Abby Road (30 page)

In my peripheral vision, I saw Todd shaking his head.

“You’ve got good ideas, Abby. I’m there every day. I see it. You should speak up more often.”

I just looked at him.

“If you’re interested in
my
opinion,” he muttered, with a touch of sarcasm.

Okay . . .

He was wearing that expression again, the one I’d seen a few times that week. His bright eyes appeared unusually dark, his lips pressed together.

“It’s
your
name that’s out there,” he continued, fighting for volume over the highway, “so why don’t you sing the way you want to? The way you sound your best. When you’re recording, I hear what you’re trying to do.” He looked at me, half of his face in shadow. “You should make people listen to your opinions instead of letting them blow you off every time you speak.”

I recognized the strain in Todd’s voice, and I understood his frustration. I’d so been there.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because . . .” I cleared my throat. “If I had
my
way, the whole album would end up sounding like one long
Abby-sings-the-Beatles
song.”

Todd chuckled. I took it as encouraging.

“Despite what you think, I’m not all that creative. I
need
producers to guide me.” I patted my mouth, covering another uncontrollable yawn. “Don’t worry. Max knows what he’s doing.”

Something seemed to change in the air, and I knew instantly I had said the wrong thing. My eyes flickered to Todd’s face to catch his reaction. The half of it that wasn’t shrouded in shadow appeared just as dark.

“Don’t put your blinders back on,” he said, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. He shifted and revved the engine. The car jerked forward. “Despite what you continue to believe, this is
your
band; you’re the leader. Do what you have to do.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I chose not to speak. He sat silently as well, which was probably for the best at the moment. Admittedly, Todd had a temper, but he was also the most in-control person I knew. Only a few times had I seen his composure slip.

His composure was slipping now.

“Don’t you realize how you behave when you don’t get your way?” He shook his head, staring out at the road. “You clam up; you shut down; you let everyone walk all over you.” His upper lip curled. He looked a little disgusted, disgusted at
me
. “To say that’s a terribly unattractive quality in you is an understatement.”

My mouth fell open, but I didn’t know what to say.

“Why do you let him do that?”

“Who?”

“Max,” Todd snapped. When he turned to look at me, I flinched at his angry, disappointed, confused expression. “Stand up to him. Speak up if you want him to respect you. Be brave. Every day, I have to watch you be reduced to a timorous, pandering pushover.”

Me, mouth hanging open, stunned by his words. Even if he were right, he had no idea how much that hurt.

Of course I knew my behavior changed when I was recording. The pressure was almost unbearable at times. And Max had become the last person to show sympathy. When we worked, he was all work. So I got out of his way. This reaction was a learned behavior, perfected over the course of five years. I was sure it had gotten worse since Christian, my original armored car, wasn’t with me anymore.

At the thought of my brother, hot, sharp tears stung my eyes.

“Timorous?” I repeated, not bothering to conceal the hurt in my voice. “Pandering?”

Todd shot me an impatient look.

“It’s called
survival mode
, Todd, and you know why.”

He shook his head. “No. That’s crap, Abby, an excuse.”

His comment knocked the air out of me.

“I don’t buy it anymore,” his harsh voice continued. “If you’re not happy, then do something; if you need help, ask for it.”

The rest of his chewing-me-out session had to wait so he could concentrate on whipping the car around a tight turn, much faster than necessary. I gripped the sides of my seat. My fuming driver’s eyes were set in a hard, flat glare; it didn’t look like he was watching the road at all.

“What’s
wrong
with you?” I gasped after he shifted into fifth, rocketing the car forward. “You’re driving like a maniac. Slow down!”

He did, eventually, pulling off the highway onto the gravel shoulder. He shifted to neutral and wrenched on the parking brake.

I tore off my seat belt. “
What
is your
problem
?” I hissed, jerking open my door and nearly falling out. “
My
problem?” he replied sarcastically, cutting the engine.

“You’ve been like this for days.” I slammed the door. “Why are you so pissed?”

“Because I’m pissed at you, Abby. You’re pissing me off.”

“Why?”

He didn’t move.

“Well, now
you’re
pissing
me
off!”

Todd sat motionless behind the wheel of the convertible, still facing me. His brow was wrinkled, displaying a mixture of anger and fatigue.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I insisted, “or were you simply going to drive us off a freaking cliff?”

“This isn’t—” He stopped himself by running his hand across his mouth, but I thought I heard an angry and muffled, “working.”

His head was bowed now, his finger and thumb running back and forth along the bones under his eyes. “Get in the car,” he said coolly. “Before someone runs you over.”

But I wasn’t about to move.

A moment later, his head snapped up when a car appeared in the other lane. Its headlights hit Todd’s face, and I could see the hard glare in his eyes was gone. He looked plain worn out.

My muscles unclenched, relieved that we weren’t yelling anymore.

“I’m serious.” His right hand was on the headrest of the passenger seat. “Get in the car.”

“Not with you driving like that,” I complained. My voice was softening, following his suit.

“I’m sorry.” There was a touch of desperation in his voice. “It won’t happen again.” He reached over and opened my door from the inside. “Now,
please
.”

My feet were moving before my brain could process the request.

“Seat belt, please,” he instructed as he stared straight ahead into the night. After firing up the ignition, he tapped the gas, revving the engine just enough until I looked at him. He lifted a teeny smile.

At a very safe and responsible velocity, we drove in silence. Todd turned on the radio to a sports station. The Giants lost to the Dodgers in eleven innings. Hal would be fit to be tied tomorrow. I stared out the windshield, chewing on my thumbnail.

“I’m just looking out for you.” Todd switched off the radio. “You know that, right?” His face was still twisted with emotion. Both of his hands were wound around the steering wheel, but he let his right hand fall. It found my left hand. I could feel tension surging through his body.

“That was really stupid of me.” His voice was almost a whisper. “And very unkind, those things I said. Please forgive me for losing my temper. It’s not, well, it’s not you.” He shook his head an inch and sighed, sounding a little defeated. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“About what?”

He didn’t answer, but the way his gaze shifted made it seem that his thoughts had veered in a different direction. “I hope you’ll be patient with me.” He curled his fingers tighter around mine. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“It’ll get better. I promise. It’s a shock for everyone at the beginning.”

“I guess.” He nodded. “It’s just, sometimes I don’t understand why . . .” He trailed off.

I sat quietly with his hand in my lap, waiting for him to relax. It took only a few minutes that time. We were improving.

“Okay, Abby,” Nate’s enthusiastic voice spilled through my headphones, “let’s run through it again. And . . . we’re rolling.”

Through the thick glass that separated the control room from the recording booth, I saw both Nate and Todd. Max’s throne of a swivel chair was empty; he was letting Nate take lead on this one. Nate was concentrating on the flat computer screen in front of him, or
screens
, I should say—there were four, one on a laptop and three others in a sort of uneven cluster. Todd sat forward in his chair, elbows on the edge of the long mixing board. His attention was constantly moving from me to Nate’s screens to his own laptop. He nodded to me every once in a while, which was all the communication we shared.

Every so often, Nate would grin, lean over to him, and they’d have a short conversation that I couldn’t hear. It always ended in laughter or even a friendly guy punch. Other times, Max appeared behind Todd, said something to him, and walked away. From what I could make out, Max’s comments seldom warranted a response, because Todd’s replies were always brief.

When I finished that take, I stood still, staring at Nate through the glass, hoping against hope we wouldn’t have to run it again. Twelve times at any song was usually my limit. Anything beyond that came across too rehearsed, and we would have to move on, unfinished. Max hated that.

I exhaled slowly, reminding myself that recording was a balancing act. And unfortunately, most of the time I sported the poise of a monkey in a tutu.

While waiting for Nate’s decision, my mouth stretched open in a yawn, making my eyes water. My impatient glance moved to Todd, who was also yawning. Our gazes locked, and we grinned at each other through the glass, the pair of us mutually extra sleepy. Unbeknownst to the rest of the recording party, Todd and I had been up until four in the morning the night before, having much to discuss after his botched attempt at
Thelma and Louise-
ing us off the Pacific Coast Highway.

Todd’s attention was suddenly pulled to whatever Nate was pointing at on the computer screen. Nate started laughing and so did Todd. I picked up a pencil, continuing the cluster of hearts I’d been doodling on the corners of my sheet music. I hadn’t had to consult my notes for hours. Todd was right; I did have a photographic memory.

“Perfect.” Nathan’s voice came through my headphones. “We got it.”

“Okay, babe.”

I looked up, hearing the new voice. Max was leaning over Nathan to speak through the talk mike. “Close the lid on tonight. Get your tail outta here. I gotta work with the guys.”

Not requiring a second invitation, I peeled off my earphones and slid into my heels. After I made my way down the hall, I found Todd and Hal chatting in a corner outside the control room. Colorful stickers with logos like In-N-Out Burgers, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, Body Glove, and Ron Jon’s Surf Shop covered Hal’s scarred, scuffed, and well-loved guitar case. Always a little too protective, Hal was hugging his instrument in his arms.

“Finished yet, duchess?” he asked with a playful smirk, knocking his shoulder against me.

“Yes, your royal highness,” I replied. I looked at Todd. “His
real
name is Henry Beaumont Charles Xavier Richardson the fourth,” I explained. I then turned back to Hal. “He hates it.” I stuck out my tongue at the king.

“Shut your cake hole, Abby.”

“Temperamental musician,” I complained jokingly. “Moody little boy.”

Hal growled and turned to Todd. “Would you look the other way so I can smack your girlfriend upside the head?”

Todd lifted his hands. “Keep me out of this.”

“Jealous much?” I said to Hal, fluttering my eyelashes at him.

I was surprised when Hal’s cheeks went red. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to tease him. If he did have a little crush on me, like Lindsey said, then that was just mean.

“You better get in there.” I pointed toward the studio. “Max was saying he wants more button on the kick before the mix down.”