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EXCERPT:
“Look, I totally get your reservations about me,” I placated her, even though I knew I was more than qualified to produce her album. It was cookie cutter pop music. Anyone with half a brain could do it.
“I may not have much experience with actual singers, but I've been mixing music since I was a kid.”“You're just a deejay, Nick. And no offense, but that is not the same as a music producer.”
“You're right. Spinning records is about playing to a crowd. Finding that perfect rhythm for any circumstance. Sometimes they want a carefree club mix to dance around to. Other times they want a slow, sensual song to grind up on someone to. I know how to read people and that's beneficial in both cases. I'm a people pleaser, but I'm also an artist.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one I can read you. I know that you want people to hear a new side of you. To hear the grown-up version of Sadie Sinclair.”
“That's not reading me, Nick. I told you that yesterday,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Yes, you did,” I conceded with a nod.
“But it's not always about what you say. I can tell by the way you walk—the commanding click of your heels across the floor and the sway of your tight little ass. You want to sing the kind of music that causes a stir. You're tired of singing songs about people falling in love and teeny-bopper breakups. You want to sing songs about people making love. About passion and desire. About longing and fulfillment.” Her eyes glazed over as she stared into mine. Her lips parted as she let out a slow, steady breath. I stepped closer to her and reached out, brushing my hand down her arm.
“You want to sing songs that get under people's skin. Leaves them wanting more. You want to seduce them with your sound.”
“I do,” she answered mindlessly, watching my hand stroke up and down her arm.
“You don't want to just sing songs, Sadie Sinclair. You want to sing... sex.” Her eyes fell shut as she thought about what I was saying. I was going out on a limb with my assumption. For all I knew, she wanted to sing gospel hymns to a reggae beat. Lucky for me, the way she looked at me—like she wanted to eat me alive—was a proper assessment of exactly the kind of person she was. She finally opened her eyes and when she did, I knew I had her on the hook.
“Okay then, let's hear it,” she insisted, pointing at the computer I was holding in my hand. “I want to see if you're any good.”
“Oh, I assure you that I'm more than just good.” She was trying to play hardball, but if she thought for one second I didn't see the glimmer of lust in her eyes, she was crazy.
“Take a seat, Miss Sinclair.” I pulled back one of the chairs for her. She hesitated, like she didn't want to seem too anxious to comply. I fired up my computer and pulled up a folder of tracks I'd been working on. Careful not to mess up her hair, I slipped a pair of headphones over her ears.
She started to protest. “What are you doing? We can listen to it—”
“In order to get the full Nick Kline experience, I need to get completely”—I paused leaning in inches from her face—“and totally in your head.” She breathed me in and relaxed into her chair. I was one song away from convincing Sadie Sinclair that I was the perfect choice for her. Musically and more.
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