“Yeah,” Jake said. “I’m not a big fan of public hot tubs either.” He waved to the other side. “Hop on in. The water’s fine.”
She seemed very hesitant to do this. “I ... uh ... I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t want to disturb you. I can just wait until you’re done.”
“You’re not disturbing me,” he assured her. “And I think there’s enough room to squeeze you in.”
“Well...”
“I don’t bite,” he assured her. “Especially not if you grab me another beer before you hop in?”
She hesitantly smiled. “Okay,” she said at last, setting her wine glass down. “I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared back into the house and was gone so long that Jake began to suspect she was not really coming back. Though she had warmed up to him considerably since they had first met—and he to her—she was still almost painfully shy at times. Getting into a hot tub with him was probably well outside of her comfort zone. After perhaps five minutes, however, the door opened again and she came out, cold bottle of beer in hand.
“Sorry I took so long,” she said. “I couldn’t find the beer opener.”
Jake raised his eyebrows a bit. “Wasn’t there one on the other end of the corkscrew you used to open that wine?” he asked.
A look of comical embarrassment formed on her face. “Well ... shit,” she said, shaking her head. “I guess that didn’t occur to me.”
Jake laughed. “Thanks for undergoing the search anyway,” he told her.
“No problem,” she said. “If you need one for the future—one that doesn’t have a corkscrew on the other end—it’s in the back of that little doodad drawer two below where the silverware is kept.”
“Noted,” Jake told her.
She handed the beer over and then took off her robe. Jake had been happily anticipating seeing her in her swimwear, hoping that she would be sporting a string bikini or something similar. Alas, she was wearing a staunchly conservative one piece that barely even revealed her cleavage. Not that she didn’t look appealing in it. On the contrary, he got a good look at the swell of her breasts—which were quite nice indeed—and the smoothness of her bare legs, which were nothing to scoff at either.
She noted his gaze upon her and blushed, quickly dropping her robe to the chair and nearly plunging into the water to hide herself. Waves went splashing back and forth from her entry.
“Nice dive,” Jake commented, holding his fresh beer up into the air to keep from getting water in it.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was starting to feel a little cold.”
Jake nodded as if he believed her and then settled back into the water.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Laura sipping from her wine, Jake drinking from his beer and staring out over the ocean, where the light from a lighthouse could be seen rhythmically flashing out its signal. Just before the silence became uncomfortable, Laura finally broke it.
“This really does feel good,” she said. “I might have to make this a nightly routine.”
“I’ve had a hot tub everywhere I’ve lived since we signed our first contract and National Records put me up in a condo in LA. I never get tired of it.”
“No?”
“No,” he said. “Whenever I get tired, or sore, or depressed, or angry, I can always come out and soak for a bit, have a little something to drink, and I always walk away feeling better. It’s therapeutic, as Nerdly would say.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Something to put on the wish list, I guess. I can’t even afford to live in a house on what they pay me as a teacher, let alone buy a hot tub to go with it.”
“It is a travesty what they pay teachers,” Jake agreed. “You think you’re going to stay in that gig for the rest of your life?”
“It’s a steady job,” she said with a shrug. “I keep meaning to go back to school and get my masters so I can teach at a higher level—you know, at a JC or even one of the state colleges. The pay is better. I just can’t seem to find the time or the motivation.”
“Maybe after you’re married?” he asked, fishing a little.
She did not take the bait. “Maybe,” she said.
“Have you ever thought about playing music professionally?” he asked her next.
“Well ... of course I’ve thought about it,” she said. “I would love to be paid for playing my sax full time.”
“That’s kind of what you got going right now,” Jake reminded her.
“Well ... yeah, of course,” she said. “And I really appreciate what you are paying me to do it too. But this gig won’t last forever. I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for a permanent gig.”
“I’ll tell you something,” Jake said. “You’ve got what it takes to be a studio musician at the very least. You play very well. And this gig you’ve got going for us will look really good on your resume when it’s all said and done.”
“You think so?” she asked, her tone telling him she did not believe that for a minute.
“I know so,” he said. “I understand our music is not quite your cup of tea, but you’ve risen to the occasion quite well—a few early bumps in the road aside—and being able to say you’re the saxophonist on Celia Valdez’s top ten album will impress the shit out of the guys who are looking for competent professional musicians to do sessions in the studios. Particularly if you use Celia, the Nerdlys, and me as your references.”
“But I like classical and jazz,” she reminded him. “If I was going to play professionally, that is what I would want to play. I can’t help but wonder if ... oh ... I don’t know. Never mind.”
“No no,” Jake said. “Finish your thought.”
She took a deep breath and another sip of her wine. She then looked at him. “It’s like this,” she said. “I’ve come to realize that you and Celia, despite being rock and pop musicians, really are good at what you do. You are professional musicians and I was wrong about you when I pre-judged you.”
“That’s nice of you to say,” he said. “But?”
“But I’m not sure I’m doing my reputation any good by being a part of this,” she said. “It’s still rock and pop. The people I would want to play professionally with are the same as I was. They hold your music in contempt. I think they would consider me a sellout for playing with you all.”
Jake laughed, shaking his head.
“What?” she asked.
“I think you’re making the mistake of viewing the entire world through your own prism,” he told her.
“What do you mean?”
“A professional level musician is a professional level musician,” he said. “That’s why I enlisted my mom to play with me. That’s why I enlisted Cindy. I knew they could rise to the occasion because they’re good at what they do, even if they don’t like heavy metal and hard rock music. They can and they do produce. Any talent scouts who would hire you for jazz or classical work, first of all, they probably don’t dislike rock music as much as you think they do—you’re just assuming that because that’s the way you think—but even if they did, that wouldn’t matter to them. They would just want to know that you can play and you can play well. Knowing that any professional recording artist thought enough of you to have you play on their album would be a tremendous boost to your marketability, regardless of what their personal opinion of that music might be.”
She shook her head a little. “I have a hard time believing that,” she said.
“That’s because you’re not in the business,” he said. “I’ve been in this game for nearly ten years now, Laura. I was a primary member of a group that sold tens of millions of albums and continues to sell them today. Our Greatest Hits album just hit the shelves and it’s already sold more than a hundred thousand copies. I have worked closely with the recording industry all of this time. I’ve fought with them, been in meetings with them, rolled around in the goddamn gutter with them on occasion, and I’ve beaten them at their own game. You may think I’m just a dumb rock star, but I know how this business works. I know it inside and out. I don’t give false flattery. When I say you have what it takes, I mean that. When I say that your association with me and Celia is going to do nothing but boost your career, I mean that too. It’s true. You can take that to the bank. The only question is whether or not you have the courage to follow through when the time comes.”