LOUDER: A Contemporary Romance Read online

  LOUDER

  A Contemporary Romance

  By Jorja Tabu

  All characters and content are property of the author, J. Tabu Publishing, trademark 2011. Any unauthorized recreation or distribution of this content by said author is in direct violation of said copyright. International rights are reserved by the author.

  Copyright 2011

  ASIN: B006FODGLU

  This book contains explicit sexual imagery and adult situations. The purchaser is responsible if the material within is prohibited by law in the area in which it is purchased.

  “This is bullshit,” Gabby said, knowing her hands were balling uselessly into fists as she did. “This is insane.”

  “This is what we in the business call ‘paying your dues,’ honey,” her manager snapped in her ear. It was almost as if Marvin were standing there next to her, instead of listening to her rage via cell phone. “Are you trying to sound ungrateful, or is this just natural?”

  She gritted her teeth. “Alright, Marvin,” Gabby said. “You’ve made your point.”

  “Good. Be nice to him. Suck up if you have to.”

  “Yeah, right,” Gabby said, wishing she hadn’t bothered to call. Yeah right indeed. The day she’d suck up to Echo was the day she died.

  There he was, his face larger than life on the poster in front of her; what you could see of it was pretty enough, for a white boy, considering most of it was hidden behind two barely clothed black models. They were wearing coochie-cutter short shorts, gold chains, and the kind of universally vapid expressions Gabby tore apart in her music. She was furious that this was the guy she was supposed to tour with. Looking at him, she couldn’t believe she’d ever nursed a five minute crush back when his first single dropped and everybody was freaking out over his old battle videos—how embarrassing.

  As she hung up and swung her heavy purse over her shoulder, his massive tour bus arrived. Echo’s people would be pouring into the small venue in less than a minute; she needed to cool down before she had to meet him. She’d be his opener for the next three months, and even if she couldn’t suck up to someone who was clearly the epitome of everything she was against, Gabby knew she had to play nice.

  Dashing inside and waving off the bartender’s offer of a drink, Gabby bee-lined to the women’s room and closed the door behind her. There wasn’t another lady in the house, she was sure; this was the first stop on a long tour but she been in enough bars and played enough shows on her own to know a man’s place when she saw one. Why had Marvin thought this was a good idea? This was worse than insane. In some ways, this was probably career suicide—none of the arty crowd she counted as fans would come to dive bars like this.

  She wasn’t going to make it three minutes, let alone three months.

  The audience was going to eat her alive. They weren’t the coffee house college students she’d carefully built as a fan base. They weren’t even the slam poetry fans she’d brought from her old days on the circuit. This was going to be a drunken, disgusting, bitches-aint-shit-but-hos-and-tricks kind of tour, and it made her stomach cramp just to think of having to stand on the same stage as Echo.

  Why? Why?

  Because she had the worst manager in the world, her mother’s voice said in her mind. And also, Gabby reminded herself, because she was tired of doing all of those small shows, of producing her own CDs, of having lesser talents take larger cuts of the glory.

  Because she’d wanted more, and taken a short-cut: the opening act for a huge artist--ha--on his ‘farewell’ tour.

  What a joke.

  Gabby’s angry reverie was broken by a rapid knock on the door. “You in there Ghost Diva? We got a man that wanna meet you...” Rough laughter broke up the request. “This white boy, he thinks you the shit or somethin...”

  “Shut the fuck up,” an unmistakable voice said, and she bit her lip and crunched her eyes shut. Echo. The very man she never wanted to see.

  Gabby opened her eyes and did a quick check in the full-length mirror: make up? She’d done a good job of high-lighting her big, dark brown eyes. Clothes? Looking cute. Expression? Pissed.

  There is no way for a proud black woman to hide her passions, her mother’s voice said again, but Gabby resolved to try. There. That was a little better.

  Think about that pay-check.

  Think about Charles, and getting to see him when I get home from the road.

  Think about Mama, and how this would make her proud.

  Okay, that was the beautiful smile she needed. Gabby left it planted on her face and turned towards the door, letting her fingers rest on the handle for one more minute while they banged on it again.

  “If you need me in the future,” she said coolly as she exited, “just make an appointment.” Gabby left the smile in place because she knew it would not only soften sassiness and hide her hatred, but also because for some reason, it usually struck men dumb. And right now, she really didn’t care what these men had to say.

  It almost had the effect she was planning on. The three men surrounding Echo, who was both taller and better looking than his picture, were suddenly quiet. She recognized them--Darris the Xtreme, Versus, and Trajilla Conquisto, all label mates and rappers that she’d dissed at least once in her songs. Not that they’d ever heard her music; she doubted they even knew college radio existed. They appraised her silently and moved aside as she walked through...Except, of course, for Echo.

  The dim light in the bar didn’t hide the thin scar that ran along one cheek, or the cleft in his chin; it also didn’t hide the cold look on his face as he took her in from head to toe. That’s fine, Gabby thought, let him. This is probably the only time we’ll be in the same place for this whole damn tour if I have anything to say about it.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice low and gruff. He put a hand out, and she gently squeezed his fingers, letting her manicure shine.

  “A pleasure,” she said, and moved to walk past him.

  He didn’t let go of her hand. “Marvin sent me the demo you made for Magnet.” Magnet Records was the label she’d been on before Arno, the indie off-shoot of the mega label Echo and his label-mates shared. She pulled her hand away. His expression remained unchanged as he let her go. “It was good,” he finished, his eyes locked on hers. The refracted light from the bathroom made his face visible in a way it normally never was; for the first time she saw the entire structure of his face. He was…Handsome.

  But also cold, terse, and someone she didn’t respect.

  “I know,” Gabby said, and took her leave.

  She could tell they were watching as she walked away when she heard a low whistle, and in spite of the clench in her guts telling her she shouldn’t have peered so deeply in Echo’s eyes, she felt victorious. Let them look.

  This was just her last step on this particular ladder. She didn’t need to look down and see all the shoulders she was standing on, either; Gabby smiled to herself. That would probably make a good line for the diss track she reserved writing for Echo after the tour.

  ----

  “Damn,” Darris said, wiping his forehead. “She is fine. Old school, better-than-your-ass fine.”

  “Yeah,” Echo said, looking after Ghost Diva as she walked away. Her jeans were so tight he could tell she wasn’t wearing any underwear, which seemed about right for a punk-poet turned glamista. Or whatever her bio said. The room-mate from college he’d gotten his manager to track down said she’d listened to nothing but old Avail albums and a thousand hardcore bands that had since ceased to exist except on the internet. Echo had stayed up three nights in a row checking them out.

  But he hadn’t told anyone.

  “She’s alright,” Trajilla said, w
atching her go with a close eye. “Definitely stuck-up.”

  “Yeah,” Echo said again, and dropped his gaze. He still didn’t understand why she fascinated him; why had he asked his manager to track her down? “When’s the sound check?” Darris shrugged, and they decided to get something to eat at the bar; Echo wasn’t looking forward to it, since he knew they would ask him for the thousandth time why he’d insisted on packing his tour dates with tiny venues like this. ‘You’ll start a damn riot,’ Darris scolded when the others were done fooling with him about it, back when the idea struck him--just after he’d decided to quit. A whole year ago; it felt like an eternity as he remembered the scene. Their faces turned serious when Darris’s point struck home. ‘This is not a good idea.’

  But he’d told them to relax; this was the new shit. All the underground artists these days played small venues, touched the crowd, did songs with live drummers and shit. It was a different day. And maybe he wasn’t underground, but...

  Who gives a fuck, they’d said, and it had been his turn to shrug.

  He didn’t want to have to explain: because I have been obsessed with this chick, and I know she can’t carry big venues yet. Because my whole life is a joke, and I’m looking for something better than money.

  Because I want to see their faces, this time.

  It was all too soft. Instead, he’d said only bitches hide from the audience. That he’d wanted to remember what it was like to win a battle, since he hadn’t in years. This was the end, after all. Why not? They’d nodded, all satisfied--except Darris. He’d raised an eyebrow and looked at him for a long time, not fooled for an instant.

  Echo would explain it to him eventually; no one else, probably, especially not the woman who’d set so much of this in motion, even if she didn’t know it. Darris deserved to know.

  But not now. Now, they settled in to eat shitty bar food someplace none of them would remember in ten years, to embark on his last tour as Echo Breaker Ninety Nine, Chokebreaker, Casper the Parasite, arguably the best rapper of his generation and certainly the best ever white one. Echo, whose real name was still the topic of debate on message boards full of people who’d never met him, Echo, who just wanted something quiet, something real, instead of all this.

  He sat down on the stool next to Darris, ordered a gin and tonic, and wondered where Ghost Diva--real name Gabrielle Harris, age 26, graduate Suma Cum Laude, class of ‘04, occupation Glamista Rap Star--had gone.

  -----

  Gabby sat in her van outside the club; she watched the crowd trickle in and knew she should go get her comp meal, but something held her back. She studied their faces for signs of her own fanbase, but just as she feared, there wasn’t anyone that looked like they’d bought her album.

  Not that she knew that, she was just going off of stereotypes, prejudices she would’ve laughed at if someone else were doing this. Look at her--a black college graduate, and a rapper, judging all these poor people that just wanted to listen to some music tonight. She sighed at herself, closed her eyes, and tried to concentrate on her set list. Gabby knew she’d want to try something different. There were a couple songs she knew usually got the crowd jumping; probably best to try and win them over with a good rhythm, rather than expect them to listen to her lyrics. If she got them in her pocket with some feet moving on the floor, there was a good chance she could drop something meaningful as her last song.

  Gabby took a series of long, deep breaths, then got up and smiled at the bouncer as she made her way in. She needed to eat something before she took the stage; there was probably a small back-stage area where she could eat unaccosted. When she asked, the bar tender directed her up a hidden set of stairs to a quiet, empty room. Echo and his crew had gone back to the tour bus. Thankfully.

  Once she’d nibbled her fries and burger, she closed her eyes again. Gabby knew she needed to go down and do the sound check; she also knew, in spite of her hard-won confidence, she was feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of facing the unwelcoming crowd. It was hard to be reminded of how far she’d come, especially since this was supposed to be some kind of crowning achievement. Instead, she was going to be booed off the stage.

  She took a deep breath.

  No she wasn’t.

  Don’t get crazy, girl.

  Worst case scenario: they boo. They hate her. She wins over one person, gets one new fan, gets the respect of everyone who notices she doesn’t give a shit about the disrespect shown her--she stays calm, honest, direct, she pushes her message, she makes herself proud.

  That’s it. That’s why she’s here.

  More deep breaths--she heard someone coming up the stairs.

  Exhale-- “Ghost Diva? We need to run a sound check, can you come down and help with mic levels?”

  Inhale, then-- “Sure. Call me Gabby, okay?”

  The woman who looked back at her had the kind of gun-shy expression so many sound techs did after getting yelled at constantly by people who didn’t deserve--but usually got--the name Diva. Gabby smiled widely at her. “Awesome, Gabby. Let’s get you set up.”

  Okay. Go time.

  She didn’t waste a second; Gabby changed and re-applied her make-up in record time, locking the door to make sure none of Echo’s minions wandered in on her, and made it to the stage within three minutes. She knew she looked okay when a ripple of quiet went through the crowd gathered around the small booths leading up to the front. Flashing her best smile at the sound tech, Gabby went through her warm-ups and helped find the best level. When she picked up a cup of hot water with lemon and honey from the bar-tender and walked back on stage, she let the spotlight hit her.

  It really was a small venue. This wasn’t as far from home as she thought it would be. Her equipment had already been set up; one of the perks of traveling with a well-equipped entourage was having some muscle around. She tinkered with everything one more time, gave the sound tech a thumbs up, and turned towards the crowd. Suddenly, the lights went low, and the spotlight hit her, center stage.

  Gabby put on her Ghost Diva face. She did it literally, in the bare light; her hands elevated to face level and mimicked putting on a mask. It changed her sweet smile into one of grim determination, and it changed crowds who were expecting a boob-flashing bimbo into wary, silent watchers.

  Even this time.

  Gabby worked through her set, and she could instantly tell that even if they weren’t her crowd, they were trying. People were slowly but constantly filing into the bar as they made their way past the bouncer, and the noise levels in the back grew. She got three songs through her set before the first heckler started. “What’s this shit?” It was a tall white boy with a beer in his hand, clearly an old-school Echo fan. “Get off the stage! Echo! Echo! Echo!”

  Gabby finished her fourth song and then offered the crowd a placating smile. Most of the people gathered near her smiled back, clapping loudly and saying “shut up” in the general direction of the bar crowd; the heckler just got louder. “Come on up here, sweetie,” Gabby said, keeping her smile on. It wasn’t her natural smile, or even her best fake; it was her Ghost Diva smile. Still grim, still determined. His friends pushed him forward, all of them laughing. He stumbled for a minute, and then came towards her, the more polite patrons letting him by. “I wrote a special song for you, sugar,” Gabby said, putting one hand on her knee as she bent forward and brought her face closer to his. “Are you listening? It goes like this.” She didn’t even notice that everyone had stopped talking; the bar crowd watched fervently from the rear: “I know you just want people to hear you/ so you make your voice louder than the peoples that’s near you/ I know you came alone cuz your friends wouldn’t let you/ act like such a hopeless fool in full view/ of every woman in the place, now none will come near you/ but I want to put a good word in cuz lonely people need love too/ and I know you’re lonely trying to get up in my spotlight/ yelling like you the director and we the audience, oh right?/ you just alone and nameless but when you pull this you’re not blameless
/ make the world a ruined spectacle and everyone who’s not you faceless/ but listen y’all don’t hate the hater when he boos you/ he’s just a lonely child begging for true because his life is doo doo. Did you have something to say, to say, did you bring fire to light my way, my way…”

  The last line was from an old Echo song, him daring some other emcee to respond in some ridiculous beef; she’d been playing with it half-heartedly in her mind the night before, and certainly wasn’t expecting to use it. Well, not now, not like this. The crowd erupted in appreciative yells and swells of applause; Gabby pointed the mic towards the heckler as if to offer him a chance to deflect her words, but he waved it away, knowing he was beaten. Gabby’d won over the entire crowd, and they both knew it. She stood up and smiled again, the applause washing over her as he returned to his friends.

  One more song. Make it good.

  She did. She knew they were listening now, and she chose carefully. As she looked out at their faces, Gabby knew she’d managed to make more than a couple new fans, and as she sang the hook for the last time, one face in particular stood out.

  A tall man, the pale skin of his scar glittering in the cast-off light from her stage, the cleft in his chin. Echo saw her notice him and quickly leaned back into the shadowy crowd, his features disappearing immediately. She almost thought she’d imagined him.

  Almost.

  Should she be flattered? It was commonly done in smaller shows that artists would sit through each other’s sets and support one another, but Echo probably hadn’t played a venue this small since...Well, never. Echo did stadiums. Echo did not support anyone who wasn’t in his crew. How had he managed to drift through the crowd unseen? She pushed these thoughts to the back of her mind and let her voice lift on the last word, finding him one more time before watching the rapt faces in the front row, and then let the silence following fill with applause. She dramatically removed her Ghost Diva mask and waved to the crowd.