One on One in the Studio

One on One in the Studio By J.M. Snyder It’s quarter after eight on Monday morning when Joseph Anderson—better known to the world as former child actor turned popstar Joey Angel—enters the lobby of Killa Whatz Studios. He’s early for his 8:30 recording session with DJ Key, a.k.a. Key Jay, a.k.a. Kian Jordan, only one of the biggest names in hip hop. If there’s any celebrity who can still make him star struck when he’s in the big leagues himself, it’s Key, straight up. Pausing just inside the lobby’s glass doors, Joey takes a moment to check his reflection to make sure he looks okay, then wipes his sweaty palms on the front of his denim jacket. He can do this, he sings well, he has fans of his own, dammit. But he’s never met anyone before who he admires as much as he does DJ Key. Joey grew up listening to Key’s music, loving every phat beat, every dope rhyme. Key had been a teen sensation himself, same as Joey, though a few years earlier. When Key hit the hip hop scene in the late nineties, Joey was still auditioning for roles, trying to make his mark. Still going by his real name, even, before his mother realized a stage name would get him noticed better and she pulled Joey Angel out of thin air. Key has to be in his late twenties now, a good six or eight years older than Joey, but that’s practically ancient in this industry. Still, Joey has to resist the urge to bounce on his toes in anticipation. He’s going to meet Key Jay! He flashes an eager smile at his reflection, lips pulled back, teeth clenched tight, hands fisted at his sides. Thank God he left his bodyguard at the limo in the parking deck—he’d die if anyone saw him this ramped up. But God! The Deej! Joey might cream himself if he isn’t careful. “Okay,” he whispers, “deep breaths. I got this.” Then he shakes out his arms, squares his shoulders, and runs a hand through the careless wave of brown hair that falls in front of his hazel eyes. “Talking to myself. The paps would have a field day if they saw me.” Quickly he glances back the way he came in, but the double doors that open onto the street are the same heavy, fireproof doors usually used in auditoriums and warehouses, the kind with a bar across the middle meant to keep nosy people out. The battered white interiors are heavily graffitied with gang symbols and skater tags, adding to the authenticity of the place—Killa Whatz is located in the heart of the city, a sketchy neighborhood if Joey ever saw one, but it’s prime real estate for rappers looking to lay down some tracks. If nothing else, it gives them street cred. Which is part of the reason Joey’s here in the first place. He cut his teeth doing after school specials and kiddie soaps on Nick. When his agent found out he could sing, he put together a bubblegum pop album that hit the top ten mostly on his looks. He reads what the critics say about him online, and most of the negative comments about his acting and singing also take jabs at his squeaky-clean, boy-next-door image. For some reason, his appearance angers most other guys, who spend a lot of time and energy bitching about him on the internet. He can’t figure it out. Women all swoon over him, but men either want to fight him or f**k him. Joey knows which he’d prefer, if given his choice. What can he say? He’s young and hot and he knows it, too. But being gay isn’t part of who his agent thinks he should be—she says it’ll ruin his career. His fans won’t like it. So he makes sure the paparazzi see him with a different model whenever he’s out on the town, to make sure he isn’t linked romantically with any one woman. And he gets what loving he can where he can. When he can. Which, he has to admit, isn’t often enough. His agent rules his life with an iron fist. She’s worse than his mom, come to think of it. Even recording with DJ Key was her idea, though it’s one they can both agree on. Killa Whatz records with many of the hottest new artists in hip hop and R&B, and though Joey’s music is a far cry from either genre, his star’s rising the fastest. If he can get a crossover song under his belt, it might buy him a bit of credibility as a real artist and not just another tween actor turned popstar. His agent put out some feelers, Key said he had a song that could use a voice like Joey’s, and so he’s here. He didn’t even ask to hear the song before he said yes. When will he ever get a chance like this again? With one last look at his reflection, he nods. “Let’s do this.” Inside the lobby, an older African-American woman sits behind an imposing reception desk and watches Joey enter. Her gaze is steady and direct, and by the time he’s crossed the room, he feels self-conscious. Did she see him talking to himself? Checking his hair, his clothes? God, how embarrassing… With an affected air of pretension, he leans against the desk and gives her an indulgent smile. “Hi.” One perfectly plucked eyebrow raises in surprise. “You lost, sugar?” she drawls in a Southern accent. “What? No…” He runs a hand through his hair, then forces himself to stop. It’ll make his bangs greasy. “I—um, I’m Joey Angel?” “You asking or telling me?” An amused smirk toys at the corner of her plum-colored lips. Joey sighs. Doesn’t she recognize him? “No, I am. I have a session scheduled for 8:30 with DJ Key.” At least that much he knows for sure. She gives him a look that says she isn’t buying it, but she checks her calendar anyway. “Joey Angel.” He nods. “Yes. That’s me.” This time he says it in a more assured voice. Her full lips press together until they disappear into a thin slit. “I don’t see you on the schedule, sorry.” “What? I’m—” He lets out a growl of frustration. “f*****g…Joseph Anderson, then? Maybe it’s under that name instead.” She rolls her eyes up to look at him, unamused. “Is that you, also?” “Just look.” Then, when he realizes that didn’t sound very nice, he adds, “Please?” She doesn’t respond, but this time she picks up the phone and dials an extension. A moment later, she says, “Mr. Jordan? Your 8:30 is here.” Mr. Jordan, Joey thinks. DJ Key’s real name. He decides that’s what he’ll call the man, too, when they meet. It sounds so professional, so normal. He likes it. He hopes he can remember to use it. Hanging up the phone, the receptionist says, “Please have a seat, Mr. Anderson. Someone will be with you shortly.” “It’s Angel,” Joey says. She gives him a sardonic look but doesn’t reply. “Angel,” he says again. She points past him. “Sit.” Joey turns away before she can see him roll his eyes. The rest of the day can only get better from here, right?