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“Thanks, but I’ve got a gig,” said Melody.

Nick nodded.  It was the same answer he’d received every day for the past two weeks, when he’d offered to take the guys out for a beer.  Each day, he’d finished off the session by saying to the whole crew, “Let’s go to the Fox and Fiddle.  The first one is on me.” 

Different people had been able to attend the small gatherings, which consisted of one round of drinks and a bunch of appetizer platters paid for by Nick.  Anyone who wanted to stay after that was on their own tab.  Nick was scrupulous about inviting everyone, and everyone had attended at least once. 

Except Mel.  Each time she had responded the same way – by looking at her watch and then saying, “Thanks, but I’ve got a gig.”

“Where?” Nick asked on the second Friday.

Melody looked surprised.  “At Pineapple Ranch,” she said, naming a club in downtown L.A.

Nick nodded but didn’t say anything more.  Over his beer, he brought the subject up to Blaine.  “So Mel’s got another gig tonight.”  He said it matter-of-factly, as if he already knew all the details and was just making idle conversation.

“Yeah, said Blaine, reaching for some nachos.

“At Pineapple Ranch,” added Nick.

“Yep,” said Blaine, “backing up Carly Hyndman.  Her guitar player had a death in the family and had to go back East.”

Nick nodded.  Okay, so it was legit.  Mel wasn’t just avoiding the social gatherings.  She wasn’t just avoiding him.  He signaled the waiter for the bill.

“I see Mel bailed again,” said Toby in Nick’s ear.

“Yeah, she’s got a gig,” said Nick.  “She’s backing up Carly Hyndman at Pineapple Ranch.”

“Really?” said Toby.  “And that’s allowed?”

“Why wouldn’t it be allowed?” asked Nick.

“No reason, I guess,” said Toby.  “I just assumed she was under contract to you…exclusively.”

Nick thought about that on the way home.  Yeah, wouldn’t Melody be under contract?  Exclusive contract?  Nick knew what he had to go through to do something even remotely professional that wasn’t set up by Rafe or Tom.

Nick grimaced as he remembered that particular meeting – humiliation on a platter, he thought.  It had been one of their first meetings, and Rafe was determined to let Nick know from the outset just who was in charge.  He had begun by trashing every aspect of Nick’s solo effort – every aspect except the music.  But the rest of it went under the gun and came out riddled with bullet holes.  Rafe was careful to blame George Walsh, his predecessor at Jive, and not Nick, but there was an overriding air of contempt that Nick was not in control of his own destiny.

“But all that is going to change with this album.”  Rafe finally got to the point.  Well, almost.  There were still a few ‘don’ts’.

“You will not be making any more appearances on those ridiculous shows, like Baby American Idol or whatever the hell it was called.”

“American Juniors,” corrected Nick.

“Yeah, whatever.  It was garbage, and you shouldn’t have done it.  Walsh shouldn’t have let you anywhere near that.  Those ‘guest judges’…”  The contempt in Rafe’s voice was chilling.  “…are nothing but has-beens.  That’s what you do on the way down, not the way up.  And you won’t be showing up on Sesame Street in the near future either, so I hope you got your Big Bird fix last time.”

“I did that with Aaron,” protested Nick.

“Good for you,” said Rafe, sarcastically.  “Well, you will not be doing it again.  You will only be seen with bona fide rock stars, not baby pop stars.”

“He’s my brother,” said Nick, indignantly.

“Well, see him at Sunday dinner,” replied Rafe, dismissively.

By the time Nick got home from the Fox and Fiddle, he had developed a healthy indignation about the situation.  He couldn’t even be seen in public with his own brother or drop into a radio station to visit a deejay he’d known for years without all kinds of permissions and directions from Rafe.  But Melody got to do private gigs?  What was up with that?

Nick got on the phone to Toby.  “Get me Rafe!  I don’t care how you do it.”

He was surprised to hear Rafe’s voice when he answered his phone five minutes later.  He figured it would be Toby with an update and excuses.

“Yo,” said Nick into the phone.

Rafe rolled his eyes.  Would this kid never learn?  “It’s Rafe.  What’s up?”

Nick could tell that Rafe was not happy.  He didn’t like to be summoned.  Nick began to regret being so impulsive.

“Yeah, I was just wondering…Mel said she had a gig tonight.”

“Yes,” said Rafe, impatience seeping into his voice.

“Well, I just wanted to be sure you knew…like…were…aware of it…like it wasn’t some kind of…I don’t know…breach of contract or something…”  Nick pulled the legal term out of the air.  He hoped it was the right one.  He could practically hear Rafe rolling his eyes.

“Now, don’t you worry about things like that, Nick,” said Rafe.  The condescension in his voice was so obvious that Nick’s ears turned red.  “Everything is just fine.  I look after things like that.”

“So it’s in her contract?” persisted Nick.

“Yes, it is,” answered Rafe.  “It’s all on the up-and-up.”  He gave little Nicky a mental pat on the head.

“She can do independent gigs?”

“Yes, on her own time, she can do what she likes.  But Nick, it’s only for the rest of the month.  Then we’re on tour.”

“But it’s in her contract?”

“Yes, it is.  What’s the problem?”

“I’m just wondering why she has a better contract than I do,” said Nick, trying to rein in his fury.  He clenched and unclenched his fist and paced up and down the living room. 

Rafe sighed.  Because she’s a grown up, and you’re not, he thought.  Because I can rely on her, and I can’t rely on you.  Because she doesn’t make the same stupid, fucking mistakes you do, Nicky. 

Rafe thought all these things but wisely didn’t vocalize any of them.  Instead, he decided to turn it on Mel.  Let her deal with this adolescent.

“Because that’s the way she wanted it.  It was a deal-breaker for her.  And we wanted her.  You’ve seen how good she is.”

Nick couldn’t dispute that.  “But…”

“No buts.  She’s got a proven track record.  She’s thirty years old, and she’s never fucked up once.  Hell, I don’t think she’s ever even been late for a rehearsal.  So if she says she wants to do private gigs for this month, she can do it.  It’s not like she wants to go sing with Elmo, for Christ’s sake!”

A very charged silence filled the air.  Rafe waited to see if Nick would blow.  Nick took two deep breaths and then two more.

“Okay, thanks,” he said in a dull voice.  “Like I said, I just wanted to make sure everything was legit.”

“That was good of you, Nick.  That’s good that you’re thinking of things like that, getting the whole picture.”

Don’t patronize me, you fucking asshole, thought Nick, but he used some of his new-found ‘maturity’ to swallow the words and leave them unsaid. 

“Have a nice weekend,” he said, and rang off after hearing Rafe say the same.  “I hope you choke on your fucking quiche or whatever the fuck you eat for Sunday brunch,” yelled Nick at the dead phone.

He paced up and down.  Goddammit!  Why was he always the last to know?  Goddamn Rafe!  He was always keeping secrets.  Like Nick was too stupid to grasp the, what did he call it?...oh yeah, the whole picture.  Goddamn Tom!  He was nothing but Rafe’s lap dog.  He couldn’t think for himself.  None of them could!  Everyone kowtowed to Rafe.  Fucking high and mighty Rafe Ariando!  Everyone but Melody Jones.  Who apparently didn’t answer to anyone.  Who apparently was writing her own fucking ticket.

Nick picked up the phone and punched in a number.

“Executive Car Service,” said a perky voice,  “Suzy speaking.”

“This is Nick Carter.  I need a car for tonight.  9:00.”

“Yes, Mr. Carter.”  Nick could hear a keyboard clicking.  “We can do that for you, Sir.  Pickup at your home?”

“Yeah.  Yes, please.”

“Do you have an initial destination?” asked Suzy.

“Yeah, I do,” said Nick.  “Pineapple Ranch.  It’s a club.  I don’t know the address.”

“That’s okay, Sir, we’ll take care of it for you.  How many people will be in your party?”

“Just me,” said Nick.  “And it’s a private thing.  Don’t send anything big or fancy.”

“Yes, Sir.  How about a nice black sedan?”

“Yeah, yeah, perfect, whatever.”  Nick heard more buttons clicking.

“Okay, then Mr. Carter.  You’re all set:  Pickup tonight at nine, at your home address, initial destination Pineapple Ranch.  Your driver will be Andre.  Is there anything else I can help you with this evening?”

“No,” said Nick, “that’s it.”

“Well then, you have a nice evening, Sir.  Thank you for calling Executive Car Service.”

Nick rang off.  He looked at his watch.  Okay, get something to eat.  He patted his stomach.  He shouldn’t have eaten those nachos at the bar.  He knew they gave him heartburn.  He rubbed his chest and went to the kitchen.  He got a glass out of the cupboard and poured himself some milk.  He used to drink it right out of the carton, but the day he slugged back a mouthful of sour milk got rid of that bad habit forever.

Nick put the milk back in the fridge and looked for something to eat.  There was a nice well-balanced meal sitting there looking at him.  His housekeeper was under orders to make one every day – a salad, some chicken or fish and vegetables.  It appalled her how much good food got thrown away because he didn’t eat it.  She had tried to stop buying the junk food that did get eaten, but Nick had given her hell for that. 

Nick closed the fridge and opened the cupboard.  Potato chips, tuna, cans of soup…  He opened the freezer.  Frozen macaroni dinners…Lean Cuisine…he’d need about three of them to fill him up.  He could hear the voice of his last trainer, talking about preservatives and shit like that, extolling the virtues of fresh vegetables and fruit.

Goddamn Melody Jones! 

Nick could hear the trainer’s voice again, telling Nick that he was the one who controlled his life and what he ate, nobody else.  A bad mood was no excuse.  Nick made his own choices.  Fine!  He opened the fridge and pulled out the plate.  He shoved it in the microwave and stabbed at the Reheat button.  He dumped some dressing on the salad and munched on it while he waited for the microwave.  There, he was eating healthy.  Was everybody happy?  He was making his own choices.  He wasn’t blaming anyone else! 

Goddamn Melody Jones!