Sing Your Pleasure. A.C. Arthur

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      Akil didn’t answer as quickly as he normally would have. Another fact that concerned Jason.

      “Like I said last night, I think we should go old-school with her. Back to the roots of R&B and steer clear of the commercial BS.”

      Jason nodded. “The commercial BS is what’s made us rich over the last ten years.”

      “I don’t deny that.”

      “It’s built our reputation, made this label a number-one contender with anything Sony, Arista, Columbia or the rest of them have. We’re the hottest thing in the game right now. Why would you want to mess with that?”

      Akil sighed, sat back in his chair and glared at Jason. “Because I’m tired of it. I’m tired of putting out average CDs and calling it music. Tired of the gimmicky groups and half-assed singers we reform and glamorize then slap a label on them and put them on the shelves. I want to make real music, to listen to the real sound of R&B again. Can you relate to that?”

      Jason had to pause a moment at the words and the amount of money they stood to lose if this didn’t work. “You’re serious?”

      “As a heart attack after years of fast-food burgers.” He ran a hand over his face. “I think Charlene’s got real talent, Jase. I think she has longevity to make it in this business. But I also think that Playascape needs something fresh, something different. I don’t want us to be typecast, putting out the same product year after year. I want us to grow.”

      Jason nodded. “I see what you’re saying. And I hear you about Charlene, she’s not like the others we’ve worked with. But you know Empire’s got a lot of money invested in this. I don’t know that going against the grain right at this moment is financially feasible for us.”

      “It is,” Akil said adamantly. “Empire’s been distributing us for years. They know we’re perfectionists and that we bring the money to the table when it counts. They trust us. The question is, do you trust me?”

      It was a moment of truth, one of those times when friendship had to be the glue to hold things together. Jason had doubts but they were minimal compared to all the times Akil had come through. Just like he’d trusted his gut when he first heard Charlene sing and rushed to get her signed, he trusted that Akil’s vision was going to work. That they were going to make Charlene a success, a different kind of success.

      “Yeah, man. You know I trust you,” Jason said finally, reaching out to shake Akil’s hand.

      Akil stood, shaking Jason’s hand then pulling him in for a hug. “It’s going to be big. The biggest thing we’ve ever done, Jase. Watch and see.”

      He picked up the phone again. Alone in his bedroom in the wee hours of the morning, Akil knew he should be asleep, gearing up for tomorrow’s session. But he couldn’t rest.

      Charlene’s powerful voice had brought back memories. Some painful and some happy—some that just need to be addressed once and for all.

      Dialing the number, he sat back on his bed, leaning forward so that his elbows rested against his knees. Looking down to the floor as he held the phone to his ear waiting for the call to connect, he wiggled his toes in the ultra-soft dark blue carpet. It lined the entire length of his master suite until it opened up to the deck, which was tiled with black marble speckled with a blue similar to the carpet. His walls were painted a subtle gray, his furniture, sparse, sleek and expensive. The entertainment center that spanned the entire left wall was state-of-the-art with Dolby sound and a sixty-inch mounted plasma. Music was his life and so it surrounded him wherever he went. Even in his bathroom there was a sound system, designed to match the black-and-blue color scheme in there, as well.

      He’d arrived, he thought as the overseas connection had finally been made and the line rang in his ear. He’d arrived at rich and famous, just as he’d always planned. And he liked it here, or so he thought.

      His childhood hadn’t been easy and neither had hers. But he’d made them both a promise, to get them out and to make them both happy. He succeeded in one area and drastically failed in the other.

      She hated him, had told him as much more times than he could count. Yet, he still loved her, still held a place for her in his heart.

      Charlene reminded him of that place. She reminded him of Lauren.

      “Centro di riabilitazione del Seminary di buona mattina,” a female voice answered speaking quick Italian that Akil struggled to understand.

      “Ah, buona mattina,” he said, clearing his throat and sitting up straight as if the person on the other end of the phone could see him. “Lauren Jackson, please?”

      He hated that name, hated the way it rolled off his tongue with complete bitterness and contempt.

       “Chi è questo?”

      “Akil Hutton.”

      The line went quiet and he waited, heart pounding against his chest, palms sweating. He hadn’t spoken to her in more than three years. Not necessarily all his fault. He’d written to her a couple of times but had only recently found a number where she could be reached.

      “Ms. Jackson non è disponibile. Non denomini ancora,” she said and hung up without another word.

      From traveling all over the world on business Akil had picked up a basic understanding of most languages like Italian, French, hell, he even knew a little German because one of his artists was a big hit in Germany. From the woman’s clipped words he gathered two things: (1) that Lauren was definitely a patient at the Seminary Rehabilitation Hospital and (2) that she did not want to speak to him. The words not available and the stern do not call again sort of tipped him off.

      Lauren was in Milan and she was in a rehab center. That meant she was safe and she was getting the help she so desperately needed. That should have been enough for him.

      And he shouldn’t still be plagued with guilt. Yet he was and there was nothing he could do about it.

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