Page 40 of Ticket to the Stars: Part One

The recording studio had its own garage beneath it, along with guards who kept out the riffraff and the paparazzi. The guard recognized Priest and let us in. Ramona was already waiting for us, her car parked in an empty row. Priest parked beside her.

“Good, you’re here,” Ramona said as we got out. Her wild hair was pulled back today, and she wore ripped jeans and a suit jacket over a dark gray blouse. She had her phone in her hand, as always. “Just got word the studio double-booked this afternoon, so we’ll have to be out by two.”

I checked my phone. That was in three hours.

Ramona led us into the building, and I tried not to stare as we walked inside. From the parking garage, you entered a hall, which then brought you to the lobby, where a thirty-something man was working behind a desk. The walls were decked out in album art and plaques. I tried to get a good look of one, but Ramona hurried us along after checking in with the receptionist.

We filed onto an elevator, and then we went upstairs. It must be the same place Ramona always booked, because she knew exactly where to go. Eventually we stopped before a closed door, and she held it open for us, ushering us inside.

The room was dark. A few chairs sat in the back, along with one near a soundboard or whatever it was called. That soundboard was in front of a big window of glass, where you could see inside the recording room. To get inside the recording room, you had to walk through another door. It was completely closed off, no windows, nothing.

“You two, in there, do your warm-up,” Ramona ordered. “I don’t want to waste any time.”

It was Priest’s turn to take the lead, and he made a big show about leading the way to the door to the recording room. He opened it for me and then bowed. “This way, my lady.”

I rolled my eyes at him as I walked by.

Priest had his own set of vocal warm-ups, while I did whatever warm-ups my high school choir teacher had taught us. Nothing too special, just some stuff to warm up your voice, get it going, help you a little with range. You didn’t want to jump right into it, otherwise you might make your voice box a little sore.

A few minutes passed, and then Ramona hit some button on the soundboard. Her voice came through speakers somewhere, “Did you get the list I sent you? Those are the songs I want to hear. If there’s any more you want to add, we can do those at the end.”

I looked at Priest, who pulled out his phone. List? I didn’t see anything about a list. My heart skipped a beat. With Ramona, Bishop, and Deacon in the other room, the last thing I wanted to look like was an idiot.

Priest looked at me, and something on my face must’ve told him I didn’t get any list, because he came over to me and handed me his phone. It was an email. Of course. I’d have to learn to check my email more often, I guess.

I scanned the title list, recognizing the songs. I’d listened to Black Sacrament’s entire catalog on repeat since arriving, basically training for this moment. Still, I had no sheet music, no notes, nothing in front of me. All I had was my own memory.

“How are we supposed to do this?” I asked. “These songs weren’t made to be duets.” I glanced between Ramona and Priest. In front of us stood two microphones, and on their poles hung two headphones.

Ramona must’ve heard me, because she said, “Just pretend you’re Pope and sing. Getting parts down will come later. I want to hear what you got.”

I stood there, motionless, kind of freaking out about this, wondering if it was a mistake—if the whole damned thing was a mistake—and I was so lost in my own thoughts that I neglected to realize Priest had picked up my pair of headphones.

His tall figure stood before me, and he gave me a lopsided smile. “You’re going to do just fine, Angel,” he told me, and then he put the headphones onto my head. He let his gaze linger on me for a few more seconds, and then he put on his own.

Let’s just say… it was a learning process. As the day wore on, I understood why Ramona had wanted more time in the studio. Singing in front of people who were watching you and listening—it wasn’t like choir class. It wasn’t like singing in my room. It wasn’t even like my dreams.

It was awkward. At least it felt awkward to me. I had to close my eyes just to make it feel less weird.

Priest must’ve sensed how awkward I felt, because when we were in the middle of singing one of Black Sacrament’s most popular songs, The Devil in You, something warm slipped around my hand and squeezed.

I opened my eyes to see Priest had inched closer, and that warm thing? It was his hand. He was holding my hand, wordlessly telling me I was doing fine. Comforting me without saying a single word. And the look he was giving me… it was like the rest of the room didn’t exist, like Ramona and Bishop and Deacon weren’t out there, watching and listening. It was just us.

Who knew focusing on Priest would help so much? Who knew that, just like that, I’d forget all about how annoyed I’d been with his comments earlier today? Priest could be infuriating, but right now the only thing he did was calm me, ground me, and keep me rooted in reality.

I could do this.

And so I sang my little heart out, not only wanting to do Cleo proud, but also the man who was my lifeline by holding onto my hand.

We didn’t get to do any songs Bishop wanted to hear. It took us longer to get through Ramona’s list than we anticipated. It was about one fifty when Ramona got a call, so she left to answer it. It was okay. I had to use the restroom anyway. Plus, my feet kind of hurt from standing in one spot for so long without moving, so I needed to get out of there.

I had to turn down another long hall to find a restroom. A unisex room with only one toilet, but it worked. After doing my business, I washed my hands. I didn’t mean to glance up at my reflection, but I did, and what I saw was a girl whose face was flushed but whose appearance was otherwise happy.

Singing with Priest had been weird at first, but then it got better. His hand-holding probably helped, but at the end there, I could easily imagine us both on stage, rocking out and having fun.

Because that’s what performing was about, right? Having fun?

Maybe that was naive of me.

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