Singer-songwriter and self proclaimed rock goddess Callie Phelps, aka ‘Callie’, removed her headphones and hung them on the stand next to the microphone, then stepped out of the soundproof booth. “Make sure they don’t make me sound like Minnie Mouse. Everything we did last week is too high and squeaky, I hate it.”

Callie looked from the sound engineer, who was nodding, to her manager, who tipped his head toward the small conference room off of the studio.

“What’s up?” she asked, leaning back in a chair and propping her feet up on the table, crossed at the ankles.

“Just need to go over some schedule items," he said, closing the door softly. "Uhm, you have the Young People Awards tonight-- your dress and jewelry are in your room, shoes are on the way. Hair and makeup will be in around 4, you need to be ready before they get there. And I was asked to remind you to not chew gum on the red carpet.”  He glanced up quickly and then went back to his notes.

Callie snorted and rolled her eyes. “Just for that, I’m gonna put in a big piece of gum and pop bubbles during my interview with ‘Entertainment Tonight’. Is Curtis coming?” Curtis Soul, her on again-off again boyfriend  hadn’t yet committed to attending the event, even though his band ‘Soul Train’ was nominated for several categories.

 “Haven’t heard from his manager. I’d think he would let you know by now. I’d plan on going alone. Now then, on to some talk about your album."  Jason fidgeted in his seat a little nervous at the reaction he was about to get. He didn't see why he was the one who always had to the dirty work. They always called her directly with good news... but they called Jason when they wanted her to know something she wouldn't want to hear. He was definitely not paid enough for this gig.

"I'm hearing some chatter through the Jive grapevine and they're not all that... thrilled ... with the songs they have so far.  Uhm… they have someone they want you to work with on some new stuff. They want to hear something a little... different, they said.”

Callie bristled, as Jason knew she would. She was on her third studio album, the previous two being platinum selling albums. She was practically born singing and could write a song in her sleep.  She wouldn’t think she needed any help and Jason did not enjoy being the one to tell her that the label thought she needed it.

Sure enough, Callie's eyes narrowed as Jason spoke. “Work with? New? Help? What language are you speaking? Everything I write is new and I work alone. What does that mean? And who is this person that's supposed to help?”

“Uh... well-- he’s a producer and a song writer. He's really very good."  That's it, Jason. Sell it to her. Sell it!  "They just want you to have a uhm… softer touch on this next album. They’re not knocking your talent, you know, you just need a little finesse.”

Jason had tried hard to be nonchalant, but  Callie was steaming.  “Finesse? Do they KNOW me? Who is this guy?”

Jason stalled, clearing his throat, then flipping through his notes. “Jason! Who is it? I probably have never heard of him, huh?”

“Uhm. You probably have.”

Callie paused. Could it be someone uber famous? “Wait. Is it someone I WANT to work with? Timbaland?”

He squelched a laugh, masking it with a cough. “Uhm, no it’s not Tim. He’s R&B, you're Rock?”

“And? He's versatile. So who is it? Fuck, I don’t have all day, I have to go put on an ugly dress and tacky jewelry and pretend I care about the YPA’s. “

"Uh, it’s JC Chasez. You know him from—“

Callie practically shot fire as she pounded her fist down into the wood surface of the conference room table. Jason jumped, startled as she screamed, red faced and almost frothing at the mouth. 

"WHAT?! NO! I KNOW where he’s from. And NO. FUCK NO. NO.”

“Callie…”

“NO!  He’s not gonna turn me into cotton candy and bubble gum. NO. Tell them NO. I won't do it. Nuh uh. Nope. NO.” Callie trembled with anger and shook her head violently. 

Jason sighed, took off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose.  He was definitely demanding a raise. “I did, Callie. I did. And they started threatening to push the album back. I know you don't want that... that's the beginning of the end. You know that. Look, the angry rocker chick has worked for two albums and that’s good. But you need something different-- the label just thinks you need to tap into a new sound.”

“I don’t HAVE a new sound. My sound is… my SOUND. I’m not gonna sing about loving some guy to the depths of my soul or some shit like that. And where has he been? They want me to work with some guy who’s voice hasn’t seen the light of day in like, what, ten years?" She folded her arms defiantly. "Oh, I’m very confident in their opinion of me as an artist.” 

Tossing his glasses and notepad on the table, Jason stood and paced the room. His face was marked with frustration and impatience and he picked at his goatee as he paced--- a nervous habit that he hadn't developed before he started working with Callie. Finally he stopped, hands in his pocket and faced her.

"Callie, let me relay the message that was given to me. 'No' is not an option. You don’t have a CHOICE. It’s this, or they push your album back, because they don't want a full record of the same songs that could have gone on your first two. Cal...you’re on a great track right now, you have momentum. This guy--he’s willing to help, just to give you a new perspective.  Something new to write about. It's him, or take a break until you have something new to give them. Fight all you want but those are your choices.”

In the last throes of her tantrum, Callie kicked the chair next to her and sent it flying. “I want to talk to my record rep.”

“That WAS from your rep, direct from his lips. Your meeting with JC is on Tuesday, in LA. You fly out Tuesday morning, EARLY.  I’ll have your ticket tomorrow. Do you need a pickup?”

She fumed and glared at him. He glared back, staring her down-- ultimately the best way to win an argument with Callie. Finally, she relented and stood, storming toward the door and flinging it open. 

“Are we done? I have to go be fake for some cameras.”

Jason nodded. Callie stomped out of the room, picked up the large bag she never went anywhere without, and walked out of the studio. When he was sure she was gone, he wilted and sank into the nearest chair. He HAD to find a new job, soon. 

A few minutes later,  Callie's two door coupe screeched out of the parking complex and turned onto a main arterial, headed toward the hotel she’d basically called home for the last five years. She tore through the streets, one hand on the wheel and  flipped through her missed calls with the other, pressing ‘send’ when she saw a call from her best friend and mentor. She  launched into an expletive laced rant as soon as Paula picked up.

“I mean, can you fucking believe that? They might as well pick up some homeless guy off the street to produce my album. I don’t know who he’s worked with, I know nothing about this guy as a producer, all I know is he used to be in some weak ass, bubble gum boyband and I am NOT interested in that.”

“Wait wait wait. He put out an album, I thought? Maybe. I don’t remember.” Paula crunched something in Callie's ear, one of her pet peeves.

“I don’t really give a shit. Where is he NOW? Nowhere! I don’t want to work with some washed up has-been. What are they THINKING?! I’m so frustrated.” Callie barely missed sideswiping a car and flipped off the driver that honked at her.

“Okay, well..." Paula smacked and Callie groaned inwardly. "You’re told you have no choice, so just do the minimum. A couple of songs, stroke his ego, smile at the label, and move on. This isn’t worth pushing things back, Cal. If he’s not good, the shit will never make the album and you don’t have to worry about it. Okay? Calm down, breathe.”

“I'm fucking PISSED. I have to fly to LA to meet with this guy on Tuesday. Can you imagine, if the songs don’t even make the album, what a colossal waste of time this will be?”

“Look, Callie…they wouldn't saddle you with someone who doesn't make them money. Just try to have a good attitude. I gotta go, hon. I have a client on the way. I hate clients that want to use up my relaxing Sunday mornings.”

“Whatever. You’re living your dream. I’ll pop by when I’m in town, okay?”

“What pop by? You’re staying here. See you Tuesday,” Paula said, then hung up.

A few minutes later, Callie parked in front of her hotel and tossed her key at the valet.

‘Time to squeeze my ass into something ugly for the next 10 hours.’ 

…

After a bumpy, tumultuous ride, wheels finally touched tarmac and Callie was relieved.  Flying always made her airsick, and she couldn’t wait to get off of that metal contraption. As soon as the doors opened, she shot out into the aisle and out onto the jet way.

“Callie. Callie! Dammit Callie! What’s your hurry?” Jason hissed as he rushed to keep up with her.

“I feel like I’m gonna puke, and I don’t want to talk to anyone.” She pulled her ball cap down as far as it would go and slipped on a pair of designer sunglasses. “Is there a car for me?"

“Go ahead. I’ll head to baggage claim.” Jason shook his head and ambled off to pick up the checked luggage while Callie rushed toward ground transportation. Amid the bright  bursts of light  from flash photography and endless screams of 'Callie! Over here! Callie! Where are you going? What brings you to LA?' she dove behind the open door of the Town Car and let out heavy sigh. 

“Hi, we’re waiting on one,” she said, as the driver slid into his seat.

“Okay. Just let me know when we’re ready.”  

Jason appeared with two rolling suitcases and dumped them into the trunk, then let himself into the car. “Thanks for the help. You don’t like tips?” he shot at the driver.

“Knock it off, Jason. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Oh really, Miss ‘Is there a car for me?’ I swear you get more spoiled everyday.”

"God, that plane ride was brutal. We couldn't fly private? Do I have time to stop by Paula’s before I meet this guy?"

“Yeah, but not long. Are you sure you don’t want to stay at a hotel?”

“No, I want to stay with Paula. I need the comforts of home, or some semblance thereof. Tired of hotel rooms and room service and restaurant food.”

Callie glanced out of the window at the familiar Los Angeles landscape and chewed her bottom lip. LA made her nervous, for no reason. It just didn't seem real. Plastic. Fake. Superficial. She much preferred the grit of Chicago, where the damn seasons changed and the people were real and not everyone was a barbie doll or an aspring something-or-other.  This guy WOULD live in LA... where all the hot little tartlets lived.

The Town Car arrived at the swanky lofts that Paula called home and work. After years in the entertainment industry, she hung out a shingle and became an agent, preying upon her contacts in the business to help other people achieve their dreams—or at least star in commercials and bad movies until the right opportunity came around. Paula threw the door open and captured Callie in a hug. Jason blew past them and rolled Callie’s suitcase into the living room.

“We’ll be back in two hours. Be ready, we cannot be late. Hi, Paula. Great to see you. Gotta go, meter is ticking. I’m staying at the usual place, call me if you need me.”  With that, he swept out of the loft, cell phone plastered to his ear.

Paula snickered, closing the door. “Since when is Jason so busy? He doesn't fool me with that act. He’s listening to football scores, ten to one bet.”

“I’ll take that bet and raise you that he’s stalking his ex girlfriend and listening to her voicemails to see if she’s moved on,” Callie said, giggling.  “So, I have two hours, which should be just enough time to give me a tour of this place. If I ever wanted to live in LA I’d  buy one of these.”

Paula gave her a tour of the two story loft, still so new you could almost see the builder’s dust. Callie marveled at everything from the stainless steel appliances to the marbled floors to the expansive view of downtown from the floor to ceiling windows that surrounded the living space. Paula poured tall glasses of tea and took Callie to the rooftop patio, where they sat and chatted until Jason called, demanding to know why she was not waiting outside.

“I guess I have to go meet this guy. I don’t know when I’ll be back, I’ll call you!” she yelled from the elevator. Callie took her time walking from the lobby to the side door where Jason was waiting in the car. He started in on her as soon as she sat down. Callie already didn't want to go to this meeting; if she had to listen to Jason gripe the entire way it would be torturous. 

“Jesus, Jason--you act like this guy some kind of big shot, second coming of CHRIST. We can be five minutes late. Relax!  SHIT.”

They rode in silence to a West Hollywood address and piled out when the driver pulled into the parking lot. Jason checked them in at the front desk, and was told their meeting was in a conference room on the third floor and that JC had already checked in and was waiting. Jason cut his eyes at Callie; Callie ignored him and headed to the elevator.

“Hi, Jason Walsh, nice to meet you JC. This is Callie,” said Jason, shaking his hand and gesturing in her direction. Callie intended to skip the pleasantries and took a seat opposite the tall man with blue eyes, a perfect coiffure of dark hair and a day's growth of beard.

“Great to meet you, Callie. I enjoy your work,” JC said, his voice smooth and his smile friendly, his hand outstretched to shake hers. Callie stared into eyes electric blue, then let her gaze travel down  to his plain t-shirt under a zippered jacket and loose blue jeans. He stood like a fool, his hand still reaching for hers, and cocked his head at her, his smile fading slightly. 

Jason coughed and glared at her. She sucked her teeth and sighed, then limply shook his hand. 

“You, too,” she lied. "Thank you."

He sat and took a sip of coffee, then reached into a bag and pulled out a folder, a notebook, and a pen.

‘Nerd,’ she thought. 'This won't take long.'

"That coffee smells good. Did you get that here?”

“Uhm, yeah there’s a... like a... espresso machine thing down the hall. It's like a dollar for a cup--I could… do you want me to get you some?” He started to stand and stopped when Callie lifted a hand. She dug a dollar’s worth of quarters out of her wallet and handed them to Jason, who darted out of the room and down the hall.

“That’s what I have a lackey for. I don’t want to delay you. Let’s get this show on the road. What am I doing here?”

JC cleared his throat and jumped in head first. “Uhm, well the label asked me if I would, you know, work with you on some songs for your next album. I should really be asking you what you’re doing here, what do you, like… want to do with your next album?” 

“What do I want to do? I want to record some songs and release them. What do you mean, what do I want to do?”

He chuckled lightly at her response. “Uhm, I guess what I mean is that… what message do you want to send? What part of you do you want to put into your music? The label just thought you might need some perspective on uhm… another message, another direction.”

“I don’t have another message. I write what I feel, what others feel. People relate to that, obviously. The message is fine, why does it need changing?”

Jason returned with her coffee and set it in front of her, whispering that it was hot. Callie rolled her eyes. ‘Duh, it’s coffee?’

“Well, ok, let’s not think of it as changing your message, as sending out a DIFFERENT message.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I don’t have a different message." Callie paused and took a sip, wrinkling her nose at the bitter taste. "Look, I’m not interested in becoming some weak, lovesick ballad singer. I’m not one of those cheesy pop singers who can't sing anything but 'ooh boy I love you so'. I don’t KNOW why I’m here, except I’m told I don’t have a CHOICE but to be here. I didn’t pick you.”

Jason interrupted. “I… I think what Callie is saying, JC, is that—“

Callie's eyes flashed and she whipped around to face her manager.  “I can speak for myself. Do you have to be here? Why don’t you have your nose removed from JC’s ass and park yourself in the lobby?” 

Jason looked from Callie to JC and back to Callie, and back to JC. JC shrugged at him. It’d be ugly if they got into it; Callie had no shame. Jason packed himself up and quietly stepped out of the room.

Callie watched Jason leave and turned back to JC, who was fidgeting with a pen and slightly pink.

“Jason is my step brother. My mom made me hire him so she could keep an eye on me. We rarely get along, but he’d rather do this than go get a real job, so…” she shrugged.

“Okay...let’s uhm… let’s backtrack." JC twirled a pen in his hand and leaned forward.

"Believe me or not. I know what it’s like to have your own ideas about where you want to go and what you want to do and to have the label tell you that's all wrong, and tell you what you’re going to do. What you’re going to record, and how you’re going to record it. You and I--we don’t HAVE to work together, to tell you the truth. If you don’t want to, I’m out."

'Halellujah!' Callie thought.

"BUT," he added, "I’ve listened to your music-- I bought both your records--and you're good. Really good. You're very talented." JC paused and Callie stared. A raised eyebrow told him to continue.

"As you know, I have a lot of experience in the business-- and not that you don't--- and probably not experience you respect, but  enough to know that if you release a third album of the same songs you've always sung, it won’t be received with the same enthusiasm. There was a lot of fatigue with your second album— it didn't sell as much and it didn't sell as fast, and only two singles off of your second record broke the top ten. Your debut singles rode the top five like a cowboy at a rodeo."

"Okay, but historically followup albums don't do as well as debut albums. So? I'm being punished because my career follows the trend?"

"You're right... but Jive is gonna be looking for a record that does as good or better than your second  album, and I get the idea that what you've turned in isn't it.  They won't release a third record of the same stuff and risk a flop."

Callie stared, entranced by his voice and his hands that never stopped moving as he talked about the fickle nature of  popular music, keeping ahead of the curve and growing with the audience, and on and on and ON, until she thought he'd talk her into oblivion.

“Are you gonna talk all day or can I have a turn?” she interrupted. He laughed, a gut level, hefty guffaw. “Ears are falling off. So, you’re saying I need to like… change it up a little bit. Bring something fresh to the table.”

JC pointed at her, excited. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Ok, there's gotta be, like... twelve ways to say,  for example, ‘I hate you, and I want to cut your dick off'. So...let’s talk about the other eleven ways you can say that, because you’ve been saying it the same way for two albums, 24 songs, 10 singles, 8 videos now. Say it a new way. Or say something else.”

Callie fought a wave of impression. He knew his numbers… more importantly, he knew hers.

“I can get behind that. I guess. So… where do we start?”

"With songs. Have you started writing for your new album yet?”

She rolled her eyes.  “I'm already recording the new album.  I’m always writing, not specifically for an album. I thought you were some kind of hotshot song writer.”

He ignored her jab. “Do you have anything I can look at?”

Callie pulled a large expandable file out of her bag and slid it across the table. She carried the bulk of her songs with her at all times. When she was bored, she read through them and reworked them and rewrote them and worried over them, trying to come up with better imagery, better phrasing, that elusive number one hit.

“Those songs don’t leave this room,” Callie said, pointing at the file.

He glanced at her before opening the tattered case, shaking his head. “Honey, I don’t want your songs. I just want to see what we have to work with.”

“I’m just saying. And don’t call me ‘honey’. It’s condescending. My name is Callie.”

“It’s a habit. I call everyone honey. If it slips out, I’m sorry. I’m not being condescending.”

Callie had walked in expecting to hear a weak spiel about how she needed to write love songs, fire him, and be back in Chicago by dinner. Now suddenly, she was handing her book of songs over to him. No one had held that book but her in years.

“So… why would Jive want me to work with you? Where’ve you been? You haven’t had an album out in… I don’t know how long. That can't be good. I don’t know any artists you’ve produced. Why are they dumping you on me? Or me on you? Are you supposed to prove something to them?”

JC didn't even look up the stack he was sorting through. "Jive probably hopes you'll do some research and find out that I asked to be let out of my recording contract, because what I gave them, they didn't want, and they didn't push it and it flopped. And they probably hope you're scared into turning in something generic that fits into their box." 

“Well, you definitely don’t need any help in the songwriting department. You should write for other artists, you know. You just have this... poetic way of saying things.” He set the pages he was sifting through down on the table.

“So, why is it that everything you release has the same tone? Anger, revenge, being alone, loneliness, being used—is your stuff autobiographical?”

“No. Just… what I relate to the most. I’m not a ‘Oh gee golly I love this boy so much’ kind of singer.”

“I… get that. But even the hardest of hearts have a soft center. You’re not all stone, I’m betting.” He flashed her a smile that made her heart flutter, and that irritated her.

“I see where this is going, and no. No sweet, sick love ballads for me to belt out. I’m not interested in that.”

“I wasn’t saying that. I’m just suggesting we come up with a different topic.”

“Ok, go. Give me one. Outside of sunshine and puppies, and ‘I want to marry him’ what is there?”

For a minute, JC had nothing to say. How could he make her understand?  “Callie, I’m on your side. What I see here, in these songs, is not what shows up on your records.  THESE are good writing that aren't angry and sullen, they're powerful, they tell great stories. Why aren’t you releasing THESE?”

"I never offered them up. I don't even know why I showed you those. They're...personal." Callie played with a lock of hair, twisting the curl around her finger, shrugging one shoulder. “You uhm… you think they’re good enough for an album?”  

“Some of them. Some are kind of rough, but I see two here, right off the bat, that I’d love to hear you sing.  You’re right, you know-- you don’t write sunshine and puppies, but not everything has to be ‘I hate you and I want to cut your dick off’.”

Callie laughed, in spite of herself. “You like that phrase, don’t you?”

JC laughed with her. “It gets my point across. I know you said the songs don’t leave the room but could I get a copy of a couple of these?”

She waived him off. “Fine, whatever.” He left and came back with copies, refiling her songs and sending the file back to her. He moved to a closer seat and spread out several songs.

"Okay, so these are good material right here; nice imagery, great flow, awesome lyrics. This one," he picked up a sheet that Callie was very familiar with. It had been handled so much the edges were curled  and the page was permanently discolored from all of her eraser marks and white-out. "Let’s Start Over, is a hit. It has number one potential. Your first, if you do it right. I was thinking--”

“I can’t do that one,” Callie interrupted, shaking her head. "No. Nope, not that one."

JC paused for a heartbeat. “You can’t.”

She shook her head.

Deflated, JC asked, “Okay. Any reason why?”

“It’s very ‘Gwen Stefani’.”

An eyebrow shot up. “It’s about someone you know.”

“He’d be PISSED. And I can’t sing that song without getting all emotional. I have an image to uphold.”

JC started to speak and hesitated, then decided to go for it. “The bitch image is so last decade. It died with Alanis. Time for a new image. How about..." He stopped to think, then grinned as it came to him.  "Strong, empowered woman who owns her feelings"?”

Callied groaned. “How about that sounds lame as shit?”

JC laughed and wiped tiny beads of sweat from his forehead. “Okay. When people buy your music, they feel like they’re buying a part of you. They feel like they’re getting to know you. So, the Callie you want them to know is….”

Callie blinked, her brown eyes carrying an impish sparkle. “I hate you and I want to cut your dick off.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at herself and was relieved when he threw his head back and let out a throaty laugh. She liked the way his eyes almost disappeared when he laughed. Not that she was paying any attention. She hadn’t heard from Curtis in days but she was still enamored with his blonde hair and hazel eyes and wicked sense of humor. ‘Let’s Start Over’ was about Curtis, but she couldn’t let him hear it or think it was about him.

“I’d have to rewrite this song. It can’t go in as is.”

“Okay, a slow yes. I can take that.” They glanced through the other songs that he’d pulled out and ranked them in order of those that needed the most work.

“So, do you really think this ‘new message’ thing is gonna work?”

He lifted his pen from the pad of paper he was using to take notes. “I can’t make any guarantees. The only constant is change. An audience won't buy the same album over and over. And if  you've gone two years and haven't changed at all, I have to wonder what you're doing with your life, you know?" He shrugged and then packed up his notebook and copies.

“I have to get to a studio myself, so I need to get going. It was great meeting you, Callie. I'm really looking forward to working with you. Do you-- should I just contact Jason to start scheduling some time?  We both have some stuff we need to juggle, I'm sure.”

“Yeah, he’ll have my schedule. I know the label wants to hear more songs in a couple of months.”

“Then we have a lot of work to do. I’ll be in touch.”

Callie stayed behind, finished her coffee and scrolled through her phone, just to have some peace and quiet. SHIT! Curtis had called but didn’t leave a message. She dialed him back, but it rolled to voicemail.

“Hey, Curt, just calling you back. I was meeting with a producer. You will NOT believe who. Call me, I’ll turn the ringer on. Bye.” She turned her ringer up and dropped the phone back into her bag, adding her file of songs to it, and walked out to find Jason pacing the hall.

“So? How’d it go? I saw him leave, in a hurry. What'd you say to him?” Callie ignored him as they rode the elevator down to the lobby and out the front door.  Finally, she said, "He'll call you to arrange some time for us to work together. Try not to schedule me too long in LA. I hate it out here."

“So, you’re gonna work with him?” Jason  asked, waving at the driver waiting across the street.

Callie slipped on her signature shades and glared at Jason.

"Do I have a choice?"

***