Mr Rich

Victor was lifting weights in the gym when Mirage entered in the morning. She paused in the doorway, as if debating entering and then shrugged and did so.

“’Morning,” she said, and stuck a bottle of water into the holder of the treadmill before setting a gruelling pace that had him drooling within five minutes of watching her run.

After thirty trialling minutes for them both, he thought wryly, she finished her run and moved to the pull up bar. She had her earbuds in, and whatever she listened to, it certainly motivated her. She pushed herself beyond tolerance, and he grimaced seeing the shake in her muscles as she lowered to the ground after the last set.

He followed her into the infrared sauna. She had taken out her earbuds and left them on her phone on the bench outside. They sat together, sweating, and panting, and, in his case at least, lusting, he thought. She seemed indifferent to him. It was not something that he was accustomed to, a woman being disinterested.

“So, Vice doesn’t work out?” She asked conversationally.

“Oh, he prefers to work out in nature,” he replied. “He will be halfway to town by now and will bring back fresh milk and bread.”

“I don’t think I have eaten bread in the last five years,” she commented. “In this industry its watch your weight, watch your weight. I could be skin and bones, and I think they would still find me too fat. I have been compared to a refrigerator in pleather by one magazine review.”

“That is f-ked,” he scowled. She was a curvy woman, but everything was deliciously proportioned in just the right way, he thought, that he and Vice liked their women, as if she had been custom made. The article that she referred to had popped up on the search he had conducted, so he knew she spoke the truth without exaggeration. “What does it matter if you have curves?”

“Women are confined to a certain image. If I looked like Emily from Two-Way Street, it would be easier,” she shrugged. “That woman sneezes and loses two kilos, I am sure.”

He laughed. He knew the Two Way Street singer, and had worked with her, and knew that Emily hit the gym every morning like a fanatic. “Not quite,” he said. “Emily has her ups and downs, like anyone.”

“Your last album featured her singing opera,” she nodded. “I liked it. It was different.”

“You listen to our work?” He was surprised.

“I am not moving into rock just because I think it suits the songs I have written,” she replied, leaning her head back against the wall. A bead of sweat ran down the long column of her neck and disappeared into her cleavage, and he found himself tracking its journey avidly and enviously. “I prefer rock. I started in pop because that’s where they wanted me,” she pulled a face. “We all sell out to get in, don’t we?”

“To an extent, yes,” he agreed. “Why Vice and I?”

She flicked him a look out of the corner of her eye. “I like your work.”

“You have worked with Mr Rich in the past,” he observed, and didn’t miss the expression of revulsion that crossed her face. “Ah,” he sighed it out. “He has a bit of a reputation as an arsehole.”

“He is that.” She muttered it under her breath. “His style wasn’t right for this,” she continued. “The label agreed. Under my contract, I can work with other producers as long as they are also contracted to the label.”

And, he suspected, with the reputation she had gained for being trouble over the last twelve months, none of the other producers from the label had been willing to take her on. Difficult artists, especially those with bad habits, could cause a headache for producers, and sink an album before it even hit the shelves. He and Vice were building their portfolio preparing for a move from being artists to producers, and so were more willing to take a risk.

“Breakfast in half an hour?” He suggested as they left the sauna. “Vice should be back by now.”

“Sure.”

When Victor stepped out of his bathroom after showering, Vice entered the room, closing the door behind him.

“Hey,” Vice said. He was freshly showered and dressed, with his dark hair pulled back into a pony at the nape of his neck - and had obviously been lurking in the hall waiting for Victor to get out of the shower.

Victor towelled his hair. “What has happened?” Vice would not be in his room if he had not something he wanted to tell him in private.

“Had a call,” Vice sat on the bed. He held his phone and turned it thoughtfully between his fingers. “From Mr Rich.”

“Ah,” Victor pulled on his jeans and sat next to his partner in order to put on his shoes. “That is interesting.”

“Indeed,” Vice agreed. “Very complimentary. Likes our work. Thinks we have a big future both as artists and producers. Would be interested in working with us.”

“On Mirage’s album?”

“Mhm. Hinted that she is a handful, perhaps more than we can handle. Wouldn’t want newbies running into problems,” Vice’s rich voice expressed his disdain.

“And, of course, he has worked with her in the past, lots of experience managing her temperament,” Victor filled in the gaps as he returned to the ensuite in order to run a comb through his hair and pull it back into a pony-tail at the nape of his neck and then glanced at Vice and realised that they were, as happened only too frequently, dressing the same again, and left his hair loose.

“Yes.” Vice hadn’t missed the look and smirked his amusement. “Pony-tail would have looked good.”

“Hmm. What is the bet, he has had a hand in developing that reputation?” Victor observed. “Last album for the contract, multiplatinum artist, the label will be wanting to re-sign her. Mr Rich has produced every album up until now, I bet he was expecting to produce this one too. Position the artist so that no other producers or labels want her despite her sales history, and force her into an exclusive contract with less favourable terms than she would otherwise get?”

“That is what I am thinking,” Vice agreed moving to lean against the ensuite doorframe.

“Mr Rich isn’t an enemy we want to have,” Victor searched Vice’s face in the mirror as he took the beard trimmer out of his drawer to tidy up the scruff on his face. He only shaved fully when they were actively promoting an album, when they were keeping close to the house, he let things run a little cave-man. Vice, on the other hand, painstakingly removed his beard every morning, religiously.

“No.”

“Mirage is something extraordinary. Seems motivated, organised, dedicated,” Victor turned the trimmer on and pulled a face as he ran it over his stubble.

“Yes. And sexy as hell,” Victor’s smile was vulpine.

“We would be fools to pass up the opportunity to produce her new sound,” Victor angled his face to ensure he trimmed evenly.

“We would be fools to make an enemy of Mr Rich,” but the tone in Vice’s voice said that he didn’t care overly much if they did. They had reached a point that there was little that Mr Rich could do to them, but it was better policy to keep things friendly.

“Shitty position.”

“Mhm.”

They both lapsed into silence as they thought it out. Victor finished with the trimmer and knocked it clean against the side of the sink, running the water to wash the stubble away before putting the trimmer back into its case.

“I don’t like bullies,” Vice commented.

“Me either,” Victor agreed and pulled his t-shirt on over his head. “I promised Mirage breakfast.”

“Oh?” Vice flicked him a grin. “And how is our little live wire this morning?”

“If she f-ks like she works out, I am done for,” Victor rolled his eyes heavenward. “I had to have a cold shower.”

Vice snickered. “I wondered what you were doing in there for so long.”

They both stopped as they entered the open planned living area. Mirage was in the kitchen cooking over the stove, dressed in skin-tight leggings and a mid-drift top, her hair piled in a messy bun at the top of her head.

“Cold shower worked?” Vice murmured. “I am considering taking one myself.”

“Effects have worn off,” Victor replied ruefully. “Might need another.”

“Oh, hey,” she glanced over her shoulder. “I am making omelettes.”

“We will set the table,” Vice offered, pulling a lustful face at Victor as Mirage turned back to her cooking. “Did you sleep well?”

“Great,” she replied lightly. “It is so quiet here. I have been bouncing around hotels and motels for a few months now, and they are never quiet.”

“You don’t own property?” Vice set the table as Victor brewed coffee.

“I do,” she flipped the omelette. “But the addresses were leaked to the press. I move around a lot, to avoid, you know,” she shrugged. “Photographers.”

“You have had a lot of publicity over the last year,” Vice prompted taking the opening.

“Yeah,” she was grim in her response, sliding an omelette onto a plate and beginning another. “I can’t seem to avoid it. That saying: no publicity is bad publicity? So not true. I go to a club, and I am battling alcohol. I visit my doctor, and I am being checked into rehab. I go to a hot yoga session, and I am having a meltdown in public – which, in hindsight was kind of clever because it was sort of true,” she considered it, and then shrugged it off.

“What does your family make of it?” Victor wondered.

She was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know.” Vice and Victor exchanged a look. She deftly flipped the omelette. “My parents died in a car crash when I was ten. I was raised by my grandfather. If you call it that. Boarding schools,” she served the omelette and began the third, a half measure. “I didn’t mind the schools,” she added.

“Your grandfather doesn’t approve of you pursuing music?” Vice guessed.

“Not particularly. In his world, you stay out of the public eye.”

Victor served the coffee. “Do you have milk and sugar?” He asked her.

“Neither. Black, thanks.” She slid the third omelette onto a plate and shut down the stovetop. “What about you guys? Family?” She asked as she served the plates onto the table. The omelettes had been cooked with spinach, tomato and just the hint of cheese, Vice noted as he took a sample.

“Family isn’t something Vice or I are short of,” Victor answered for them both. “Vice is related to half the world, and I am related to the other half. Nepotism runs rampart in our lives as a result. Our caterers are from Vice’s cousin’s business, and security is handled by my elder brother. I forget if our stylist is related to Vice or me,” he grinned. “Possibly both.”

“So, you are related?” She tried to untangle the statement. “I thought you were… you know, together.”

“No, not together,” Victor replied, with an amused smile. “At least, not in the way you are thinking.”

“But yes, we are related, as of last year,” Vice added pulling a face. “My sister married his younger brother.”

“We tried to discourage them, but amore will have its way,” Victor joked.

“They are good together, though,” Vice concluded.

“Let me guess, they are hairdressers?” She suggested.

Victor laughed. “No, but they are our business managers.”

“Of course, they are,” she smiled. “It must be nice to have so many people you trust around you.”

“You don’t?” Victor asked with empathy. “That is hard.”

“Aaron is about the only person I trust,” she replied. “And he has got his own shit to deal with, and other talent he manages. Everyone else,” she shrugged. “Friends from school all seemed to want something when I started making a name for myself, and I soon worked out that anything I said was sold on to the media.

“My grandfather is my only family that I know of,” she sipped her coffee. It was progress, Victor thought, that she was drinking something he had made rather than something out of an unopened bottle. “He has a habit of cutting people out if they piss him off and so there wasn’t anyone else around when I was growing up. Some of them reached out to me, but like the friends, it was about what they could get out of knowing me.”

“That is very lonely,” Vice said gently.

“This life doesn’t come without sacrifices,” she pointed out. “And it is sort of like having a spotlight on people – if I hadn’t had success, I wouldn’t have known that those people weren’t to be trusted. I would rather know people are like that, than not.”

They ate in thoughtful silence.

“So,” she broke the quiet. “Shall we get to work after this?” Whilst they stacked the dishwasher, she retrieved her violin, and then followed them along the garden path to the studio. “This is great,” she said with approval looking around the room. “You record all your own stuff here?”

“We have a band we use for live, but otherwise it is just Vice and I,” Victor explained. “The albums are written, recorded, and produced in here.”

“You don’t tour much,” she observed.

“No, we have never been about live,” Vice agreed. “We fell into performing. Our goal was actually to produce. But, to produce, we needed music, and people liked the music we made together, so we ended up,” he grinned. “Performers whether we intended to be or not.”

“We enjoy it, however,” Victor added. “Making the music, performing it, recording it, making videos… So, let’s get to work on your music. Vice will man the control desk, and I will accompany you.”

“You play drums?”

“Drums, guitar, piano,” Victor shrugged. “Vice is better at piano than I, however.”

“And you both sing. You really do the whole thing by yourselves.” She was impressed. “Alright, get us started.”

They spent the afternoon working through three of her songs, and then grabbed a soft drink from the fridge in the control room, to sit and listen to the playbacks. She didn’t notice when Vice opened her soft drink for her, Victor noted, too caught up in her music playing back.

“The pizzicato intro is awesome,” she breathed, her eyes closed as she listened with an intensity that Victor found incredibly sexy. Her hair was slowly sliding free of her bun, and he found the process of the tendrils slipping down her skin entirely too interesting. “And then, bam, the music just hits you. Beautiful. I would never have thought of that.”

“I think we are getting somewhere, yes,” Vice agreed, leaning back on the couch, his arm over the back. She sank back, not noticing that doing so placed her almost against him, and Victor felt the lust punch him in the gut. She looked right beneath Vice’s arm, he thought. It was an odd thing to find a turn on, but it was what it was.

He had enjoyed working with Mirage. Hardworking was an understatement. Inexhaustible and driven was more appropriate. Combined with her talent and appreciation for music, it was an intoxicating mix for him, and he suspected Vice shared the sentiment, as his partner bowed his head to smell her hair and then sent Victor a look over her head which was pure ecstasy.

“Divine,” Vice muttered under his breath as Mirage returned to the main room in order to pack away the violin. “She smells sinful. A scent designed to torture men.” Vice had a penchant for women’s perfumes and claimed to be a connoisseur of the right scent on the right woman.

“Watching her play,” Victor agreed his eyes dropped to his lap where his desires betrayed him.

“Watching her sing,” Vice added. “I just about disgraced myself.”

They both considered her through the glass window that separated the rooms.

“It is still early in our career, for us to be contemplating this,” Victor murmured. “We agreed five more years. We are three off. And she is wounded. She can barely tolerate being touched by a man, let alone by two.”

“She is right though,” Vice replied. “Right for us.”

Victor sighed and then sent his partner a smile. “We have never picked the easy road, why would we start with this?”