Page 50 of Sing Your Secrets
fourteen
Miles
Sedi Fields is a man of many talents. He’s a professional temp. What I know about hustling—aka working three jobs on basically no sleep—I learned from my childhood best friend.
When I called him to tell him I’d been back in Denver for nearly a month, he was legitimately pissed. He very reluctantly told me he was still spinning at Blue Horn, the old eighteen-and-up nightclub we used to sneak into in high school. Sedi was the master at making fake IDs. His illegal side hustle was what funded all his mixing equipment. We’re an unlikely duo, but once I listened to his beats and tracks, I became his biggest fan, and he became mine.
We had a brotherhood…that I walked out on. Rightfully so, he’s still holding a grudge. I fell off the map when I moved to L.A., but he’s even more upset I moved back home and didn’t tell him.
I waltz into Blue Horn an hour before doors open on a Friday, of course to find Sedi behind the booth, tinkering with his equipment.
“Don’t hate me,” I say, holding up a bag of McDonald’s. “I got your favorite. McDoubles.” I hold up my empty palm in surrender.
Sedi’s wearing a purple, leopard print, long-sleeve shirt that’s so tight it looks like he was poured into it. The gold chains around his neck clash horribly, and his jeans are so ripped and tattered I can see more of his dark legs than denim. To top off his ridiculous ensemble, his sunglasses are resting neatly in his Jheri Curl styled hair. It’s a nightclub—what the fuck does he need sunglasses for?
He licks the tip of his finger and then holds it in the air like he’s testing the temperature. “Weather’s cold in here, bruh.”
“Oh, come on, Sedi.” I hold the bag up as an offering. I stole a move from Reese’s playbook. It’s becoming my favorite thing in the world when she pops up unannounced, bringing me lunch. I certainly have different intentions than Reese usually does right now—but still—it’s a universally nice gesture. “I know you haven’t eaten. Hear me out.”
He glowers at me, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Do those have Mac sauce on ‘em?”
“Extra,” I assure him. “And I brought extra ketchup,” I say as I pat my pants pocket where I stuffed a handful of condiment packets.
Stepping away from the booth, Sedi pauses when he’s about a foot away from me. Glancing around, this place hasn’t changed a bit. It’s still torn up, dingy, and it looks like someone painted the walls with the color shit, but you can’t see any of that with the lights off. Nor do you care when you’re tipsy with a pretty girl grinding against your crotch. Sedi and I used to get into all kinds of trouble here.
“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. “I know I’ve been a crap friend.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be honest,” he says, but I see a hint of his familiar smile.
I peer at him quizzically. “Honest about what?”
“Don’t come walkin’ back into my life, just to ditch my ass again when your come up finally pans out.”
“What come up?” I ask, scoffing. “I’m working at The Garage for a reason. And I didn’t ditch you, Sedi.” My eyes drop to the ground. “You know me too well for me to lie to you, and it was too hard to admit I was getting my ass kicked in L.A. I’m sorry. I should’ve reached out.”
Sedi closes the space between us and yanks me into a brotherly hug. Damn, he reeks of weed. Mcdonald’s was a smart move on my part; he’ll forgive me based on the munchies alone.
We grab a seat outside at the club’s patio area. It’s the same wire furniture they’ve had for over a decade now. Shockingly, the furniture seems to be holding up. For a moment, there’s only silence as Sedi attacks the brown paper bag and unwraps his cheap burgers with the voraciousness of a starving bear.
He slides a wrapped burger toward me. “Want one?” he asks with his mouth full.
“No thanks.” I slide it back. I’m not too high and mighty for McDonald’s, I’ve just been feeling off all day—a little nauseous and dizzy. There’s pressure lining my temples. I have to pee every five minutes. If I was a woman, I’d have taken a pregnancy test by now.
“What happened in L.A.?”
“Nothing. Just a whole lot of doors slammed in my face.” I pause as the deafening roar of a car with a blown muffler barrels past us on the street. The noise isn’t just annoying—it’s excruciating for some reason. I press my palm against my throbbing temple. “It might’ve been my demos.” I shrug.
“You were putting out the stuff we made?”
“No, maybe I should’ve though.” I sink a little farther into my chair, bracing myself as it wobbles. “I paid this agent who told me—”
“What?” Sedi squawks. “The fuck, Miles? You shouldn’t be paying agents.”
“He told me he needed a small retainer to get some marketing together and prepare professional pitches to the labels.”
“Bruh,” Sedi says, his chewing slows and he looks me dead in the eyes. “You got hustled.”
I nod. I know. I was already ten grand in before I realized it. “At any rate, the producers he set me up with took over. They had me making demos that would apparently suit my look. The tracks were trash—I knew it. But they told me it’d get me a deal.”