A request embossed in golden letters arrived at his door, an event in one of those mansions where it seems the party will turn into madness—something abnormal, unreal, far removed from ordinary, transitional memories. To his surprise, Billy sent the letter on, and Jerry gave his approval for the request, within a social circle that appeared to belong to the vast world of entertainment. It was no surprise to see the volunteers.
Many people danced like mad, each of them letting go at every chance. There was a vivid response in the air; people took the time to make the slightest gesture, an arm lifted lightly.
—I can put it simply. These people look truly insane.—Billy whispered, watching the hostess and perhaps the person in charge of throwing the party. From many angles, you could glimpse the destinies of people like Lindsay Lohan, Mischa Barton, Mandy Moore, Rose McGowan, Sienna Miller. They were only part of the beauties present, all of whom seemed to live lives entirely separate from the small, affectionate steps they took on any given occasion.
He saw producers from different places and positions, each of them passing time, and it was certain that, regardless of anything else, everything seemed to drift far away. Not too far off, he spotted Paris Hilton alongside Christina Aguilera; each of them was dancing with deep intensity.
He was in his season; he settled for a beer while listening to a few producers talk about classical music and its impact on rock, something he had been thinking about for some time. After many long sessions with Spencer, he understood that everything comes from somewhere. Many people have real talent.
—I think you have to look at the songs that actually carry a bit of that.—Billy remarked, interrupting the conversation. His green eyes shone brightly before the older musicians; many of them were barely familiar to him, though one watched him closely—a Universal Music producer who sometimes passed by without stopping.
—Like which songs do you think really matter to rock?—asked one of them, sporting a goatee, the typical metalhead shirts, and thick steel chains draped around his neck.
—Well, it may sound cliché, but The Beatles have some songs that seem built around great singing: A Day in the Life, Eleanor Rigby, She's Leaving Home…—He weighed his words.—The Who, with their album Tommy; maybe some Pink Floyd—Echoes, Atom Heart Mother, Shine On You Crazy… We have Queen, but I'm especially fond of Led Zeppelin with Kashmir.—
—The kid knows his music.—commented another man, sharp-featured, wearing glasses.
—As a musician, I should know something; I'm no expert. But I have my knowledge.—Billy replied. If there was one thing he could never be arrogant about, it was the craft of songwriting, of understanding music; that was where humility still existed, out of the utmost respect he held for it and for any composer.
—Personally, I like Mr. Blue Sky.—Billy added.
The blues played softly in the background while people went about their business; women danced farther away, some drank; he simply adapted to the party, alone and without visible friends, choosing to stir things up only when necessary.
—Good examples. But what about your songs? Do they have any classical music behind them?—another asked.
—They do, especially in their structure. We tend to move away from disco sounds most of the time, but we often pull different singles out of a single song. Think of it this way: music lends itself to everything.—Billy replied.
—Sounds like you're learning, kid.—one of them said.
—I don't mean to be rude. I don't know your names. Who are you?—Billy asked.
—Youth…—laughed one with a long beard.—That's why I like talking to these guys who have nothing but music on their minds. I'm Rick Rubin, founder of American Recordings. For now, just a music producer and manager. You're sitting at what they call the high table of production.
—It's my house, kid. David Foster.—the man said.—And here we have Doug Morris, a mere executive.
The table laughed again.
—Well, I don't really know you all that well—just you, Mr. Foster. You've had a rock band since you were young. Maybe I saw you around once.—Billy commented, in that calm, composed voice, as he drank, nodded, and finished off some beer in his mug.
—Hahaha, you act like you're at home, kid.—David Foster replied.
—Well, if there's a problem, take it up with my manager; he'll have time for that.—Billy said, noticing a song beginning to fade as people took to the floor to play their own tunes.
—So, since you're at the adults' table, we can talk business… Would you record with a band from my label?—Doug Morris asked.
—Too bad my calendar's already full.—Billy said with feigned regret.—Being a rock star comes with a lot of commitments. Sometimes I feel like I don't even have time for myself.—
—Ahhh, the life of a star.—David Foster remarked.
…
He didn't know when or how, but he ended up meeting everyone at the party, sharing an aggressive dance with Mischa Barton; their hips pressed together. He danced and she drew him in; he danced and she responded—no kisses, just their bodies feeling everything at once.
—No kisses, sweetheart.—Billy murmured, placing his hand on her neck in a choking hold that sent a chill through her blood, shivers down her spine, her voice turning to desert.
The crowd was large, countless, yet none compared to the delicious Sienna Miller; with her, he performed a ritual worth more than anything he carried in his pockets. It was easy to ignore her; he danced with her friends, with other girls. It was no secret she had been married until recently, betrayed—apparently—by her husband Jude Law, one of cinema's heartthrobs, which had driven her half-mad, given they had married in December. But love seems to fade; her nature was simply that of a young woman in need of attention, yet deeply intelligent.
—They say you have a new tour in September.—Mischa commented.
Billy looked straight into Sienna's eyes. As he offered her a smile, she waved, but he ignored her.
—I do. Want to come?—Billy said slowly. He liked doing that, making people admire him and think only of him, like a magnet drawing metal within reach.
He ran his tongue along the girl's ear; she trembled wildly in his arms.
—I think we should go somewhere else.—Mischa said.
—Where would that be?—Billy asked.
—Anywhere.—
—Then don't keep me waiting. See you in twenty minutes in the parking lot.—Billy said, dismissing the girl as she ran off to say a few words to her friends. Meanwhile, Billy headed to the bar, drinks dangerously close to the dark-haired woman standing just a step away; she saw something she rarely did—that fluid way he had of denying his present.
—A double.—Billy said, dangerously close to the woman, the proximity burning.
—Aren't you going to talk?—the blonde asked.
—Sorry… is something wrong?—Billy asked.
—You know, you've been looking at me all night.—
—At you…—Billy laughed.—Look, you're beautiful, but like every woman in Los Angeles. Maybe you're the one who seems obsessed with me.—Billy replied.—You're bold.—
—Well, I usually am. I like it shouted in my sheets.—Billy replied.
She was stunned by the bluntness. But everything clicked. His powerful gaze left her speechless, with nothing to say, her eyes frozen.
—Have a good night, sweetheart.—Billy said.
...