Tracy

001: Tracy

                                                            "It is often easier to believe a lie 

                                                                          than face the truth."

October 20th, 1982

"Okay, you guys, the words are 'stay with me tonight' not, whatever it is you're singing. Please just follow the prompter. The words are up." Tracy sighed in frustration, adjusted her microphone and nodded once more to Michael, her producer, who gave her a thumbs up.

Behind the glass of the sound room, Michael eye-balled the two guitarists singing backup for his artist. That eye meant they better conform pronto if they valued their lives. Michael hefted his bulk back into his swivel seat and looked down at his huge studio mixer. Then his bushy brown eyebrows rose indicating to Tracy it was time to begin.

Instantly the hum of her voice and the instruments flowed into the little sound room, pulsating with light and energy.

Michael hummed along, for pitch, for cadence,  and for rhythm. His eyes narrowed as she came in on her own harmonies flawlessly this time and the guys backed her with the right words. He nodded slowly, savoring the delicate ambiance of the song.

He only had today with her, and incredible artist that she was, he still needed every minute. If anyone even chanced to open the sound room door right now, he'd likely bite their head off and spit them out from here to Antarctica. And Michael was well-known for biting people's heads off.

Tracy's eyes closed as the song progressed, this time seamlessly. Swaying, her blue shaded eyelids passed glances from the microphone to the flashing reflections in the window that separated her from her producer. Trademark hair, tawny gold and kinky ringlets cascaded across her slender shoulders. Michael watched as the magic of his protégé wove in and out like the rainbow prisms of the Northern Lights. He'd never felt as in tune to an artist as he did to this snip of a girl.

Her breathy rush at the end of the song and the way her smile lit her face let him know her feelings. She was as transparent as a freshly fallen snow. Not that one would ever see such a thing here on the Southern California beaches where Pepper's Alignment, Tracy's former band, had established their production company, Rocks. It didn't snow often at the beach. But Michael happened to know that a storm had blown in since they'd been in production this afternoon. If Tracy knew she'd be out in it; it was good she didn't know. He needed her in here. Time was of the essence.

The door didn't crack open as it would if a secretary dared to interfere right now. It swung open and crashed against the back wall haphazardly, and before Michael could even bellow his fury, Tracy's former band leader Casey Crandall leaned over, pushed the sound room intercom and yelled, "Tracy, get your ass out here, you're late!"

All hell broke loose.

Tracy's eyes flew open, blue fire flashed for one nano-second before she pulled off the headphones and shook out her hair, a show of defiance as she turned to thank the backup guys, deliberately showing her boyfriend,  Casey he didn't run her life completely, yet.

Michael's fury hit full throttle. "Get the hell out of my studio!"

Casey turned to him as if just seeing him for the first time. Michael's bulk was no match for Casey's tall, slim, good looks. He was one of the only people Michael knew who made flaming red hair and freckles sexy. "Last time I checked, it was my studio."

Technically Casey was right, in that the four members of Pepper's Alignment  were co-owners of the production company Michael worked for. Technically.

But that was simply a technicality when it came to the actual studio work. Michael was regarded as a super-human wizard in the studio.

Before a full on verbal war could ensue, the door to the room cracked open and Tracy slipped through.

No defiance now, Tracy's eyes were diplomatic and peaceful. She ran a hand through her hair.

"Late for what, mi amour?" She tip-toed up to kiss Casey's lips and he grabbed her to him, heavily, awkwardly, never aware of his own strength and careless with it, so that she slammed against him. Tracy's eyes met Michael's over Casey's shoulder. If anyone could soothe the enigmatic singer it would be her.

Michael looked away, shuffling some buttons and levers, saving their work. His anger only too obvious to one who knew him well. His cheeks were usually always flushed and rosy, but not near the ears unless he was mad. Tracy could see he was really perturbed with Casey.

Casey was a guitarist. Casey was a has-been, party animal riding the coat-tails of his former glory.

Casey ignored the producer. He'd worked with Michael a few times before, on Pepper's last album three years ago. That was before the break-up, and because the breakup had dropped sales significantly, he didn't think much of Michael's skills. He preferred to work with other more established producers. He didn't know why Tracy insisted on doing her solo work with this guy, but she was nothing if not loyal.

His hands sought Tracy's backside, and even though she deftly wriggled away from him, she stayed close enough to keep him from thinking she'd done it on purpose to get away. She didn't like to be handled like this in public. She waved to Michael with three piano player fingers and ushered her supposed boyfriend out of the room before he became the next casualty in a long list of those who had felt the wrath of Michael.

"What exactly am I late for?" She hooked her fingers in his belt loops and sauntered casually down the dimly lit cement floor hallway. Cinder blocks lined the non-descript walls adorned with sparsely framed concert photos from Pepper's glory days, or more recently with posters from the newer bands the studio represented.

"You and me are doing a gig down at Tapas in an hour." He said this so casually as if it was a foregone conclusion.

Tracy's heart literally skipped a beat and she stopped dead in her tracks. She stared at him, trying to register the magnitude of what he'd just said. She didn't just do gigs anymore and definitely not night clubs. She couldn't. There were contracts and other things to consider.

"I'm not." She said this softly and then glared at him. "You can't just--"

Casey's eyes snapped at hers in knowing disagreement; he'd been expecting her to balk and he was ready. He laced their fingers so she couldn't get away as he yanked her out the downstairs door and into the elevator.

"I can, though, can't I ?" He grinned at her, and his sexy smile softened his already very handsome features. Tracy felt his allure.

But she'd been subject to it far too long to be completely under its spell as were all his teenage fans. She noticed that his eyes were glassy as well. That meant he'd been smoking pot or drinking, or both. She hated that he was so addicted and that he didn't care.

The elevator door whizzed open again and the cooler lobby air met them, with a myriad of crowded photographers and reporters. She had been so entranced by his stupid announcement she'd not realized he had let them off far away from their secured parking area. Her eyes slid to his in anger, and she immediately pushed the buttons to take them to parking.

She felt the heat rising in her cheeks, and along the back of her neck, a strong clammy sweat, that left her with a dull pressure in her head as well. Casey reached out and slammed the elevator doors, effectively stopping them. His wicked grin fanned the flames of her hostility. Her headache blossomed like a giant moth coming out of its cocoon.

"I think I'm getting a migraine." She bit out truthfully. Casey still had her in a vice-like grip around her wrist.

"I've got something that will make you forget your pain, baby." The way his red hair was cut, very long on one side, it swung over his eyes, hiding them from the fluorescents above. Immediately he pulled her unwilling form into the lobby and screams and cheering catcalls met her ears.

*****