the quiet coyote?”
“We didn’t go to elementary school,” Remy said, but Val kicked him sharply under the table, silencing him.
“It’s a thing our teachers did to get us quiet. So, when everyone’s talking, you just do this sign.” She held up the signal again. “And it’s the quiet coyote. Mouths closed, ears open.”
“Mouths closed, ears open?” Val asked. The girl nodded. A slow, gentle smile crept across Val’s face, and his eyes took on a faraway look.
“What is it?” the girl said cheerfully.
“Mouths closed, ears open,” Val said. “That’s everything. That’s how it should be. That’s how we should live.”
