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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

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BOOK: Falling Into Grace
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CHAPTER 26
T
imber showed no signs of releasing the grudge. She was obviously one of those one-strike-and-you're-out types. “John David will see you in a moment.”
“Thank you.” Hopefully, Camille wouldn't have to kiss up to Timber much longer. The woman might have a better attitude once she realized Camille's talent paid part of her paycheck.
This time, John David emerged from his office, arm extended, wearing a tell-all grin. “He
loved
the demo. Absolutely loved it.”
“Great!” she shrieked.
Timber huffed to indicate we were interrupting her telephone conversation.
“Sorry,” Camille spoke softly, but she couldn't stop the squeal from leaking out of her throat. “What do we do next?”
“Timber, draw up a representation contract.”
Yeah, Timber! Draw us up a contract!
Camille could say whatever she wanted in her mind; she'd never have the nerve to talk crazy to Timber.
“Come on back to my office. Let's make some calls.”
John David punched the conference button, dialed ten digits, then a male voice with a thick Spanish accent thundered through the speakers.
“
Hola,
John Daveeed!”
“Hey, Ignacio. I've got the magic voice here. Say hello to Camille Robertson.”
“Oh, my Carmelita! Where have you been all my life?”
Camille leaned closer to the phone perched on John David's desk. “In Texas.”
Ignacio laughed. John David echoed with a snicker of his own. This Ignacio must really be somebody, so Camille giggled right along with them.
“We're ready to make a move, my friend. What do you have in mind for her?”
“It's just as we discussed. The film needs a hot, hot song for the scene. Perfect for someone whose voice can go high, low, and everywhere in between.”
John David nodded at Camille, that money-sign beam in his eye. “Camille is definitely your singer. She's got a wide range. And I'm sitting here looking at her. She's hot, Ignacio.”
Where was all this hotness coming from? Last she checked, gospel music wasn't about steamy songs.
“And tell me, Carmelita, who was that man singing with you?”
“Oh”—she shrugged, as though Ignacio could see her—“he was just a guy from my church.”
“You two”—Ignacio's voice lowered—“not the first time you have made beautiful music together, I see?”
For the sake of the contract Timber was supposed to be typing that very moment, Camille hid her disgust. “Like I said, we're in the same choir. He's a friend.”
“Aha. Johnny boy, can you get
him
, too?”
The agent shot Camille an anxious stare.
“I could ask,” she said.
“Fabulous, Carmelita. You are perfect! Johnny, Angelica will send details.
Gracias!
” Ignacio didn't give them an opportunity to respond.
John David picked up his receiver, then laid it back in its cradle. He turned to Camille and asked, “Ignacio works quickly. How soon can you get in touch with your church partner?”
She shook her head in confusion. “Wait a minute. Is this a gospel song Ignacio has in mind?”
“No. It's more like pop. Slated for a spot on the soundtrack for a blockbuster movie, however. You'll get lots of exposure with this song. Lots!”
“What happened to gospel?”
“Forget gospel. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance for you to get back on the charts that matter. Don't freak out on me because it's not gospel,” John David scoffed. “Now that we've got some money behind us, I'll set up some time in a studio for you and ... what's his name?”
“Ronald Shepherd.”
“Hmmm ... might have to change it to Ronnie. Anyway, I'll have Timber call you and set up an appointment.”
“Ignacio said the song was hot. How hot is hot?”
“Remember that ballad from the sex scene in
Top Gun
?”
She guessed, “ ‘Take My Breath Away'?”
“Yeah.”
“Multiply it by ten. It's sizzling, seductive—wait! I think I actually have the lyrics in an e-mail.” He focused his attention on his laptop, clicked a few buttons. The rollers on the printer warmed for a moment, then a piece of paper ejected from the top slot. John David handed her the document.
One look at the title ruined all chances of getting Ronald involved. “On Top of Me.” Her heart sank into her stomach. The first verse was the female's recount of how it feels to have the man on top of her body. Vice versa for the second verse. The chorus line mentioned body part eruptions. This was almost too hot for even Camille to handle.
“Are they glued to these lyrics?” she asked John David.
“When Ignacio Mendes asks you to record a song, you don't question the lyrics. What's the problem?”
She exhaled.
I've come too close to my dreams to quit now.
“No problem.”
 
None of this second-party nonsense sat well with Camille. John David was supposed to be representing
her
, not her and some other guy he'd never met. Why couldn't that loony Ignacio just pair her up with Musiq Soulchild or Anthony Hamilton and get this ball rolling?
Wouldn't be such a problem if Ronald wasn't so holier than everyone she knew. He needed to lighten up, but she didn't have the time to talk him out of his rigid beliefs before the studio date. Timber had set it for Wednesday at twelve thirty
PM
and she wouldn't reschedule it no matter how much Camille tried to explain that she couldn't take off any more time from work.
“This is a state-of-the-art facility. We were fortunate to get a slot,” Timber claimed. “Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.” How could Camille not pursue her destiny because of a day job? She didn't want to be ninety years old, rocking in a nursing home, recounting the day she chose a measly old job over worldwide fame. Sad enough she'd already blown her first chance at stardom.
Camille completed yet another request for Wednesday afternoon off and placed it in the plastic wall file holder outside Sheryl's door.
One more logistic left to handle: the missing duet partner. Ronald was out of the picture. The only other men she knew with decent voices were Faison and Nathan, and Nathan was right up there next to Ronald on the holiness ladder, from what she could tell. Plus, he and Ronald seemed to communicate regularly.
Faison, however, told an occasional off-color joke or two in practice. She'd also seen quite a few fresh tattoos ascending his arms. No old-school Christian would have body art let alone expose it freely, in Camille's opinion. For a few dollars, she could probably get him to do anything. His voice wasn't nearly as strong as Ronald's, but a little less perfection on the male end might actually work in Camille's favor. Maybe Ignacio would X the whole man thing and pick her alone for the song. If he didn't “Ronald” would become “Ronnie Faison.”
She didn't have Faison's number. Didn't know how to reach him outside of church. And he had no clue that he was part of phase two of her scheme, but he was about to become one of her closest confidantes. Thanks to a message Ronald had e-mailed to members of the young-adult choir, Camille obtained Faison's e-mail address and sent him a generic note, asking him to give her a call.
He responded to her request quickly. She answered at work, spoke in hushed tones because Sheryl wasn't too happy about the request for time off, probably because it wasn't animal related.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Camille. It's Faison. I got your message. What's up?”
“Thanks for calling me back.” Okay, how was she supposed to say, “I need you to sing a nasty song with me because I know you're not all that saved?” She advanced cautiously. “Well, I've got a little proposition for you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don't know if you know this or not, but I used to sing in an R and B group. Sweet Treats?”
“Yeah, yeah. I'd heard. Y'all had some good songs back in the day. 'Specially ‘Meet Me in the Hot Tub,' you know what I'm sayin'?”
She thought she picked up on a slightly suggestive twang in his pitch. Maybe it was just her imagination. “Anyway, I've got an agent who's interested in me. He wants me to go to the studio and record a song, with a male vocalist in the background. I was wondering if you'd be willing to accompany me.”
“I'd love to. But if you don't mind me asking, why not Ronald instead of me?”
Why he gotta go there with a question?
“Well ... it's not a gospel song, and I don't want him to put his position at the church in jeopardy, you know what I'm sayin'?”
“Pastor wouldn't fire him for singing a secular song, I wouldn't think.”
Ugh!
“This particular song is ... let's just say it's ... a love song he probably wouldn't want Brittney to hear.”
“Oh”—Faison finally caught on—“it's one of
those
type of songs, huh?”
“Yeah. It is,” she had to admit.
“I'm cool. To me, music is music. As long as God knows your heart, people can't judge you.”
Funny. Before she started going to Grace Chapel, listening to Pastor Collins, and observing the living truth in Ronald, she might have agreed. But when Faison spoke those words, something within her knew he wasn't exactly right. Good thing, too, because he probably wouldn't have agreed to sing with her otherwise.
She gave him the when and where, and breathed a sigh of relief when Faison said there was no schedule conflict for him because he was off on Wednesdays and Thursdays.
“Great. I'll e-mail you the lyrics so you can look over them. Thank you so much, Faison. I can't pay you any money for doing this, but since you won't have to speed back to work, I'll treat you to lunch.”
Camille understood well: People like food. Especially free food. She'd be sure to watch the mail for a two-for-one restaurant coupon.
CHAPTER 27
F
or the first time she could remember, Camille saw a smile on Timber's face as she and Faison checked in at the studio.
“Hello, Camille. Good to see you again.”
I guess.
“Good to see you, too. This is my friend, Faison. He's going to sing with me today.”
“Hello, Faison. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Timber's eyes fanned up and down his body twice.
Obviously aware of her interest, Faison opened up a borrowed can of chivalry. Without a word, he kissed Timber's hand and Camille thought the woman was going to unzip the back of her pencil skirt on the spot.
“Ooh, Faison. The pleasure is all mine.”
“It
can
be,” he intimated, pulling up his sagging pants.
Can y'all wait until we finish taping? Why is she here anyway? This ain't her office.
“Follow me,” Timber said as she switched her nonexistent behind down a short corridor leading to the sound room. There, Timber handed them off to a man who introduced himself as Stevie.
“Thanks, Timber. I'll take it from here. Tell John David I said hello.”
“Certainly.”
While Faison busied himself exchanging numbers with Timber in the hallway, Camille made sure Stevie had things in order for the recording. She took in the control room, noting obvious changes in equipment over the past ten years. Six-foot sound engineering boards lit up like Christmas trees, computer monitors contained images that floated from one screen to the next.
The actual recording booth, however, hadn't changed. Just a headset and a microphone. Even with all this new technology, there was no substitute for the human voice.
From his seat behind one of the boards, Stevie assured Camille that he'd been in touch with both John David and Ignacio. “They're a great team to work with.
“And I look forward to working with you two. I heard the demo. Awesome.”
Then he switched into music producer mode. “Let me have you in the booth first. Then, we'll bring Ronald in—”
“Oh, he doesn't go by Ronald, professionally. Call him Faison,” Camille interjected, thankful that Faison was still outside the room flirting. That Timber was good for something after all.
Stevie made notes on a sheet of paper. “Faison what?”
“Just Faison.”
“Okaaay. Since you're in the spotlight, per John David, we'll start by recording separate tracks. We'll probably end up laying Faison's track on top of yours.” Stevie chuckled slightly. “Goes with the song, wouldn't you say?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Afterward, we'll run the duet.”
When her singing buddy finally made his way into the studio, he stood there hollering like a straight-up country fool who'd never been off the farm. “Daaang! This is off tha chain! You didn't tell me we were going to a
real
music studio!”
Stevie glanced at Camille curiously.
She, in turn, pulled Faison's balled fist from his lips. “Alrighty, then. Let's get started.”
After listening to the general beat, Camille delivered a sultry, strong performance in a relatively short period of time.
“You hit the spot, Miss Robertson,” Stevie complimented her.
Next came Faison's turn. Maybe it was the computers, or blame it on his lingering infatuation with Timber—Faison butchered “On Top of Me.” He hadn't any more studied those lyrics than a man on the moon. And his dreadful voice surprised both Stevie and Camille. Without the padding of other tenors, Faison sounded like Keith Sweat
without
LeVert covering him up, all that off-key, off-beat begging and whining.
After several hours' worth of stopping, restarting, redoing Faison's track, Camille was fit to be tied. And one of poor Stevie's clients had been waiting for his appointment in the studio almost forty-five minutes. Stevie obviously hadn't dreamed he'd be in the studio this long with someone who'd already been handpicked by John David and
the
Ignacio Mendes.
“Well,” Stevie finally exhaled after yet another rerun. “I think I've got enough to play with. I'm thinking we don't need to attem—I mean,
record
the duet. I'll mix the two tracks and get the master over to John David in the next few days. Might take me a little longer.”
Good old cut and paste, along with some audio
voice
brushing.
Faison nearly danced on his tiptoes. “Ooh, can I get a copy?”
Stevie sat back in his chair. “Ummm, no.”
“Why not?”
“Don't be
silly
,” Camille cooed, slapping Faison's shoulder. He had no understanding of the fact that he'd never own the raw tracks—he'd
never
own the rights to the song, for that matter. All that belonged to the producer and writer. “Let's wait and let Stevie work his magic.”
“And magic it will be,” Stevie commented under his breath.
He stood and escorted Camille and Faison out the door while simultaneously motioning for his next appointment to come forth.
“Nice meeting you,” Camille said to Stevie as Faison bounded toward the reception area.
“You have a beautiful voice,” Stevie reiterated.
“Thank you.”
“But your partner ... sounds like he was having an off day. Waaay off.”
“I see. Thank you.”
She walked out of there like a dog with its tail stuck between its legs. Faison, on the other hand, was wagging his tail in the parking lot. “That was sweet!”
“No. It wasn't. Faison, did you even read the words ahead of time?”
“Naw,” he admitted unashamedly. “Why? I don't read the words before choir rehearsal.”
Camille decided to save her breath. Faison had done her a favor. Horribly, but still, he'd done it. She reached into her zipper bag and brought forth a twenty-dollar bill. She gave it to Faison, saying, “Here. This is for lunch. I'm not feeling too good. You'll have to go without me.”
 
Sheryl was back to her pre-Fluffy, pre-Cat self. Bossy and demanding, cracking the whip in a never-ending attempt to increase the number of appointments. Camille found herself working through lunch to keep pace with her coworkers' achievements. For the life of her, she couldn't imagine why the computer kept putting her in touch with the meanest, rudest office managers in the entire central time zone.
“No! Someone from your company called last month. I already told them we do
not
need a stupid water machine!” a lady from an educational publishing house yelled.
“I'm sorry,” Camille apologized. “I'll take you out of our system.”
“Thank you!”
Another ex-potential client fussed, “Don't you people get the hint? Call here again and I'll report you to the FCC.”
By the end of the day Friday, Camille had heard enough people tell her that they'd already been called by Aquapoint Systems that she figured she'd better say something to Sheryl. Just before clocking out (lest she dare work one minute past five o'clock), Camille cautiously let herself into Sheryl's office.
Sheryl looked up, glanced at her visitor's face, focused back on the papers before her.
“Uh, Sheryl, I just wanted to let you know that several of the companies I called on today had already been contacted by Aquapoint Systems in the past few weeks. I'm guessing maybe the system isn't deleting previous contacts.”
Her boss laid the papers flat, looked Camille squarely in the eyes. “You're programmed for callbacks.”
“Callbacks?”
“Yes, callbacks. Sometimes, the second time is the charm.”
“I've been working here for months, and I've never done callbacks before.”
“Well, Camille, there's a first time for everything.”
Which begged her next question, “Is
everyone
doing callbacks?”
“No.”
Baffled, she asked, “So when can I stop doing callbacks and get back to regular, first-time office managers who haven't already decided they don't want Aquapoint Systems.”
“That will probably be when you start taking this job seriously,” Sheryl quipped.
Politely, she asked, “Who said I didn't take this job seriously?”
“No one has to say anything, Camille. You just took off work Wednesday to ... what was it, audition?”
Camille joked, “So, it's okay to take off for
cats
, but not
careers
?”
“This
is
your career,” Sheryl fumed.
Camille intentionally resisted the urge to put her hands on her hips. No need in going all the way there with Sheryl just yet. She planned to keep a day job until she got at least six figures saved up from CD royalties.
 
Worst-case scenario, Camille hoped, would be John David deciding to pair her with someone on his dormant male roster who could actually sing, have them rerecord with Stevie, then submit the finished product to Ignacio. Since her track was near perfect, all of the studio time hadn't been lost.
Too embarrassed to call John David but almost sick from waiting for him to respond, Camille sat on the couch, tucked her feet underneath her behind, and braced herself to call John David's office. It had been four days already since the session. Granted, only two of those were business days, but surely, by now, Stevie must have finished the mixing. All he really had to do was nix most of Faison's recording and duplicate the hook a few times. How long could that take?
Cat curled up next to Camille, hiding himself in the tiny cranny between Camille's waist and the couch's arm. He purred lightly and pressed his nose against her body, a gesture she had come to recognize as “hello.” He always seemed to know when Camille was on edge. Last week, when she'd forked over the money for the last payment on her ticket, Cat had laid his head on her lap as if to say, “It's okay. I know you're broke. I won't eat that much this week.”
Chalking up her actions to nervousness, Camille stroked Cat's back and tail in long waves as she pressed John David's ten digits on her phone's screen.
“Hi, Timber, it's Camille Robertson. Is John David in?”
She sighed. “Yes, he is. But he doesn't want to talk to you now or ever again.”
Panic slit a gash in Camille's chest. This was worse than she'd imagined. “Bu ... but ... did he say why?”
“You
know
why.” She chuckled. “You nearly made a fool out of him. Faison is
not
Ronald, thankfully, and—”
“Wait!” Camille slithered through a cracked window of opportunity. “Timber, you know how serious I am about my singing career. I jumped through all John David's hoops before he'd even officially agreed to represent me. I ... I have to fix this. I have to talk to him. Isn't there anything you can do to help me? I mean, I
did
introduce you to Faison.”
Timber sighed again. Camille held her breath.
“Well ... only because of my boo. I'm going to step out of the office for a second. I won't forward the phone to our other office or to voice mail, so John David
may
decide to answer it if you let it ring long enough. That's
all
I can do, and I'm only doing it once.
“I'm getting up to leave now. You've got five minutes to make it happen.”
“Thanks, Timber.”
“Don't show your gratitude just yet. You'd better hope this works or you're on your own.”
Click.
Camille counted to ten, then she redialed. The phone rang seven times, no answer. She ended, redialed again. Nine times. Repeat. This time, on the twelfth ring, John David answered in an exasperated tone, “Yeah?”
Too bad she hadn't thought about what she'd actually say when he answered the phone. Timber's plan didn't allow time for concocting a good lie. The truth would have to suffice. “John David, I am
so
sorry about the recording.”
“Is this Camille?”
“Yes.”
“You must think Stevie and I are total idiots.”
“That's no ... no.”
“I'm hanging up the phone now.”
“No! Wait! I can explain everything!” She rambled through a truthful explanation, told him that Ronald was too religious to sing “On Top of Me,” and she'd tried to cover up with Faison. “I knew I had to come through with something or someone. I didn't want to let you down.” Before she knew it, Camille's eyes had begun to water and emotion slipped through her speech, splitting each of her words in two.
BOOK: Falling Into Grace
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