Abby Road (27 page)

H
al, Jord, and Yosh were hanging out in the vestibule. Hal was holding court, doing his über-loud cackle/talk, probably trying to tell one of his stories that only he finds pound-on-the-floor hysterical. The noise quickly died out when they all turned to see our foursome stepping out of the elevator.

“
There
she
is
!” Hal exclaimed, twisting the guitar strapped across his shoulders to point at me. “The grand duchess.” One set of his fingers tiptoed up the strings while the other strummed a tune.

Hal bore a striking resemblance to Calvin, sans Hobbes, especially that morning, with his spiky, orange-tipped hair sticking straight up. I hated to think of how many tubes of mega-hold gel had to die to get Hal’s hair that tall.

His comic book resemblance was shattered when he released the neck of his guitar and flicked the ashes of his cigarette into the drinking fountain.

“Put that out, you cretin,” I ordered, commencing our sibling-like banter.

Hal grinned and took a drag. “Huh. I
own
this place, duchess.”

“You’re disgusting. You were supposed to quit smoking this summer. It was the one thing you promised.” I crossed the room toward my band mates, feeling the need to mother them after being away so long.

“He tried,” said Yosh with an uneven smile.

“Not hard enough,” I replied, slapping him a high-five greeting.

Yosh’s bleached and feathered hair fell over his thin black eyes. His name, Kiyoshi, meant
quiet
in Japanese. As the drummer and archetypical loudmouth of Mustang Sally, Yosh was anything but quiet.

“We knew Hal’d fall off the wagon once the playoffs started.” Yosh sneered, twirling a drumstick and then pointing it in Hal’s direction. “The Giants are
trash
this year, dude.” He turned his drumstick to me. “Come closer, duchess, give us a hug.” He continued his request à la
The Partridge Family
: “I think I love you, duchess,” he sang with outstretched arms, “so what am I so afraid of?”

“Please, Yosh,” I whined, covering my ears. “Non-singing drummers were invented for a reason.” The other guys laughed. “And
you
,” I said, glaring at Hal. “I hope you won’t be lighting up around me.” I coughed dramatically. “You know those things are killer on me pipes.”

“Ha!” This came from Jordan as he rose from an armchair. The thick, metal chain that connected his belt to his wallet jingled like Christmas bells. “We voted while you were off frolicking in the ocean and decided your voice needs a change.” He chuckled, rolling the sleeves of his black AC/DC T-shirt over his shoulder, exposing a new set of Tribal tattoos. “Maybe a little secondhand smoke will lower you two octaves.”

“There is no smoking in California,” I protested.

“Precisely why I’m out here.” Hal stomped his black Chuck Taylors on the floor and snubbed out his cigarette on the rubber soul of one. “This is Cherokee territory.”

“Bloody imbeciles,” Molly muttered from behind me.

“What was that you were just playing?” I asked Hal, reaching out to pluck at a string. “One of your own? It was nice.”

“Hands off the merchandise, duchess.”

“Speaking of . . .” Yosh grinned.

And I was suddenly yanked into the middle of a tight group huddle. While locked inside the smothering bear hug, I was overwhelmed by the combination of cigarette smoke on Hal’s clothes, Yosh’s cologne, and a hint of Turtle Wax, which meant Jord had lovingly polished his restored yellow Camaro lately. The constant undertone smell on all three surfer boys was piña colada–scented sex wax from their surfboards that never seemed to wash off.

When our hug was over and I could breathe again, I turned around. “Guys.
This
is
Todd
.” I pointed to him with both hands in a “tah-dah” fashion. Of course they’d already “met” Todd over the phone, but this was the first official face-to-face.

“You’ll be seeing him around,” I added, “but don’t get jealous. He promises he won’t break up the band.”

“First one of you to call me
Yoko
,” Todd warned as he stepped up, “is a dead man.”

Shugger chuckled while Molly gave me a very approving nod. “Sexy beast,” she mouthed again.

“The man knows about your Beatles fixation,” Hal said, ruffling the top of my head, “and can still stand to be around you?” He gave Todd an endorsing nod. “Righteous, dude. We’ll commiserate later.”

Todd returned Hal’s nod. “As promised.”

Hal gave me a sideways glance, snickered, and walked away.

Oh boy, they’re already friends.

After the initial and expected interrogations, the guys paraded single file toward the studio door, performing some noisy, bizarre game of Follow the Leader. Shugger followed behind them, attempting to trip up Yosh, who was last in line.

I turned to Todd. “Sorry.” I laughed, my fingers covering my mouth. “I didn’t think they’d be here yet.”

“They’re funny.” He sounded surprised. “It’s like witnessing characters in a comic book come to life. We’ll get along fine,” he assured me with a smile.

I leaned in and gave him a hug.

Molly cleared her throat. “Sorry, Abby, but they’re waiting for you.” She left us, crossing through the threshold behind the guys.

“I have a feeling I’m not going to like this.” Todd gave a mock grin that showed his bottom teeth.

I stood on my toes, linked my fingers behind his neck, and kissed him, lingering on his bottom lip. “I have a feeling you’re going to
hate
this.”

He nuzzled his face in my hair. “Do you remember that first day back in June, before we walked to Modica to get you a tuna sandwich?”

“Turkey,” I corrected, pulling myself closer to him, “with Swiss and sprouts. Bob was out of tuna.”

“Right.” He smiled, dotingly. “I don’t know if you noticed at the time, but I took a moment before offering to walk you back.”

“I did notice,” I confessed, lowering to flat feet. I remembered that moment like it was yesterday. “What was that about?”

“It was decision time,” Todd explained, looking past me. “I saw it in my head. And I pretty much knew if I went with you then, one day I’d be standing right here.”

I wrapped my arms around him even tighter. We rocked back and forth in the middle of the empty lobby of Studio Universe—unfamiliar territory for Todd, extremely familiar for me. Standing there, swaying in his arms, it felt like I could handle anything. When I looked up at his face, the tips of his ears were red. I closed my eyes and waited.

“We’re burning daylight, babe,” boomed a deep voice from behind us.

I was sure Todd felt my body go stiff in his arms. Like a pair of teenagers caught exchanging goodnights on the porch, we immediately stepped apart, turning toward the voice.

Max Salinger, framed in the threshold, held the glass door open with one foot. His six-two, two-hundred-fifty-pound physique took up most of the doorframe. Expressionless, he held an unlit Cuban between his teeth, a BlackBerry in one hand. He was dressed in his customary razor-pressed black trousers and hundred-dollar, plain white short-sleeved shirt.

He took out the cigar and rolled it between his fingers. “You rested and ready?” he asked, then looked me up and down with a not-so-discreet smirk. “You’ve put on a little.” The smirk grew. “We’ll have to fix that, pronto.”

“I missed you, too, Max,” I said, narrowing my eyes into a playful glare. I’d just taken a risk: it would either piss him off or break the ice.

Max glared back and grunted.

I held my breath, not knowing yet if that was good or bad.

After another moment, he put the cigar back in his mouth. “Smartass,” he said and grinned.

I exhaled, feeling Todd’s hand take mine, helping me pull it together.

Max thrust his fingers through his short and slicked-back brown hair. It looked darker than usual, and I wondered if he was attempting to blend in the flecks of silver that started showing up last year. When I’d first met him, I thought he had a little Baldwin brother in him; he was a good-looking man, very intelligent and majorly charismatic. He was still all those things now, but he’d also become less patient with me. We argued more, too, not that arguing with him made a difference; I seldom won.

“So.” Max’s attention shifted to Todd. “This is him?”

I took a quick glance at Todd. In the past three months, he’d witnessed me surrounded by a sudden crowd of fans in Panama City, and he’d even spoken briefly with Tom Hanks when he called my cell to talk about a show he would be producing next year. But I had never seen Todd actually star struck.

Until now.

“Yes,” I said, giving Todd’s hand a squeeze. “Max, this is Todd Camford.”

Todd ran his thumb along my palm before he dropped it and stepped up to Max. Right up to him. No fear. Once a Marine, always a Marine. “How do you do?” he said and extended his hand to my manager. “It’s nice to finally meet you, sir.”

“Sir?”
Max repeated with obvious amusement. “Hey.” He looked at me. “I like this one.” The two shook hands and Max slapped Todd on the back. “I hear you run your own store back home.”

“Yes, sir,” Todd answered.

Max took out his cigar. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight, sir.”

Max looked down and chuckled. “Now look, drop that
sir
thing, understand? Makes me feel like an old man.” He glanced at me with a weary expression. “No comment from the peanut gallery,” he warned. “Call me Max.” He slapped Todd on the back again.

“Sure thing.” Todd nodded. “Max.”

Max looked at me and rolled his eyes. “All right, play time’s over.” He pushed the door open wider. “Time to work, babe.”

Today’s plan was for Hal and the guys to lay some tracks with the second unit engineers while Max, Nathan, and I spent the next several hours behind closed doors. Our goal for meeting was to listen to fifty submitted demos and narrow down to twelve. From day one, I’d always been involved in this process, although recently, if contrary to Max’s vote, my opinion was moot. Almost as if the whole thing didn’t concern me.

Todd was also included in our gathering. Surprisingly enough, Max didn’t argue with my request.

We were arranged in a scattered half circle in a small rehearsal room. Nate, floppy-haired, neurotic, producer extraordinaire, sat in one corner, controlling the music and giving a brief introduction to each song. Max sat in another corner, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Occasionally he tapped on a laptop. He was also taking a lot of phone calls, which slowed our progress.

Todd was separated, inconspicuously, behind us. Whenever I craned my neck over my shoulder to look at him, he was either tapping on his own laptop or his eyes were fixed on Max. He didn’t speak the entire time.

Between Nate and Max there seemed to be an undercurrent of a tense little debate; therefore, my opinion was asked for even less than usual. Groggy from travel, I didn’t have much to add anyway, so I nodded a lot and agreed with whatever Max said, while listing names of candy bars in my head alphabetically.

Before I knew it, Max leaned back in his chair and called it a day. I was a little stunned; it had been only four hours. Max must have been taking it easy on me after all.

When I stood to stretch, I noticed Todd hadn’t moved. He was staring in Max’s direction. I waved my hand in front of his face.

“Hey,” he said, blinking up at me. “Doing okay?”

“Good enough,” I answered.

“You didn’t say much.” He stood, glancing at something over my shoulder.

“I don’t really have to.”

When we stepped out into the hall, Molly was there, arm extended, thrusting a toothbrush and toothpaste in my face. I took them gratefully. “Your bags are home,” she informed me. “So are yours,” she said to Todd. “Well, then . . .” She winked at me and turned away.

“I don’t pay her enough,” I said as I watched her walking toward Jordan at the end of the hall. He looked severely crumpled and in serious need of a haircut. Molly would no doubt take care of that issue, too.