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“But why does it have to be a girl?”

Murray Bishop looked at Rafael Ariando.  Help me out here, said his glance. 

Rafael leaned back in his chair and crossed one black pant leg over the other.  He waved his hand through the air.  You’re on your own here, Murray.

Murray sighed.  “We’ve been over it, Nick.  She’s not a girl, she’s a guitar player.”

“Why can’t we get a guy to be the guitar player?”

Rafael, Rafe to his friends, crossed his arms and shook his head behind Nick’s back.  They had been going around and around, and Nick was getting more whiny and petulant with every revolution.  Rafe was determined not to interfere, but if Nick said one more time, why can’t we have the guys from Tampa…

“Why can’t we have the guys from Tampa?”

“Because you can’t,” barked Rafe, rising to his feet. 

Nick jumped.  He had almost forgotten Rafe was there.

Murray looked from one to the other.  Night and day.  Salt and pepper.  Rafael Ariando and Nick Carter.

Rafael Ariando was a corporate guy.  Not even a music corporate guy.  Just a bottom line corporate guy.  No one who had any power whatever in the corporate world gave a shit about the music.  They cared about the money.

Rafe Ariando cared about the money.  He had lots, and he wanted more.  Because money was power.  And Rafe wanted power.  He was born and raised in Spain, the son of a wealthy businessman and a society maven, who both had some faint connection to the now-defunct aristocracy.  His father sent him to Oxford for his college degree and then to Harvard Business School.  Then he got Rafe a job in a multi-national corporation and told the head of it to start him at the bottom and make him work his way up.

Rafe didn’t exactly start at the bottom.  He was second to the Vice-President of Development at Jive Records, which was pretty good for someone just turned 30.  But it wasn’t where he wanted to be.  The record company was one small part of Unitel, a multinational corporation that controlled more companies than an ordinary citizen could imagine. 

Jive was their toy.  All the big corporations had one.  A movie company.  A record company.  A television network.  Because all the big wheels were blinded by stars.  Any of the other companies in the corporation that walked so close to the profit/loss line would have been shut down long ago.  But the guys at the top, the men who had more money and power than all of the Heads of State put together, were prouder of their Grammys and Emmys than their billion-dollar deals.  And if you got an Oscar, well…that was the sun and the moon and the stars.

Nick Carter was a music guy.  He didn’t care about the money.  He had lots, and it let him live the way he wanted.  Oh, he knew he wouldn’t like to be without it, but he never focused on it, never even thought about it really.  That’s what Sam was for.  Samuel Coleridge Taylor (he would never forgive his mother for that!) was Nick’s accountant.  He paid the bills and watched the bottom line.  Nick didn’t spend a lot – well, the odd million-dollar racing boat here and there, but that had turned out to be a spectacular success, so…  No, Nick wasn’t looking to have the best clothing or jewelry or the biggest house or the fanciest car.  He just wanted to rock.

Rafael Ariando had decided to let Nick Carter rock him to business stardom.  Rafe had carefully analyzed the acts under contract to Jive.  He wanted one with potential, one that could really go someplace, one that Rafe could get the credit for, if it did.  And Nick Carter was perfect.  The Backstreet Boys wouldn’t have been right at all.  They were too big.  There was nothing to be gained by making them a success.  He was glad his predecessor at Jive had let Nick destroy them, by giving him his solo album and his paltry little tour.  Because now he, Rafael Ariando, was going to orchestrate Nick into a solo megastar.

If he didn’t kill the little bastard first.

“But…” Nick protested.  He shifted in his seat, stretching out his long legs.  Why did they always make these chairs so damned uncomfortable, he wondered and then answered his own question.  Because they make them for people half my size.  He shifted again and crossed one denim-clad leg over the other and started playing with the lace on his sneaker.

“Listen up, Nick,” said Rafe. 

Murray moved silently behind his desk.  Good.  Let Rafe do it.  He sat down and waited for the dark-haired man to tell the blond one what was good for him.  Murray Bishop was neither a music guy or a corporate guy.  He was middle-level management, a corporate gofer, happy to spend his days arranging the nitty-gritty details that someone else thought up.  He liked having a medium-sized office and medium-sized responsibilities.  He didn’t like dealing with stubborn young stars, and he didn’t like dealing with head office hotshots…and he was just plain scared of Rafael Ariando.  He knew that Rafe was ambitious, and Murray just hoped he wouldn’t be one of the ones who got trampled by Rafe’s polished leather loafers in his climb to the top.

“It’s about respect,” said Rafe.  “You don’t get any.”  He looked at the young blond, slumped in the chair. 

Nick was wearing a pair of baggy jeans that didn’t look all that clean.  His t-shirt was faded and shapeless.  He had that scruffy chin hair that seemed so popular with young people these days, but that made Rafe want to sandpaper their face.  Rafe’s face was always clean-shaven, except for the impeccable moustache that sliced across his upper lip, reflecting his elegant European ancestry.

Nick blinked.  “I have lots of fans,” he said, raising his chin defiantly.

“Who gives a shit about the fans?” asked Rafe.  “I’m talking about respect in the industry.  Who would you rather have show up at your concert – 50 000 screaming teeny boppers or the Rolling Stones?”

Nick stared at him.

“What would you rather hear, ‘Oh, I love you so much, Nicky, can I blow you?’ or ‘Hi, I’m Bruce Springsteen.  Good job on the album.’?”

“Don’t call me Nicky.”  Nick set his lips. 

Rafe made a mental note to remember that hot button.  He softened his tone.  “You’ve got talent, Nick.  Lots of it.  And there’s no reason why you can’t have both – legions of fans and industry respect.  But you can’t get either if you don’t change your strategy.”

“I don’t care about strategy,” said Nick.  “I just want to sing.”

“That’s right.  That’s what you do.  What I do is the strategy part.  So let me do my job so that you can do yours.”

“But why does it have to be a girl?”

Rafe’s hands clenched into fists.  He leaned back against Murray’s desk.  Murray wondered if he should move the letter opener out of Rafe’s reach.

“It’s not a girl.  It’s Melody Jones.  She’s 30 and the best in the business.  And we’ve got Blaine Hawkins and Rashad Williams – also the best.  And we’re looking at Geordie Baker for keys.  We are getting you the best in the business.  It was nice what you did last time, giving the guys from Tampa a break, but you’re beyond that now.  This is your second album.  This is where you have to make your mark.  You know Now or Never was…”

Nick cut him off.  “It was exactly what I wanted.”

Rafe spread his hands in a placating gesture.  “And you got it.  But now you have to want more.  You have to grow, or you’ll be little Nicky Carter forever.”  Rafe tested the hot button once more.

“Don’t call me Nicky,” Nick said between clenched teeth.  Then he sighed.  “It’s not like I have anything against girls.  It’s just that…shit happens.  Look what happened last time.  And there wasn’t nothin’ goin’ on.”

Murray sighed.  Yes, that had been a problem.  The guitar player had been a girl, and everyone tried to make something out of her and Nick, even though they insisted they were just friends and she had a fiancé back in Tampa.  It got so bad that she left the group and went home and married the guy.

“This isn’t a girl,” said Rafe, for what he hoped was the last time.  “She’s 30, so she’s what…six, seven years older than you.  She’ll just be one of the guys.  Look, just meet her.  You’ll see.” 

He nodded to Murray, who pressed a button on his desk and said, “We’ll see Ms. Jones now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mr. Bishop will see you now, Ms. Jones.”

About time, thought Melody.  She closed her crossword puzzle book and slipped it into her bag.  She hated waiting.  She thought it was a sign of disrespect to keep someone waiting.  If someone said, ‘come at eleven’, she did, and she expected that she would see someone at eleven.  It was now 11:45.  If the meeting went long, she’d be late for lunch with her mother.  Never a good thing.  Melody was not in a good mood.

She was not in a good mood because she didn’t even know what the hell she was doing here in the first place.  She was a studio musician, not a tour player.  She made good money at that, so why was she even considering this? 

She knew the answer.  Because she was going to make a shitload of money from this tour.  Because Rafe Ariando had made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.  She furrowed her brow.  What she still didn’t know was why.

Nick Carter?  A Backstreet Boy, of all things!  Melody was a rocker, not a popper or whatever the hell the term would be.

Melody stood up and followed the receptionist down the hall, not even glancing at the pictures and framed albums that lined the walls.  The receptionist rapped twice on the door and then opened it without waiting for a reply.  She stood aside and motioned Melody through.

“Ms. Jones,” announced the receptionist, pulling the door closed as she left.

Nick lumbered to his feet and turned to the door.  What the…?  In front of him stood…well, he didn’t know what, but it sure as hell wasn’t a rock guitarist.  It was a girl…woman, Nick corrected himself…of 30, but she didn’t look it, although Nick wasn’t really sure what 30 looked like. 

She was small, not just short…Nick figured maybe 5’3”, 5’4”…but small all over.  She had small bones and was very thin, not scrawny but…tiny.  Nick felt like an ox standing beside her. 

She was wearing a skirt!  It was kinda pretty, one of those loose Indian cotton things…but a skirt!?  And a blouse…peasant-style, Nick thought they called it…sleeveless.  Her arms were thin, but well-muscled.  The only thing remotely “rock” about her was her hair.  It was black, cut short and spiky.  It didn’t go at all with the outfit, which looked better suited to a lunch date with your mother, than to rock and roll.

“Melody Jones…Nick Carter,” intoned Rafe.

“Call me Mel,” said Melody, offering her hand.  Nick was surprised by the firmness of her grip.  He hadn’t gripped her hard.  He didn’t want to hurt her. 

He shakes hands like a girl, thought Melody.

“Rafe. Murray.” 

Mel nodded in their direction.  They nodded back.  Nick made a note of the fact that she called Ariando ‘Rafe’.  Not everyone got to do that.  Nick wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.

Rafe motioned them to chairs.  Melody took one, happy that it wasn’t some big boxy thing that would swallow her up.  She hated it when her feet didn’t touch the floor.  Made her feel like a little kid.

“So we were just telling Nick here how lucky he is that you’ve finally decided to ‘take it on the road’…”  Murray was awkward using jargon, and he had a bad habit of making finger quotation marks around it.  “People have been trying to get her to do it for years,” he said in an aside to Nick.

Well then, why hasn’t she, wondered Nick.  Why now?  Why me?

Rafe stepped in smoothly before Nick could voice his question.  “Luckily for us, she just felt that the time was right for a little change, right Mel?”  There was no way Rafe wanted Nick to know how much money he’d offered Melody for this tour.

Melody looked at Rafe and then nodded.  Obviously, he didn’t want her to mention the money, and until she figured out why she was worth so much, she wasn’t going to bring it up.  “Sure, Rafe.  Who else you got?” 

“We got Blaine Hawkins on drums,” said Murray. 

Melody nodded and smiled.

“…and Rashad Williams for bass…” added Rafe. 

Melody grinned broadly.

“We’re looking at Geordie Baker for keys,” put in Nick. 

The grin fell from Melody’s face, replaced by a deadpan expression.  Mmm, was all she said.  No one said anything for a moment.

Murray spoke into the silence.  “So do you have any questions?” 

Nick opened his mouth, but Melody got there first.  “Yeah, did you work out that thing about Christmas?”

“Sure did,” said Rafe.  “Changed two of the dates around and it worked perfectly.”

Nick couldn’t believe his ears.  What the fuck?  They were changing tour dates to suit her? 

“What happens at Christmas?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, Santa, elves, that kind of stuff,” answered Melody, with a smile. 

Rafe and Murray laughed.  Nick blushed and narrowed his eyes.  Melody sobered. 

“Family is important to me,” she said.  “Christmas is a big occasion for us.  I don’t want to miss it.”

Nick nodded, but he was still pissed off.  Why did he feel like the kid again?  Even if she was older, he was willing to bet he’d been in the business as long as she had.  And he’d never run across her.

“I’m surprised we’ve never met,” said Nick.  “Who have you done?”  He threw out the double-entendre on purpose to see what she would do with it.

Mel raised her eyebrows at him.  So it was going to be like this, was it?  “I’m not surprised,” she answered.  “I don’t live in Boybandland.”

Murray sucked in a lungful of air.  Rafe pursed his lips to keep from laughing.  Yes, this was a feisty one.  This one could take care of herself.

“Mel’s worked on a lot of albums…with a lot of good people,”  Murray assured Nick.

“Do you have a list…or a résumé or something?” asked Nick.

Melody’s back stiffened.  She looked at Murray and then at Rafe.  “Does he understand who is being interviewed here?” she asked them, ignoring Nick completely.

Nick straightened up in his chair.  What the…?  She was there to approve of him?  Not the other way around?  No way!  No fucking way!

Rafe interceded before there was violence.  He put a hand on Nick’s shoulder.  “Now, now, it’s nothing like that.  We just wanted the two of you to meet before rehearsals start next week.”

Murray shuffled through some files on his desk.  “Here you go, Mel,” he said, handing her a sheet of paper. 

Melody took it from him, glanced at it and slipped it into her bag.  “Okay, good, thanks.”  She turned back to Nick.  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carter.  I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Nick didn’t believe her.  “Call me Nick,” he said.

Melody nodded to Rafe and Murray and left the room.  There was a deep silence left behind her.  Rafe and Murray waited for the explosion. 

But when Nick spoke, his voice was quiet.  “Why?” was all he said.

“Because people who wouldn’t come to see you will come to see her,” said Rafe, glad that Nick was catching on at last.  “She’s worked with a lot of people…I mean, a lot!!  And people like her.  Murray wasn’t kidding.  They are always trying to get her to tour with them.  Up to now, she’s said ‘no’.  Now they will want to see who got her to say ‘yes’.  They will come to see her, but they will see you too.  And that’s all you need, Nick, is to get them in the building.”

Nick sighed.  Okay.  He’d give in on it now.  But he didn’t like it.  And she had better play one hell of a hot guitar.