BRRRRP!

BRRRRP!

BRRR—

A hand slammed down on the top of the alarm clock, silencing it mid-screech. Aiken groaned, swiping his coarse blond hair off his damp forehead. His eyes were still squeezed shut, and he wished he had been able to manage even an hour of sleep. Instead his entire night had been spent running over the worst-case-scenarios for everything possible.

He shoved the blankets off and sat up, sighing slowly as he rubbed his temples. Starting the day with a headache, it seemed. Perfect, considering he was supposed to pitch a single in six hours or less. To make matters worse, he still hadn’t figured out the song.

At all.

Aiken rubbed a hand across his heavy eyelids and scanned the room slowly. At least they had set him up in a decent place for his stay. It was in the Brightlite Records headquarters—his room even had a little studio drum kit and a modest keyboard. Not amazing, but passable, though he would have preferred a bass guitar. It was enough to figure out a song pitch on, he figured.

He dropped down onto the throne behind the drum kit and tapped the cymbal with the pad of his thumb gently, testing a few different rhythms and tempos.

Soon he found his head bobbing gently to the beat. He nodded intently, then leaped to his feet to find the handheld tape recorder Maurice had promised would be nearby.

Aiken smacked his forehead. There was no tape recorder in sight.

He paced around the room and searched for it. All the while he kept drumming the beat he had picked out, albeit on his thigh and upper arms, just so he wouldn’t lose it.

He leaned into the small kitchenette off the entryway, and he realized he hadn’t touched the plastic-wrapped welcome basket the label had left on the countertop. He started drumming on the counter and crinkly packaging as he set to opening it. Lo and behold, among a dozen other seemingly random items, there was the recorder. Why in the basket, though? Aiken grumbled to himself.

He snatched it and dashed back to the instruments, furiously flipping at the buttons and knobs. He set the tape recorder on the keyboard, then swung back onto the drum throne. He tapped his toe for the lead in as he grabbed the sticks, his shoulders tensing.

The first try was rough. Really rough. But it was something. And with a few hours to go before the pitch, he was beginning to feel more confident.

As he buckled down for the second take, he found himself humming a tune along with the drum line. He took that tune to the keyboard, fiddling with some different sounds before finding one that vaguely resembled what he was hearing in his mind.

He got so invested in the process that he didn’t notice the doorknob rattle with a key. Nor did he notice as it slid open and a tall figure slid into the room, closed the door behind, and stood still to listen.

He was dabbling with a rough baseline when the spectator cleared their throat. His fingers slammed the keys down in fright.

“Gah! Knocking? Heard of knocking?” Aiken sputtered, seizing the tape recorder and pausing it.

He looked up and found a woman standing against the door, her posture casual, but controlled. Her bright blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail, but it still reached her thighs. She fixed the collar on her red power suit, jingling many gold chains and metal accents, especially on the pencil skirt. Her heeled pumps tapped the tile in a slow metronome.

She adjusted her large glasses, flashing a red-lipped smile. “You’re late, Mr. Brookes.”

He blinked. Surely not, he thought, turning to look at the alarm clock on the nightstand. His eyes flew wide. The display read 2:34. He was half an hour late to his pitch.

Aiken scrambled about the room, grabbing the recorder and some papers covered in semi-illegible notes he had jotted through the morning and afternoon. He didn’t bother checking his appearance—he ran straight to the woman and informed her he was ready for the pitch.

He figured she knew that was a lie.

~ ~ ~

The suit-wearing woman rapped her knuckles against the wood of a high arched door.

“Come right in!” A voice called from the other side. She threw the door open and gestured for Aiken to enter. He did so with his fists balled tight.

“Mr. Brookes, you’re a bit late,” Mr. Jova commented as he stretched his arms over his head. He was seated behind his great mahogany desk, three empty mugs to the side and a heap of paperwork in front.

The corner of Aiken’s mouth twitched in a forced smirk. “Got distracted.”

Mr. Jova rose, stretching his arms to both sides and yawning. “Take care that doesn’t become a frequent habit, sir. I value punctuality.” His aloof demeanor barely masked the severity in his tone. Aiken straightened his back.

“Have you been introduced to Angelica?” The executive asked as he gestured to the bespectacled woman who had escorted Aiken to the meeting.

“Uh, not formally, no,” He admitted and nodded at her. She returned the nod silently, hands clasped in front of her skirt.

Mr. Jova crossed his arms and sat on the edge of his desk. “Good. Take a seat. Show me what you’ve got cooking.” He gestured at the recorder and loose sheets in his client’s hands.

Aiken dropped into a seat, fumbling with the recorder before managing to set it on the desk between them. He flipped at the buttons for a few moments, pursed his lips, then pressed play.

The notes began unfolding, the rough song concepts filling the air, one after another. The executive stared at the recorder, stone faced, as he listened. Aiken clutched the papers in his fingers tightly. He didn’t care much if they got bent. At this point he wanted to sink into the chair and disappear. He could tell the demos weren’t striking interest.

The recorder clicked, and the recording stopped. Mr. Jova’s face hadn’t shifted at all.

“There’s...potential,” he began tentatively, casting a glance to Angelica before continuing, “but it all sounded rushed.”

She nodded.

“The entire tape lacked any finesse or nuance,” Mr. Jova added.

Aiken was silent for a few moments before replying, “it was. Yeah. You’re right.” He slouched back in his chair. His stomach felt like it was on the floor. He looked over his shoulder to see Angelica had an eyebrow cocked at him, but she didn’t say a word.

“Why was it so last minute?” Mr. Jova asked, leaning forward. His face wasn’t hard or frustrated like Aiken expected. Instead, it was full of concern.

Aiken fluffed his own hair, sliding down in his seat even more. “I work best with a deadline. Especially when said deadline is right around the corner.”

Mr. Jova walked around the desk, sitting right in front of Aiken. He laced his fingers together. “Mr. Brookes, if you’re correct, and you truly work best against a deadline...” He hesitated for a moment before finishing, “is this honestly your best work?”

The musician’s face was stricken.

He stammered for a moment, then fell silent. He knew he hadn’t been ready for the pitch, but this was worse than he expected. He was being confronted with the direct question of if this was his best. Unfortunately, he knew he had to be honest.

“Yes, sir,” Aiken said.

Mr. Jova exhaled and massaged his temple. “Remembering that this is a pitch, I acknowledge that pitches aren’t meant to be perfect, but this needs a lot of work. Bearing that in mind, I think you should have a writing partner. Or even a writing team.”

Aiken didn’t respond for a few moments. His eyes searched the records displayed on the wall behind his potential employer. All of them were successful musicians signed by Brightlite. All of them were living the dream. His dream. He turned slightly to look out the wide window wall at the the bustling streets below, cloaked in the haze of a humid day.

He sat up straighter, returning his gaze to Mr. Jova as he said, “Can I have some time to think on it?”

“You can have a few days. Off with you, then,” Mr. Jova answered, flicking his hand towards the door. The air was thick with disappointment from both parties as Aiken shuffled out of the room. Angelica trailed after him.

Somewhere along the way back to Aiken’s room Angelica took the lead. The walk was silent, save for the click of her heels on the tile and the muted shuffling of their feet across the carpets.

Outside his door, Angelica drew to a stop and twirled her brilliant curls around a well-manicured finger.

“I know you’re probably aware, but think very carefully about his advice,” she said. “He likes your voice and your drum chops. He’s giving you another chance because he likes part of what you do. If you don’t accept his writer suggestion, you probably won’t get signed. Consider it carefully.”

Aiken nodded, his head feeling even more thick than when he woke up. He mumbled some acknowledgement as he twisted the doorknob and shouldered his way into the dark room.

He kicked the door closed, then collapsed onto the side of the bed. He held his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes slowly as his head throbbed.

Jova had “suggested” a writing partner, but hadn’t offered any specific writers. Aiken was almost completely unfamiliar with the realm of writers, so he didn’t have any ideas. He didn’t want a writer to begin with, but now he was expected to do some legwork to scope someone out?

He grunted and kicked off his shoes, then pivoted himself down onto the bed.

He wanted to keep studying and practicing his own writing—maybe eventually he wouldn’t be so inadequate. He probably had three or four days at most before he lost his spot in the contest, which clearly wasn’t enough to polish his own skills enough to avert the current situation. Not enough to let him make a solo album. He quietly filed that dream away in the recesses of his mind once more.

Aiken pressed his knuckles against his creased forehead. Who would he get as a writing partner on such short notice?