Page 71 of Sing Your Secrets
From what I understand, Mac is a bit of a savant when it comes to music engineering. He plays guitar and piano, can navigate a MIDI with his eyes closed, and is an expert at the technical aspects of mixing tracks. He also looks nothing like Reese. Never in a million years would I suspect this man who looks like a Benjamin Bratt body double is Reese’s father. The only physical attribute they share is their curly hair.
“Reese, grab a mic,” Mac says as he paces across the stage. “Let’s try a little soundcheck.”
Brushing off his dusty dark jeans, he looks to Sedi, who is still tinkering with his new equipment behind the DJ’s booth. Sedi’s like a kid in a candy store and has spent the past hour of setup staring at Mac like he’s the second coming. Mac’s track record is impressive. I was already in awe when I found out he worked on Depth, Petey’s debut album, but that was the tip of the Grammy iceberg.
“Where do you want me?” Reese asks pointing to the four corners of the stage, one by one.
Mac flashes her his teeth in an innocent smile. “I don’t know yet. Grab a mic. Sing something.”
Reese rolls her eyes. “Dad. Drop it.”
Looking at me, Mac points to Reese. “The girl has the voice of an angel but never wants to sing. Five-octave range—”
“Four and change,” Reese interrupts, shaking her head.
“She’s just modest,” Mac explains. “She could sing circles around the greatest.”
I try to speak to Reese casually in front of her dad like she’s just a friend—and not a woman I’m falling head over heels for. “Why don’t you like to sing? Stage fright?”
“No.” Reese widens her eyes as she approaches me and Sedi by the DJ booth. “Not at all. I love attention.” She winks. “I just prefer the songwriting process. I love the studio. I want to create music, not necessarily perform it.”
“Such a waste,” Mac mutters as he shifts a subwoofer on the far side of the stage.
Ignoring him, Reese continues, “My friend Noa is an amazing cook and baker. She makes this chocolate coconut Hawaiian pie—it’s better than sex.” I narrow my eyes at her and she shrugs as she glances at Mac who has crossed the stage and is now out of earshot. “Sorry, it’s comparable to good sex.”
“Uh-huh…” I flatten my expression.
“Anyway, she’s phenomenal in the kitchen, and she loves to cook, but she’s not planning on opening a restaurant, you know? Sometimes you can like something, be great at it, but not have to do something about it.”
“I understand.” I fight the urge to tuck her hair behind her ear. Actually, I’m fighting a lot of urges. Don’t touch her. Don’t flirt. Don’t even get too close. It’s only been an hour and I’m already annoyed with keeping us under wraps. “Now I really need to try this pie.”
“I might be able to talk Noa into a little baking this weekend.”
Mac hops off the stage and lands with a loud thud. “The subs are fine. I’m more worried about an echo. The ceilings are high. I’m going to head up to the second level, then work my way down.”
The upper level was my favorite spot in The Garage when I used to catch shows here. I loved the level two seating. The tickets were pricier, but it was like having a bird’s eye view of the musician and the sound quality was still phenomenal. One of Reese’s few—okay, many—suggestions for the reopening was to keep the tradition of the elevated VIP section.
“How about we test the subs with the mic?” Sedi says, tinkering with his laptop, pulling up a few tracks.
“Thank you.” Reese smiles sweetly as he hands her the microphone.
“My lady,” Sedi says with a cheesy head bow. The fucker hasn’t stopped smiling like an idiot at Reese since he arrived. Jokes aside, best friend or not, if he keeps flirting with my girl, I’ll seriously kill him and then pretend to cry at his funeral.
“I heard you like Usher,” Sedi says, clicking the mouse as the intro to “New Flame” blasts through the speakers.
“Unhealthily obsessed,” Reese replies with a serious expression. “I’m considering therapy.” She keeps a steady face as long as she can before we both burst out in laughter. Spinning around, she walks the perimeter of the stage, toggling between mumbling and shouting, “Test, test.”
I’m a little let down. Now I’m curious. I want to hear her sing.
Once Mac is back on the main floor and gives her the thumbs up, she clicks off the mic and the music fades away. “They sound good all around. You should be all set.” He looks at Sedi. “Feel free to call me if you ever need help.” Looking at me, he continues, “And I imagine I’ll be seeing you sometime soon?” Mac holds out his hand for me to shake.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh,” he says scrunching his face. “No, to ‘sir’ please. That makes me feel annoyingly old.”
I laugh, realizing where Reese gets her snark. “Sorry…Mac. I’m ready when you are. Just tell me where to be and what to bring.”
“Just bring the songs you’ve written. We’ll go from there.”