Heavy Bass

5.

I let down my hair, adjusting the straps of my swimsuit and looked down at the clear water ahead of me, glimmering under the chandeliers overhead. It was peaceful here, the only exception to the silence, was the gentle hum of the generator, heating the pool. I slid into the silky water, exhaling deeply as my body submerged itself and that familiar sense of weightlessness took over. The hotel was gilded in golds and sparkling light fittings, velvets and silk, and more opulent than I was used to. And the feeling that I was entering another world, was overwhelming. 

But as always, I ventured into the unknown with my feet firmly on the ground and my end goal in sight. I'd always been level headed. Level was comforting. Level was unchanging. I could control the plains before me, with a level head.

Last night had gone far better than I expected. After the surly faced Keller had taken himself out to a club, I was joined in the hotel bar, by the rest of the band. I had not expected them to rally around me, not without their ring leader. There was discontent within the ranks, and they had a deal for me. That I stick with the band for the summer, but stay out of their way. They would write the songs but consult with me, should they need any assistance. In return, once summer was over, and following the potential success of the album, I'd receive a pretty decent payday. Xavier's words were;

'Lay low, keep your nose out of our business, and we'll get along just grand.'

I could deal with that. Gellar would pay me for sticking with them, and I'd receive further financial incentive once the album was released. My real reason for being here was not motivated by pounds or dollar signs. But they didn't know that. My whole life had been leading up to this moment, and I'd had my fair share of hard graft and heartache along the way. I swam to the other length of the pool, arms moving over my head, propelling me forwards. I'd always been my own driving force, finding the impetus to move towards my destination, somewhere inside me.

He had no involvement in my mothers pregnancy, nor did he ever attempt to reach out to either of us. My grandmother raised me whilst my mother finished school, and it was hard for Mum. We never had a healthy relationship, but even as a child I knew how young she was. Looking at her all I ever saw was a child, keeping her distance from me, frightened at the prospect of being a mother. Grandma used to imply my father had taken advantage of Mum, but I knew that wasn't the case. In her own way, my mother was as much to blame as the boy that walked away. She was the quintessential wild child, driving my grandmother insane, and as a result, I was often left to my own devices while the two of them were at loggerheads. On a daily basis. When I was ten, my mother passed away following a fight in a pub. She'd been brawling with another woman and as a result suffered catastrophic head injuries. 

At the time, I forced myself to care. And of course, on some level, I did. But we had barely been room mates, let alone mother and daughter. She was out all hours, drinking, smoking and arguing with anyone who would listen. My grandma crumpled under the stress of losing my Mum and I went to live with my aunt. I'd only met her once before. She lived in a council flat, a property government owned and let out to those struggling to make ends meet. There was little room for me with Aunty Serina's three sons, two dogs and a boyfriend that stayed over more often than not. I occupied the couch in the corner of her cluttered, dirty living room, pulling a duvet over my head whilst I crafted song lyrics, the melody running through my head like a soothing river of hope. There was something effortlessly serene about music, all kinds of music. I left school when I was sixteen, getting a job at the local supermarket and simultaneously studying towards a place at university. I was the only chance I had to drag myself away from the abyss that had swallowed my mother whole. 

I went on to study for an MA in music business management. Westminster was close enough that I could live at Serina's, traveling from the campus to work and home and filling my time stacking shelves and cramming for exams. But I didn't stop there. I gained an apprenticeship at Harrow Records, a locally based record label and networked every chance I got. I've always been shy, reclusive even, but I could wear a mask as good as anyone. And soon enough, the mask moulded to my face, and I'd greet music executives with a confident smile and a strong handshake and that's where it all began.

Now, at twenty four years old, I know the sacrifices I've had to make along the way. But I am financially independent. I don't have a student loan like most people my age. And I have a boyfriend that fits in with my life style perfectly. A journalist for Rolling Stone magazine, Brad knows how frenetic life can be working in our chosen field, but for the first time in my life, having somebody behind me, it felt comforting, and gave me the added boost to pursue what finally came to me by chance. A song writing gig, with living legends, 'The Initiative.' 

It was a little like destiny.

But Grit was hard work. Every rumor I'd ever heard about him seemed to be true. And last night my dreams had been all over the place, knowing that less than a decade ago I watched the music video for 'Hype', and I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was pure muscle, glistening abs, extensive ink work and eyes that seemed to ooze heat and sexuality. Last night I wrestled with visions of running my fingertips down his torso, feeling the friction as I encountered the downy hairs as I moved down his chest bone. These days I knew better than to mix business with pleasure, for the sake of a disease riddled chauvinistic big head like 'Grit.'

I'd have to stay unflappable and focused today. And I had a feeling that if he didn't like me yesterday, then he was going to like me even less today. 

.................

'Where's Grit?' I asked Neil, as the band joined me in the hotel lobby. Hotel staff hurried their luggage out to the cars, in preparation for our flight to Vegas. None of the band knew about our change in itinerary. But this morning they were all as frosty in my presence as they had been when we met. Xavier refused to speak at all, smoking in the doorway till the hotel manager begged him to take his cigarette outside. Johnny sat on the reception desk, oblivious that the woman behind him was working. Poor love. She sat there red faced, trying to go about her business while the guitarist toyed with items on her desk. 

Neil shoved his hands into the pockets of his low hanging distressed jeans, and I got a peek of a dragon tattoo across his chiseled abs. 

'He's sleeping in. I dunno when he got back from the club love, I'm guessing late?'

'Or early.' Pointed out Johnny. But neither of them seemed bothered. Neil sauntered away, a man I had seen as my ally. 

I felt a little anger bubbling in my gut, but I didn't know why. I should have known this would happen. Grit obviously thought Gellar was bluffing and didn't realize that if we didn't get to the labels Vegas recording studio on schedule, then the deal was off. Meaning The Initiatives record deal. Along with anything else the label was bank rolling. This was serious and unless someone moved their arse this would be over before it even begun. 

I stormed away from the three men stonewalling me and the realization that they might be playing me suddenly hit, as I headed up to Grits room in the lift. Last night they were playing nice but this morning something was up. I'd only just met them, but I should have known. The band of merry men would stand by Robin Hood and his thick headed decisions.

I knocked on the door, hard. 

'Grit. Get your arse out of bed.'

My phone buzzed. Looking down at my phone I saw a message from Patrick. He was waiting at the airport. Last night Xavier swore he would talk Grit around. He told me he'd handle the ignorant arsehole now oversleeping and putting this whole thing in jeopardy. Sure they could carry on at their over indulgent pace for a few more months but after that they'd be in hot water and drowning in the tide of their own stupidity. 

'Grit!' I hammered on the door with my fist, before trying the door handle.

It opened. 

I stepped into hallway to one of the executive suites. The acrid stench of alcohol burned my nostrils as I squinted my way through the suite. The curtains were all closed, bottles clinked against my heels as I picked my way through discarded clothing and smashed vases, crushed petals wilting on the thick pile carpet. 

'Grit you're expected downstairs.' I raised my voice, and as I stepped into the bedroom, there he was. Standing right in front of me. Completely naked. Fresh from the shower. 

His wet hair hung over his forehead in curly tendrils, droplets of water slid down his cheeks, his chest and his burly, thick, muscular arms. Black ink tattoos that were familiar to me, and my eyes moved in those split milliseconds down across the most defined 'V' shape I'd ever laid eyes on. Far more stark and seductive than I'd seen in photographs and video footage. 

And his erect c**k. Standing out in front of him, almost pointing at me. I couldn't breathe for a second. And then I found the strength to drag my betraying eyes away. 

He was amused, twin icy orbs glittering even in the weak light, filtering through the c***k in the curtains. 

'You want to taste me.'

'Sh-sh-shut up. Stop....get some clothes on!'

He laughed. 

I stepped backwards, catching my foot on one of the bottles, and before I knew it I was sprawling backwards. 

But he caught me. A swift move, one hand cradling my head, the other pulling my pelvis towards his. I felt the hardness of him, hating myself for the mix of revulsion and arousal that I felt instantaneously. 

'Get off me.' I hissed, regaining my balance and angrily booting a bottle of vintage wine. 'This place is like a stinking hovel. I don't know what I expected given that you're staying here.'

I begged my eyes not to stray from his. And they stayed put. 

'So the gloves are off.' He chuckled, still standing way too close for my comfort levels. I noticed the droplets of water that had transferred from his naked skin onto my blouse and I took another step backwards. 

'Grit?' A faintly French accent sounded, a female voice. A nude waif like blonde sashayed into the living room where Grit was completely naked and I was about as uncomfortable as I'd ever been. I had no problem with nudity, but this was ridiculous. 

'You want to stay and watch?' He directed that towards me and all of a sudden I wondered if I'd wandered into the twilight zone. 'Blondie why don't you help Charlotte out of her clothes?'

'Charlotte.... Such a pretty name.' The blonde whispered, moving towards me, body perfectly tanned, with breasts that defied gravity, especially due to their size.

'Listen. Little miss.... French.' I sucked in a deep breath, feeling suffocated in here. 'Get your clothes on, and leave.' I bellowed, suddenly finding myself in this heady mix of rock star orgies and naked waifs. 

The woman looked at me, blankly, and that's when I realised she was probably off her head on some drug I'd only ever heard about on tv. She seemed to be looking past me. That was the moment I snapped. Because I'd seen my mother in this state, not on drugs but off her face drunk. I grabbed random garments from the floor. A slip of a dress, impossibly high fake Louboutins, a bra, and yep. I was not touching the cheese wire thong by my toes. She could retrieve that vile article herself. 

'Listen Charlotte.' He elongated my name, amusement on his sarky, snarly face. Eyes glowing. 'Why don't you wait outside while I f**k her gorgeous little brains out.'

He was testing me.

'Not happening.' I stood my ground. 'Because you're starting work on the album today.'

'So you're my manager now?'

I ignored him, 'You fly out to Vegas in..,...' I checked my watch and then whimpered. I had to hope he hadn't heard me. There was just twenty minutes left. I heard him snigger, the sound of a man that just didn't give two hoots what time it was or where he had to be. Everybody waited for Grit. That's the way it was, and to him, that's the way it would always be. 

He bent down to retrieve an unopened bottle of something, before twisting off the cap and taking a long glug. And I mean a long glug. No amount of glaring was going to work here. 

'If you get your arse on that plane I promise I will stay out of your way. I'll take a back seat and you'll....'

He lit up a cigarette. My calm, patient nature was getting harder to maintain. And this was just day one.

Change tack Lottie. Change it now. 

'See ya Grit.' I moved past the half dressed woman and navigated the obstacle course of discarded litter, clothing and hotel furniture. No way was I staying here. Contract or not. Personal agenda, or not.

I came here to gain some insight into the man who started it all. A lost, confused, angry twenty year old who placed an advert in the local newspaper. The man that wrote the first two critically acclaimed albums but died before he could experience the glory of the high life.

My father. A man I never met. Former drummer for The Initiative. 

Sonny James.