Sing Your Pleasure. A.C. Arthur
be awfully ungrateful if she turned it down.
And now here she was, in Miami, standing in the home studio of the famous Akil Hutton wanting nothing more than to either walk out on his rude behind or sink into the floor where he couldn’t notice her—both options held equal appeal at the moment.
Instead, she steeled herself, took a deep breath and pressed on. “We didn’t get a chance to talk a lot about the project in L.A. I’m wondering what type of CD you have in mind.”
Akil didn’t even look up at her as he flicked his hand in her direction and said impatiently, “We’ll get to that later. Just take the songs with you, have Nannette show you to your room and get changed for dinner.”
She’d been dismissed, she was absolutely certain of that fact, and yet she still stood there. Just looking at him.
He wasn’t bad on the eyes, that was also a fact. Smooth tree bark–toned skin, close-cut dark hair and clean-shaven face. He wore slacks and a long-sleeved shirt that melded around taut bicep muscles and, from what she could see, a trim stomach. His hands, she noticed as he continued to work the controls on the board, were medium-size, with long fingers, like a piano player’s. He wore a gold watch but other than that no jewelry, which was outside the norm since most producers were just as jeweled-down as their artists these days.
“Is there something else?” he asked, yanking her out of her “he’s damned good-looking” reverie.
“No,” she said in a clipped tone. “There’s nothing else. See you at dinner.”
And with that she did finally turn, thanking her feet for getting the message, and stalked out of the room.
If this was any indication of how their time working together was going to be, Charlene feared this CD would never see the light of day.
The house was gorgeous, there was absolutely no doubt about that. On the ride in the limo from the airport Charlene had already assumed it would be. They’d only driven on the highway for about forty-five minutes before turning off on a road that seemed to be paved right through a forest. The stately mansion was all white with black bases around each window and a brick-colored shingled roof. It sat nestled between a scenic backdrop of even more trees. It was big and palatial, definitely a home for the enigmatic Akil Hutton.
Nervousness had swamped her as she’d stepped out of the car. The chauffeur, who’d told her at the airport his name was Cliff, had moved quickly to the trunk, unloading the two suitcases she’d brought along with her.
Now, two hours later, in the room Nannette—the pretty Latina housekeeper—had directed her to, she was standing at the window wondering what on earth she was doing. This room faced the back of the house so she had a view of the tennis courts and the corner of the pool where river rocks were piled into a small fountain.
She wasn’t overwhelmed by the space. Her family home in L.A. was just about the size of this one and the homes of some of the people her family had associated with were even bigger. So it wasn’t her surroundings that made her nervous. She attributed that to the man who could make or break her newfound singing career with the snap of a finger.
The low chime of her cell phone disturbed her thoughts and she moved from the window, where she’d probably been standing too long anyway, to get her purse.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Char, thanks for calling to let me know you got to Miami safely.”
Sitting on the bed, Charlene used one hand to smooth down the smoke-gray skirt she planned on wearing to dinner while holding the phone in the other. “Hi, Candis. Sorry, I was sort of caught up the minute I got here.”
“Really?” her older sister, with the sense of humor that skipped Charlene upon her birth, chuckled. “Caught up in what? In the arms of that fine ass Akil Hutton? I still can’t believe he’s going to produce your CD. You have no idea how lucky you are.”
Charlene didn’t even need to close her eyes to see his face again. With a little moan she said, “Girl, please. Akil Hutton isn’t concerned about anything but work. Which is just fine with me because I’d just as soon get this over with.”
“Get it over with? You don’t sound like you’re too happy about this opportunity. Which is plain crazy since you’ve been singing since Mama had you.”
“I know, but I was happy teaching.”
“No. You’re happy singing.”
Charlene really couldn’t argue with that statement.
“But I was okay just doing it in the classroom. I don’t know about performing in front of people, Candis. What will they think of me? What if they don’t like my music?”
“And what if the world were struck by a nuclear bomb tomorrow? What if after I flew all the way to Paris for a photo shoot I woke up the next day with a zit the size of Texas on my forehead? What if? What if?” She sighed. “Char, you can’t live your life wondering ‘what if.’ You’ve got a God-given gift, it’s only right that you use it and share it with the world.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Just stop worrying for a minute and go with the flow. Obviously the record execs thought enough of you to sign you to a contract and hook you up with Akil. They don’t do that for just anybody.”
Charlene nodded: Candis was right. The thing was, it wasn’t only about talent. There were lots of talented singers out there; take the ones seen on that reality show American Idol. Many of the most talented singers on that show were kicked out before the final rounds. And one of the most consistent things the judges on that show—most of whom were record industry professionals in their own right—said was that it wasn’t just about the voice, it was about the total package. A package Charlene wasn’t so sure she had.
“I know they don’t. And I’m not ungrateful for the opportunity. I’m just not a hundred percent sure about it all.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not the one who has to be sure. The record execs think you’re good and want to put your CD out, Akil has to think you’re worth his time. So you just open your mouth and sing.”
Leave it to Candis to be candid and honest with her, almost to the point of hurting her feelings. But if there was one thing Charlene knew it was that her sister had her back. When the girls in the neighborhood—the skinny, pretty ones who came to the house to hang out with Candis—made fun of the chubby younger sister with fat, too-thick braids, Candis had rounded them all up and kicked them out. She was fiercely protective of Charlene, even though Charlene had spent most of her teenage years both envying and hating her older sister.
“You’re right,” she said finally, smiling because she knew on the other end of the phone Candis was probably doing the same. “I’ll just do what I know how to do and pray that what’s meant will be.”
“What’s meant is already happening,” Candis said. “Now you get to work. I’ve got me a hot date tonight that I need to go and get ready for.”
Her words reminded Charlene that Candis was on the other side of the world in Paris. “I’m sorry you’re up so late checking on me. I know how you enjoy your sleep.”
Candis chuckled. “You’ve got that right. But I had to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine. Go ahead and get your beauty rest.”
“If you didn’t think to call me I know you haven’t called Mama or Daddy. Give them a call when you get a minute just so they won’t worry.”
“I’m not you. They won’t bother to worry.”
“That’s not true. You’re their daughter just the same.”
Not wanting to go into this years-old battle, Charlene cut it short. “Okay, I’ll call them when I get back from dinner. You go back to sleep.”
“All