Happy holidays! Sorry this took so long, I've honestly been stumped on how to move forward.
Quick warning: Aubrey doesn't appear in this chapter, and probably even the next. But there will be plenty of Stacie, so that should keep you interested.
I also changed the rating from T to M, because there's a nip slip in this chapter. Hope you can take the time to leave a review!
Six years later
STOKR: The Vanity Fair Exclusive
Cover story by Catherine Lonsdale, Vanity Fair editor
In real life, STOKR – real name Beca Mitchell –stands five foot two and nothing more.
In real life, there are also stories about her, each one getting more apocryphal than the last. It makes one wonder: how do you fit so much mischief in such a small body? She once famously asked out Mexican actress Karla Souza over Twitter, despite Souza being happily married. (Mitchell later settled for dinner at the Souzas, and has reportedly been invited back several times.) She has been notorious for giving paparazzi the slip by simply outrunning them Fast and the Furious style. Just ask her friend Mackenzie Jagger, who experienced riding shotgun in one of these car chases and emerged understandably hysterical. There's that time she punched a Coachella festival-goer for throwing a racial slur at her friend and upcoming rapper Cynthia Rose. This happened right before a wild pool party set, which concluded with her being mobbed by a dozen half-naked girls. And oh, who could forget her explosive dalliances with Hollywood glitterati, who had no hesitations roasting her publicly after she dropped them for the next best thing? Notable aftermaths include: Caitlyn Tyler's apoplectic Youtube rant that named no names in favor of showing intimate vacation photos in Bali, Alana Mason's spiteful EP aptly titled You Need to Go to Hell, and Victoria's Secret model Elke Alizio's violent outburst at an exclusive Bahamas resort that reportedly cost Mitchell $10,000 in damages.
These are stories I couldn't have made up even if I tried. While all these sounds like a teenage boy's wet dream of Hollywood fame, in real life lawsuits have been filed and eyewitnesses abound. Indeed, when you've transcended the merciless electronic music machine to emerge as one of the most talked-about scenesters du jour of the year, truth is stranger than fiction.
The funny thing is, all controversies aside, Mitchell is notoriously reticent. Always irreverent, always mysterious, the little we know about her has always been from a scorned girlfriend or overeager paparazzi. Not once has she ever commented on making headlines, not even to defend herself. Getting her to talk about her personal life is next to impossible. The world has fawned over STOKR's luscious discography, the incisive but aloof interviews, the ravishing girlfriends – but no one can claim one personal factoid about this slick cat burglar of an artist. Mitchell comes and goes whenever she pleases. And when she does appear, it's with a cool smirk and an unpremeditated, secretive apartness– more often than not, bearing a track that invariably becomes a hit.
And this is the only thing that has eclipsed everyone's fascination of Mitchell's infamy (and her maddening imperviousness to it): her music. As STOKR, she had seamlessly bridged the gap between the rowdy YOLO-swearing kids and their more highbrow East London counterparts. It's a rare sonic success that very few have achieved, and she comfortably lies in this category along with notable names like Daft Punk and Disclosure. Her lifestyle reflects the same balance. 1 million people follow her rather-bare Twitter account. At the same time, she has enough street cred to play Boiler Room and Ultra Music Festival. She's often seen in the company of movie stars, but she also co-headlined The Weeknd's massive Glastonbury concert last year. Just last December she posed on a playful campaign for Adidas Originals, rocking street wear in colorful pop hues on a road trip-themed shoot. That same month she was featured in CLASH Magazine, where she talked about the making of Fleeting Pleasures – a total West Coast of a second album, horny, salacious, and the complete opposite of her smooth-talking first album Are You Sure About This? "Are You Sure is glamorous, but it's sleazy. It's the glossy record you play right before midnight, when you're circling all the drunk girls going wild on the dance floor," she was quoted as saying. "Fleeting Pleasures is the sequel. It's what you want to hear when you're already impatiently tearing apart some girl's dress in the back of a limo. I went for tense and needy lyrics, set in a background that's absolutely polished and sharp. Fleeting Pleasures is a fucking savage of a gentleman." From the little we know, it's very easy to conclude that Mitchell could have easily been describing herself.
8:20 am, Residual Heat Records, Burbank
One of the most breathless moments in Vanity Fair's NYC headquarters was the moment Mitchell's publicist Luke Gainsbourg agreed on an exclusive 12-hour pass– and on the day she's moving to New York, no less.
The appointment was 9 am. But when I was shown to one of the studios in the compound, Mitchell's already there, intently working on the sound booth with headphones on. She's the picture of street cool: tight black tank top, artfully loose camo jacket, ripped denim jeans, all-white Nikes. She's perfectly fine with multitasking. Mitchell is primarily STOKR, but her daily grind also involves unlocking interesting depths out of any promising artist's sound.
"I'm not very good with talking about myself," is one of the very first things she tells me. "But whatever you see today, don't hold back."
We are at the studio because Mitchell is meeting Emily Junk. Junk is the first promising talent she had brought to Residual Heat Records; and now with Junk's accolades (Song of the Summer award for Flashlight at the 2015 VMAs, and supporting Charlie XCX's London concert last September) she is irrefutable proof of Mitchell's wunderkind production chops. Today, Junk is coming in to hear an in-progress track for her second album, which they have been working on for two months now.
The room starts to fill up as we get closer to 9 am. Mitchell greets everyone by name, giving out fist bumps and bantering with sound engineers. When Junk arrives, Beca is pulled in an exuberant hug.
"This is dope!" the excitable pop singer later gushes at the track, which is dance-y, light as a feather, yet emotionally rich – exactly like Junk. "I love what you did! There are so many complex layers to it. Oh my god, Beca, you captured me!" Mitchell could only laugh as the brunette grabs her excitedly again.
10:44 am, curb outside Residual Heat Records, Burbank
While we wait under the hot California sun, Mitchell places a call to manager and Residual Heat's head honcho, Keegan Murphy. "It's transcendental. She adored it to bits," she reports on Junk's new single. "She's ready for BBC. I'm also working with Luke to put this on whatever coming-of-age movie is going on Sundance. Yeah, thanks, man. I'll see you tonight."
Gainsbourg shortly arrives in an all-black Hummer. Also tagging along, fresh from New York, is a severely jetlagged Stacie Conrad: up-and-coming New York choreographer, and Mitchell's oft-rumored beau. Conrad has the enviable position of being the producer's bestie: it's a TV-worthy close friendship that gave rise to several adoring fanfiction and photo blogs of them roughhousing in the red carpet. I quickly discover the appeal of their faux-bromance when Conrad hilariously tries to hug Mitchell, in all the lewd ways she knew how, making the sturdy car wobble.
"I missed you," Conrad purrs with a perfectly straight face, when Mitchell finally managed to squirm away. "I've missed the feel of your silky thighs wrapping around my head as I savor your –"
"Jesus. Keep it in your pants, baby." Mitchell is flushed from laughing, as were the rest of us; you'd want to be stuck with this merry gang on a long road trip. "Hey, Cath, we're not dating. She just loves to express her sexuality. Seriously, I've been explaining this to the press for ages."
"Come on, we need to give people something to speculate about." Conrad throws me a wink at the rearview mirror. "Cath, you're getting all this, right?"
"Stace, you make my work way harder than it already is," Gainsbourg reprimands jokingly, in his calm British accent. "You have no idea how much I've already spent to make all your compromising photos with Becky go away."
"Wow, you actually pay for those? So how much will I get if I decide to leak our kinky sex video?"
"I have never slept with Stacie," Mitchell shouts empathetically in my direction. "Just getting that out of the way despite whatever you'll see Stacie doing to me from this point forward, thank you very much."
Eventually I learn why these three had such an easy rapport: they have all been buddies since college, at a university which name Mitchell had been initially reluctant to reveal. But with much prodding and supplying from the others, she eventually cracks – and provides me a surprisingly frank narrative.
Born Rebecca Elise Mitchell in a quiet suburb in Portland, she describes her childhood as "completely normal". Her dad was a college professor and her mom was an accountant. When her parents divorced at seven, her dad quietly left Portland and did not argue custody.
Her mother did everything to shield Mitchell from the loss – she was always present for dinner and social functions despite work, and even found time to teach Mitchell guitar and music appreciation on weekends."My mom's one of the coolest people I know," she says. "She hated when it was quiet, so she'd often blast records in the house. She had Rolling Stones, Portishead, The Clash, definitely New Order. A lot of them eventually influenced my music."
Her mother quickly noticed her daughter's above-average knack for playing instruments, and constantly encouraged her to pursue a music career despite their modest living conditions. "For most of high school, I was the drummer in this alt-rock band called Gibbons. We were nothing special. Just good at pretending we're cool," Mitchell grins. "Our frontman was a good-looking jock, so schoolmates often invited us to parties." She often had to rent a drum kit for these events; she came up with the money by shoveling ice off neighbors' driveways or helping out at the local auto body shop. "I hardly had to lift anything, that's what the jack lifts were for," she hastily adds, seeing my incredulous look. "I was useful because I fit easily under the low riders. And I was good at applying decals."
Tragedy struck when her mother died in a car accident. When the police came to their tiny Portland flat, Mitchell was eighteen, going off to community college. She was suddenly alone.
"My life did a complete 360. The fact that nothing prepared me for made it even worse," Mitchell recalls. "My friends were going to college, my girlfriend was moving to California, the world went on at its usual pace – except for me. I was never the same."
On a whim she decided to sell the apartment. She left no forwarding address. When her dad found her a year later, it was at Fullerton, CA, where she worked at a record shop by day and moonlighted as a DJ at a gritty underground club on weekend nights. Her dad, horrified at her living conditions, persuaded her to come with him in Atlanta, where she was coerced to try college for a year.
To Mitchell's surprise, college was immensely enjoyable. She joined the Barden University Bellas, her college's all-girl a capella group, and actually played a big part in their first win at the National A Cappella Championships in New York. (Yes, this actually exists). It was the first of a long championship streak for the Bellas, who just snagged their seventh championship title last June. She was also able to make close friends, including Cynthia Rose, Conrad and Junk – all fellow Bella alumni.
At the end of the year she applied as an office assistant for Residual Heat Records, already headed by Keegan Murphy. The demos she sent got her foot in the door. Now resigned to life as a nomad, Mitchell left Atlanta for LA – and, as the story goes, impressed Murphy on her second month with a pitch for Snoop Dogg's 2009 Christmas album.
"I didn't promote Beca as a regular immediately. That's not the way we do things around here," Murphy says with a chuckle. "Few months after that, she brought in Emily (Junk), presenting me this song they collaborated on, and I was all like, 'okay, I guess we're giving you a desk.' Then When Tomorrow Comes topped Billboard's Hot 100 for four weeks, and I couldn't deny it anymore – this punk can do what I do, maybe even better. I'm a little jealous. But yeah, okay, I was blessed too. So I'm like, 'fine, you're getting an office.'"
Murphy's gamble on his protégé was well-worth it. Three years later, at twenty-three, STOKR's celebrity imploded. Her claim to fame happened a little differently than other artists on Residual Heat's roster: she produced and lent her voice on two tracks from The Black Keys' fifth album, Putting Out Fires.
When Rolling Stone called the album "one of this generation's most important rock contributions to date", and SPIN gushed over the addition of the recklessly sure female vocals that, quote-unquote, "would make Beth Gibbons sit up and notice", all bets were off. The two tracks, Save Me from Me and Alpha, both scored No.1 in the next few weeks. Even before Putting Out Fires won a Grammy, Beca Mitchell already found herself the center of attention. "The Black Keys has always been Dan (Auerbach) and Patrick (Carney), and all their previous albums were co-written and produced by Brian (Burton). So when the two tracks I worked on rose faster than everything else in that album, I was initially alarmed," Mitchell muses. "Dan and Patrick are my good friends. It was amazing enough that when I showed them the basic outline of those songs on a lark, they were impressed. Then Brian came in, suggested giving it a woman's touch, and that's how we all ended up collaborating. But I was bothered that the songs changed too much of the band's essence. It was the first time The Black Keys have deviated from their signature sound, which they've already perfected all the way back in 2008. I didn't want to break the world's definition of The Black Keys."
Thankfully, The Black Keys regarded her contribution as a significant breakthrough. Her apprehensions were silenced when, instead of redefining The Black Keys, they formed side band Gray Matter instead – a homage to Breaking Bad.
Sensing ripe opportunity, Residual Heat Records announced Mitchell's first EP as STOKR during the same month. When it came out the same year – in the form of the sleek-sounding Are You Sure About This? – the ten tracks on it sufficiently blew everyone's mind. "We didn't want to gamble on that pseudonym, but as it turns out, STOKR belongs to the dance floor. Newcomer Beca Mitchell is a woman of many hats. Aside from suave garage rock, crafty electronic music is one she wears comfortably. She elevates the rather bland untz-untz game of EDM and turns it into an art form," NME writes. Another glowing review from Pitchfork: "Beca Mitchell was second-guessing herself with that album title, and with good reason. If you were expecting something along the lines of her grungy first act Save Me from Me, you will be horribly disappointed. But all is not lost, because surprise, surprise – as promising electro-artist STOKR, Mitchell immediately converts you to club music. And not just any club music: her retro-futurist style features randy lyrical poetry set against a musical background that blends the best of 80's synth and playfulness of chillwave. Her ability to leap across the radically-different genres of rock to electronic music is bold and endlessly fascinating. Without a doubt, Are You Sure About This? is one of the most confident and droll electronic albums we've heard since LCD Soundsystem's This Is Happening."
From then on, Mitchell's assimilation into electronic music royalty was certain. In the last couple of years, Are You Sure About This? scored a Grammy, as well as its successor, Fleeting Pleasures. A slew of her singles (often in collaboration with fellow purveyors of cool such as Chet Faker, Lana Del Rey and Frank Ocean) quickly ruled radio airplay, with Midnight Comedown recently hitting double-platinum. Her second album's promotional tour – largely spent at sold-out arenas and celebrity private jets – concluded successfully a month ago.
11:18 pm, Beachwood Canyon
Mitchell's apartment is airy, dominated by wood and shades of gray. At the pool deck, drinking wine, are at least four or five girls who eagerly wave as we pass. ("See, this is why I'm moving. People I don't know hang out in my house all the time," she comments, with a hint of weariness.) Inside, the glass walls are artfully decked with murals of concert posters, such as Jimi Hendrix's 1968 concert in New York and Pink Floyd's '77 concert in Oakland, CA. In Mitchell's bedroom are several columns of vinyl records stacked from floor to ceiling.
We're here because Mitchell is actually packing. Or at least, haphazardly attempting to. She's tossing possessions pell-mell into a small leather suitcase, despite Gainsbourg informing her that her P.A. will pack everything "from your electronic thingamajigs to your unwashed knickers".
"The world we live in now – unbelievable," she mutters, more to Conrad, who was lazily sprawled on the huge bed. "Like I'd ever get my knickers folded by anybody else."
"Sha. The last time you moved, I folded your knickers. I even stole one for Chloe." Chloe is a Barden Bella, Conrad later explains, and a close friend from their college days.
In the end Mitchell leaves the brunt of packing to the P.A., except a few items. She packs her own clothes – not the ones from clothing sponsors, but ratty sweatshirts and PJs. She boxes the controller setup and computer from her desk. And she packs personal mementos: her Bella scarf, a box of photographs, another box of unfinished lyrics, a portable Crosley record player.
The PA, Dax, reads her the rest of her schedule. It's strangely booked for someone who needs to go on a 7 am plane the next day. "That's why Stacie's here," Gainsbourg chuckles. "She's the only one who loves Becky enough to drag her hungover ass onto that plane."
12:26 pm, Henry Hotel, Hollywood
Lunch is spent in a swanky press conference. This is where Gainsbourg publicizes Mitchell's official relocation to New York. Everyone from Residual Heat Records, of course, already knew. Keegan Murphy and Gainsbourg fields most of the questions – will Mitchell be striking out on her own and creating her own label? (No – Mitchell will simply be heading a new indie music division of RHR in NYC, complete with her own studio and team.) Is Mitchell's contract with RHR over? (No – she's actually working on a five-track EP with Gray Matter under the label.) Will this impact the concerts she's headlining in the next few months? (Hardly – being a New Yorker wouldn't change her ability to sing in front of a crowd, Murphy answers a little sarcastically.)
From a raised table Mitchell casually surveys the numerous press, impassive smirk firmly in place. She drinks her scotch and soda with no regard for time and hearsay. The only questions she answers are those related to her reasons for moving. Musicians 'move to' LA to be big, one reporter says. It's never 'move out of'. Mitchell is going against a proven tide, one which has actually launched her career – wouldn't this be a disservice not only to her label, but to her fans? "I can't be the first artist who moved out of LA. You guys are taking this way too seriously," she says, prompting light chuckles from the assembly. "I'm moving because I've become lazy. All my songs carry values I no longer believe in. I'm no longer passing my own standards."
Is this really just about sonic growth? I ask her after the conference wraps up, over steaks and more scotch. Because as of the moment, STOKR's music has already passed the world's standards – despite her versatility throughout two albums and numerous collaborations, the essence of her sound is constantly distinct. Through an incredible amount of talent she had also stayed relevant, something almost impossible to do considering the breakneck pace of the EDM scene. But Mitchell shakes her head; it's hardly about growth. "It's about curiosity," she explains. "I like learning something new about myself."
4:26 pm, Malibu Beach
The 'meeting' listed in Mitchell's schedule for 3 pm turns out to be a private beachfront soiree, hosted by none other than brilliant wordsmith and Arctic Monkeys frontman, Alex Turner. It's somebody's birthday and the party is starting early: everyone's chugging bottles of Dom Pérignon and passing around all the usual stimulants.
On a makeshift deck in the middle of the revelers is Turner himself, barefoot, his slicked-back coif and open white shirt resplendent as he serenades the crowd in an impromptu acoustic set. AM drummer Matt Helders is walking around with a tequila-loaded water gun, dispensing shots to giggling girls in skimpy bikinis. He jokingly berates Mitchell for not wearing one before he pushes her to go onstage.
Before she could say anything, Turner yells from the deck. "Oi! What's that panty-chaser doing here?" A couple of hours later he himself cheerfully announces her unplanned performance to the raucous throng. "STOKR is moving to NYC tomorrow! If you're one of those suckers not invited to her farewell party later, then it's your last chance to show her how much you care."
Mitchell, now having downed several glasses of whiskey, takes up a guitar and busts out a low-key rendition of her already-minimalist single "Pillow Talk". "Tell me something I don't know / I already know the way you grasp my neck, inhale my breath / from that one time we touched lips /Do you cry yourself to sleep? / Name all the lies that you have lived / Orgasms that you've faked with men who never pleased / I dumped a girl on her eighteenth," she sings in her clear alto, with the awkward honesty of a slick charmer who's finally putting all her cards on the table."I like the way you stare, those piercing green eyes, perfect blonde hair / Hold me close like this / 'Til the daylight creeps / And I never see you leave."
She later admits she rarely plays that single now. "It makes me cringe a little. I wrote it as a challenge – to see if I can write an honest-to-god love song." So she finds "When you part your legs I weep / Just wanna reach but you're a hurricane I can't be swept with" romantic? "And this is why it's my only love song," she points out with a grin. "Apparently I can't write them if my life depended on it. You could say it's about romance, in the loosest sense of the word, but it's also about lust. I can never think of one without thinking about the other."
And what of the girl with green eyes and perfect blonde hair? Beca's grin grows wider at this, obviously reliving a specific memory. "I'd rather keep her to myself," she finally says. It's the only question she doesn't answer that day.
11:39 pm, Red Door, north of Hollywood
Tonight Mitchell's playing at Red Door, an intimate underground club that actually involves a trapdoor leading down to a basement. Only, instead of Hannibal Lecter, it's dim lighting, luxurious leather couches, and sleek glass countertops waiting on the other side. This is also her farewell party, and rules do not apply here: the air is thick with smoke from so much Silk Cut Spartacuses, and bottles of Krug flow freely, delivered by long-legged, exotic-looking women in little black dresses. On the dance floor the rave is ongoing, alive and wild as all the cool kids dance and grope to pulsating bass. Major Lazer had just started their set.
Everywhere I look, I recognize someone. Sam Smith, Cara Delevinge, Deorro, Emily Junk, the highly-esteemed James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem – even right now Mitchell is being chatted up by the hypnotizing Lana Del Rey, cigarette in hand, ethereal even in a boho-chic dress and boots. "Baby, do you really have to go?" Del Rey says, kissing Mitchell's cheek in greeting. "You haven't even taken me dancing."
"I'm just moving, babe, not dying." Mitchell returns the gesture. "And the next time I come by, I'll wear you out." Another friend of the puffy-lipped singer joins them, and jokes that they really look good together: maybe they should date?
"Oh, please," Mitchell snorts. "Lizzy is out of my league. That's not gonna happen."
"You never asked," Del Rey says lightly, blowing a cloud of smoke with detached finality into the producer's face before walking away.
After all the networking Mitchell is finally ushered to the open booth by Keegan Murphy. She stands in the middle of everyone with a smile, waiting for the cheers that greeted her to die down. Stacie Conrad, standing almost next to her, hands her a glass of Jack and Coke. "You haven't roofied this, right?" Mitchell asks, before draining the glass to another round of cheers.
"When you gonna sleep with Stacie?" someone in the crowd yells.
"Hopefully never," Mitchell laughs, wrapping her arm affectionately around Conrad's waist. "Alright, everyone. Let's do this."
As STOKR, she's a much more intense beast. She powers through the next two hours of her live set, going through her intuitive, textured, retro-rock-influenced dance music with intense concentration, even as she effortlessly sings the cunning, sarcastic lyrics. Everyone's dancing like puppets on acid. At one point people just start chanting: STOKR, STOKR, STOKR, and with one hand still on the dials, Mitchell raises a fist, closes her eyes, and lets the wave of her music reach an agonizing crescendo before hitting the drop that sends everyone into a feverish frenzy.
No matter where she moves, this is where she belongs.
One month later
Pampelonne Beach, St. Tropez
Beca woke up with the warm midday sun on her face.
Before she even opened her eyes, she tried her best to assess the surroundings. The sound of waves, the saltwater tang of the breeze coming in, heady smell of coconut, luxurious sheets on her skin: she was at the beach. She groaned at the bright sunlight and tried to roll over, only to encounter a discarded bikini top against her face. Realizing she was naked, she tried to piece together the events of the previous evening.
After a full minute of coming up with a blank, she gave up.
She dazedly raised her head a fraction of an inch to look around. The room decor was vaguely familiar – she was at least in her own rented villa, probably just in a different room. Rolled-up dollar bills and white powder littered the bedside table. Beyond the bed, there were only heels and her boots on the floor. Where the fuck was her clothes?
An arm suddenly reached out to coil around her bare chest; with a start, Beca realized that she had a bedmate.
Looking further, she corrected herself: bedmates.
The first girl was dark-haired, long and thin as a reed. The other girl was blonde, lying a little above her, her flat stomach almost cushioning Beca's head. Both were gorgeous. Both were also naked.
One of the blonde's breasts was peeking out of the covers. Beca twisted to catch the nipple in her mouth before she could even register what she was doing. The other girl woke up giggling.
"Hey, I have to go," Beca said, in a tone that she hoped was apologetic enough. "You and, uh, your friend can stay, though." The blonde girl nodded. "Great. I'll have someone bring up food." Beca forced herself to get off the massive bed, padding barefoot to the full-length closet across the bedroom to look for a robe. "Brunch okay?"
"Sure. But I can't eat anything with butter, I'm on a Mediterranean diet," the girl answered, and Beca fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Can you tell your cook to substitute olive butter instead? And I can only drink almond milk. Not water or juice. And, like, the organic one. If you have Trader Joe, that's the best – it's very artisanal."
"Mon dieu, it's almost one," another voice said, and when Beca looked around, the dark-haired girl –French, from the looks of it – was also awake. "Tu es en train de partir? We weren't done with you yet," she continued with a pout.
"This is just as difficult for me, girls. But make yourselves at home." Beca, having found a robe, proceeded to walk out of the bedroom and was finally able to roll her eyes. Jesus, these girls and their I-only-eat-organic routine...as she rounded the corner to the staircase she almost bumped into the butler, who quickly stepped aside to avoid his tray of food from getting overturned.
"Sorry," she quickly apologized. "Oliver, right?"
The butler, a tanned guy in an open white shirt, answered with the slightest accent, "Olivier, miss. I was just about to bring this to you."
"No worries. I'll take that." Beca took the tray off his hands, despite his initial mild noise of protest. "Can you also bring up food to the left wing bedroom? Mediterranean diet, has to be organic, all that jazz." He quickly nods. "Any chance you have my phone?"
"It's at the coffee table upstairs, along with your car keys and wallet. The girls' clothes are also ready – it will be sent up to their room as well."
"Man, you are efficient. Thanks." It never failed to amaze Beca how professional these service guys were, considering Olivier hardly mentioned the fact that she and the girls left their clothes strewn all over the pool deck last night before they even got inside the house. "If they're still here by four, you know the drill, right?"
The drill was a sleek black envelope containing vouchers to any local luxury department store, which was handed to girls as a cue to leave whenever they have overstayed their welcome. Luke often briefed Beca's attending staff of this procedure whenever she traveled. "The envelope. Of course."
Satisfied, Beca set off for the top floor. Half of it was the biggest bedroom in the villa, where she had slept for the past two days. A glass sliding door led to the other half of the floor, to a spacious balcony where she often had breakfast. The villa was located on the top of a wooded hill, and so the view was breathtaking – crisp blue sea to the left, and to the right, palm trees and the busy three-mile strip of beach below. Beca barely glanced at them as she set down the tray on the balcony table; she groaned at the first taste of coffee, and she savored another swallow before she began going through the day's emails. She had just poured her second cup of coffee when Luke called.
"Hey Becky," he greeted. "I called you at twelve like you said, but nada. Thought I'd have to send someone to fish you out of the sea."
"Sorry about that. I overslept."
"I'm sure. People were tweeting like mad last night about your Caves du Roy gig. Was it fun?"
"Oh, you have no idea." Beca smirked as she took a bite of marmalade-laden toast. Luke often traveled with her on out-of-town gigs, but last night he had to stay in LA for the premiere of Rant, the Sundance film featuring Emily's new single. "How's the reception on Em's track?"
"Snowballing. Pitchfork and Rolling Stone just featured it, and Mercedes Benz wants it for their new ad. Em's over the moon about it."
"Cool. Goddamn Dax didn't email me my schedule. What am I supposed to do today?"
"I'll go yell at him. But first, read your Vanity Fair feature. I had Olivier put a copy in your bedside drawer."
She had completely forgotten about Cath Lonsdale's article. "I don't have to. How is it?"
"Well, it's not a train wreck. Cath actually managed to hide the fact that you're a giant douchenozzle, so we're safe."
Beca rolled her eyes. "I can fire you, you know."
"Okay, okay," Luke laughed. "From a PR standpoint, it's a fluff piece – she painted you as this cool, mysterious, talented chap, which couldn't be further from the truth, you know? Anyway, I haven't seen the numbers, but Keegan says your iTunes downloads have taken a giant leap just today. A ton of people are also sharing the cover with very positive feedback. From a friend standpoint, you're a pretentious man-whore who's full of shit. But you'll be alright."
"You won't be. I'm replacing you with Dax."
"You know he's useless. And you hired me to keep you on your toes, love." Luke cleared his throat. "By the way, you need to call Stacie."
Beca closed her eyes, but did not respond.
"I got an earful of seductive yelling – she didn't even know you were in St. Tropez! Why you avoiding her, homes?"
"Don't talk black to me, Luke. You're British, for fuck's sake."
"Becky, just call her, okay? She's worried about you."
She sighed. "I will. Thanks, Lukey."
"Bugger," Luke chuckled before ending the call. Beca had barely set down her phone before it started ringing again. To her surprise, it was Chloe.
Beca and Chloe had remained connected, mostly through calls and Facebook, even after Beca had become an overnight sensation and Chloe had moved back to her hometown in Philadelphia. The redhead had gone on to med school at UPenn, and is currently on her second year of internship at Children's Hospital of Pennsylvania. Beca had not heard from her in the last two months.
"Hey, baby," she answered tentatively, only to be met by a shriek.
"I can't believe you're moving to New York and didn't tell me!"
"Stacie said she told you." Beca held the phone a little further from her ear, because she was sure the excitable redhead wasn't done shouting.
"No, she didn't. I had to read about it on Vanity Fair like a commoner!"
"Chloe, darling, with those looks you're hardly a commoner."
"Don't play that Hollywood Casanova shtick with me, Mitchell, I'm still deeply offended. But I'm so excited for you!" Chloe sounded breathless. "You're going to be a train ride away from Philly! You and me and Stacie can totes hang out! And we can meet up with other aca-people living in NYC – Jesse's there too, and Unicycle – oh my god! How could I have forgotten Br –"
"Breathing," Beca interrupted, smiling at Chloe's enthusiasm nevertheless. "Calm down, Red."
"How can I? I'll be seeing you very soon!" The redhead's eagerness dropped a few notches. "Hopefully without a bunch of skanks this time."
The last time they had seen each other was a year ago in New York. Beca was in town for the music video shoot of On Fire, a Drake single that she collaborated on. Chloe had visited their studio in Chelsea to find her on her fourth take of lip-syncing the chorus, visibly uneasy while a half-dozen girls, scantily-clad in firefighter outfits, writhed and gyrated around her. "Definitely not," Beca laughed. "Sorry about that. For the record, I had Keegan veto that music video immediately. It's Drake's thing, but it's too racy for me."
"No need to explain, I was kidding. I'm sure it's all part of the business." A slight pause. "Beca?"
"Yeah?"
"...I never knew about your mom. I'm sorry." The concern was evident in Chloe's tone.
"It's cool. It was a very long time ago."
"I know, but if you ever need to talk about it or anything else, I'm just here."
"I know that, baby," Beca said, touched as always by the redhead's incredible amount of sympathy. "Thanks. Let me know when you'll be in New York, I'll take you out."
"How about you just call me whenever you're free? You know I'd drop everything for you," Chloe said, half-seriously. "Love you."
Beca swallowed – six years of friendship with Chloe and she still did not have the ability to easily say those words back to her, or anyone else for that matter. "Ditto." She let Chloe hang up before dialing Stacie, sighing in resignation as she did so.
Stacie answered on the first ring.
"Love your Vanity Fair cover," she purred in her usual honeyed tone.
"Thanks." The magazine shoot featured Beca in a variety of slim-cut suits, savoring drinks and cigars at a speakeasy bar, collar opened and hair let loose in waves. The makeup team put on more eyeliner than she would have preferred, and pretending to look 'moody' for the photographer was a real challenge; but everyone from the shoot was very professional, and she enjoyed polishing off the endless cocktails she posed with. The final outcome also pleased her. She had explicit instructions against digital retouching, which the post-production team thankfully followed – yet Beca still looked radiant in the rushes, carefully blurring the line between sexy and masculine.
"Very fuckable. It only makes me want you more."
"And there it is."
"Darling, I know you're avoiding me."
"Why would you think that?" Beca grimaced as soon as she said the words out loud – there was really no point playing dumb, because this was Stacie. On to her, right from the start.
"Because you're supposed to be living in New York now, and yet I haven't seen you since I dropped you off at Four Seasons a month ago."
"My new apartment is still under renovation. And I've got all these gigs –"
"Baby," Stacie cooed, her tone starting to get dangerously impatient. "Stop making excuses. You were the one who wanted to get away from all the partying."
Beca exhaled. "I don't think I can change, Stace."
"You will, if you stay with me." Stacie's voice was much kinder. "Come home, baby. You're wasting your time with these floozies. I'm better than all of them combined."
"Yeah, yeah. Not that I'd ever know."
"Oh, you will, eventually. This has to happen. Our vaginas have a real connection," Stacie snickered. "When are you coming back?"
Beca looked out at the azure sea right in front of her. Didn't she want to get away from this – all the flash, the insipid women, the uppers, the noise? She can't go on like this. She can't stagnate here.
"Tomorrow," she finally said. "I'll be at your door, first thing tomorrow."
