When Dr. Curtis and I came up with the twelve-step-like program to combat my fear of singing on stage, it seemed so easy. The plans were all in the future, not the here and now. Now the day of reckoning is staring me in my face.
Step one: Admit you have a problem. That was a piece of cake.
Step two: Let go of the past. And so I sold half of Lucky’s to Avery. Became a silent partner only. Check.
Step three: Get a job that involves music. Pulse Records voice coach. Check. I’m making progress. On a roll now.
Step four: Sing for a small crowd of friends on a small stage.
The needle of progress makes a loud screeching sound as it halts. Herein lies the reason for my racing pulse this morning. I’ve already spent hours debating the definition of “a small crowd.” My definition was Avery and Jase. Somehow, I let Avery talk me into three more. Five is most definitely a small crowd. The idea of singing in front of one person makes my palms sweat. Two makes me lightheaded. I can’t even imagine what five will bring.
To make matters worse, I have to get through a packed day at work, which includes an hour of one-on-one coaching with Flynn. It’s not that I don’t want to help Flynn…it’s that I really want to help Flynn. Perhaps I’m a little too eager.
My entire life has been spent around musicians. Famous, infamous—legends, even—I stopped getting anxious around them years ago. But something about Flynn Beckham makes me nervous. He’s different. Sure, from the outside he’s a rockstar, all gorgeous and self-confident, with that laid-back swagger that comes with years of being praised for a multitude of talents. Yet somehow he still feels unaffected by fame. He’s playful. And comforting. Oddly, I find myself thinking my dad would have liked him.
The first step in assessing a singer’s vocal health is to observe. I ask the artist to recite the words to the song they last sang so I can examine their vocal posture during normal speech and inflection.
“Just a verse is fine. I want to see how you’re filtering laryngeally generated sound up through your vocal tract.”
Flynn shrugs. “If you say so.” Then he proceeds to recite some lyrics, “‘When life gets rough, I like to hold on to my dream of relaxing in the summer sun, just lettin’ off steam.’”
The words are vaguely familiar. “Is that from one of your songs?”
“Nope.” He offers nothing more.
“It’s familiar, but I can’t place it. Who sings it?”
“Olaf.”
“Olaf?”
He smiles. “It’s from the Frozen soundtrack.”
“That’s the last song you sang?”
“Sang it three times just this morning.”
“Disney fanatic?”
“My niece, Laney, loves it.”
Earrings, rings, leather tied around his wrists, tatted skin, scruff on his face, hair a sexy mess—and sings Disney songs to his niece. The inside of this man may just be as beautiful as the outside.
“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. How old is she?”
“Four.”
“Does she know her uncle is a rockstar?”
“Definitely not. Did you know your parents were rockstars?”
I laugh at the notion. “Definitely not. My dad was a total goofball.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s how Laney feels. I’m the uncle who lets her eat crap and go out in her pajamas. She jumps up and down when I enter a room, but it’s basically because I bribe her to think I’m cool.”
“Sounds more like she thinks you’re cool because she knows the real you.”
“Did you think your dad was cool?”
“Not until I was an adult. I remember this one time, I must have been about twelve, we were walking down the street and this woman ran up to him and asked him for his autograph. She whipped open her shirt, right there on the street, for him to sign her boob and she wasn’t wearing a bra.”
“What did your dad do?”
“He pulled her shirt closed and told her to have some respect for his daughter. I thought the woman had to have escaped from a mental institution to do that to my dad. I mean, he was just Dad.”
“You saw him for who he really was. Everyone else saw the image they wanted to see. The hard part of fame is remembering which expectation you need to live up to. It’s easier to do what the fans expect. Living up to the Laney standard is much harder.”
“Legions of women would be devastated if they knew your heart was already taken. Laney is a lucky girl.”
“I’m saving room for one more in there, don’t worry.” He winks. And all I can think is that that girl is damn lucky, and part of me wishes it was with a capital L.
Getting through Flynn singing is incredibly hard. Who knew the songs from Frozen could be so unbelievably sexy? The way his throat moves, the way his mouth caresses each syllable of the low, raspy sound that falls from his lips. I should be watching his posture, his breathing, the way his larynx forces out the words—but instead I’m focused on the beauty of his mouth and how the sound of his voice glides over my body, making it feel both warm and tingly at the same time. I’m lost when the song finishes, yet I haven’t really observed him yet.
“So. Give it to me straight. What am I doing wrong?”
Ummm…absolutely nothing from what I can see. Everything was perfect. Don’t change a thing. Shit. “Could you do it again? Maybe a different song, one you haven’t sung in a while. So the sounds are less familiar to your body. Sometimes that can give me a different view.” At least I make it sound like a real thing when the words come out.
He sings again, and this time I force myself to observe. “Hmm…your posture is great. Most people have a tendency to favor one side of their neck, which makes them tilt a bit when they speak, and it becomes magnified when they sing, which puts strain on the muscles around the vocal cords. Your alignment is perfect.”
“Thank you, it goes with the rest of my perfectness,” he says with a teasing arrogance that, from the little I know about him, I know isn’t real.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“You can’t now tell me I’m not perfect. I was already basking in the glow.”
“Actually, it was perfect…but almost a little too perfect. Which makes me think you don’t usually stand this way when you sing.”
“It isn’t the way I normally sing. On stage, I usually have a guitar over my shoulder. Even if I’m not playing it, it’s there.”
“Well, I need to see you holding your instrument to assess you fully, then.”
Flynn’s eyebrows quirk up and the dirty grin on his face is unmistakable.
“The guitar. I’d need to see you holding the guitar.”
“That’s a shame.” He shrugs, the playful smile still on his face. “But okay. It’s your call. Whatever instrument you want to see me hold is fine with me.”
“How big of you.”
“So now we’re talking about the other instrument again?”
I roll my eyes, although this conversation is having more of an effect on me than I let on.
It’s after six when we finish, yet it feels more like fifteen minutes and not two hours that have passed. “I have to run. I’m helping out Avery at Lucky’s tonight. She’s not having much success finding a waitress.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by tonight with some of the guys from the band. If that’s all right?”
“I’m sure Avery would be excited if you came. The place will be buzzing with In Like Flynn making an appearance.”
Flynn leans in to me, the scruff on his jaw rubbing against my cheek. “Isn’t Avery I want excited when I come.” He kisses my cheek and disappears, as if his words aren’t going to leave me flustered for hours.
Chapter Nine