Page 94 of Sing Your Secrets
twenty-seven
Miles
“Thanks for coming with me, man.” Taking in a deep breath, I push the circular doorbell at Mac’s house. A long-winded chime follows.
“Where’s Reese?” Sedi asks. “I thought she was doing this with you.”
“She said her throat was feeling a little sore. She’s worried she caught something from Petey and doesn’t want to spread it. I said we could reschedule, but she told me to meet Mac solo today. It’s not like we’re recording anything, he just wants to talk and hear my ideas.”
“You sick too?” Sedi squints one eye, leans away, and makes a cross with his fingers. “I thought you went over there last night.”
“Barely. I dropped off some food and supplies, then Reese insisted I leave. She didn’t want to risk my singing voice.”
Sedi snorts. “So, you basically funded their date?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I grumble in annoyance as I push the doorbell again. Shit, is that rude? I don’t hear anyone in the house, maybe Mac doesn’t hear us.
“Reese was taking care of him. You found out and instead of telling that fucker to mind his place, you dropped him off food. Then Reese told you to leave? Jesus. What’s wrong with you, man?”
“I’m being the good guy. Reese doesn’t need a babysitter. I trust her.”
“Oookay, well, I hope you dropped them off some rubbers too, Good Guy.”
“Sedi!”
“What?”
“Don’t be a dick. Reese and I are solid. Speaking of which, keep your trap shut. Like I told you, Mac can’t know we’re—”
The door opens and Mac Reyes, with dripping wet hair and a towel wrapped around his waist, stands before us. Hot damn, that’s a lot of chest hair.
“Goddamn,” he says through a laugh. “I am not used to musicians being on time. I like you already.” His chuckle turns into a throaty roar. “You guys go get comfortable in the basement, let me throw on some clothes.” He points through the living room to a door with what looks like a neon sign above the frame. It reads, Recording and is currently unlit.
Sedi takes a step through the door and slides an inch forward before catching himself on Mac’s bare shoulder.
“Shit, sorry. Mind my wet footprints,” he says, trying to wipe his water trail with his foot. “There are drinks in the fridge by the way, but nothing alcoholic.”
“Thanks, Mac,” I say, shaking his hand firmly. “And no worries, we’re here to work.”
“Lesson number one in my studio, Miles”—Mac holds up one finger—“if you’re not having fun, it probably ain’t working.” With a quick wink, he ascends back up the stairs humming the whole way.
* * *
After about two hours of me playing one-handed melodies on Mac’s Casio, singing my lyrics a Capella, and performing a few covers in the studio so he can test my range, he seems sated. And by sated, I don’t mean satiated. I mean the pinched look on his face makes me think he’s heard enough. I jiggle my knee nervously on his couch and he swivels around in his rolling chair, clearly lost in his thoughts.
Sedi knocks his leg against mine as a clear warning to calm the fuck down. But I can’t help it…right now, Mac’s word is everything to me.
“Is he sensitive?” Mac asks Sedi right in front of me.
“Eh, he’s not a crier, but I’ve known him to mope.”
I glare at my best friend as Mac chuckles. He and Sedi have formed a quick mentor-mentee relationship. Sedi eagerly agreed to be a second pair of hands on the DAW whenever Mac needs it.
“You can give it to me straight,” I say to Mac, twisting the bill of my hat around so he can see my eyes.
“You sure? I’ve been told I’m too forward and direct.”
Yeah, I’m familiar. Like father, like daughter.