DASHED DREAMS by Susan Worley-Bean Read Free Book Online

dried his arms and legs. He took a sip from a glass on the table. “Now, that’s what I needed.” Jillian James was on his mind. She’s a doctor, an attitude, and is an absolutely beautiful girl-next-door type, and I can’t get her off my mind. Knowing he was expected at Sunset Record Studios at five, in a couple of hours, RJ decided to shower and change. He recorded a few songs before leaving for the Seattle appearance. Tonight was to be an evening of takes and retakes. He wore khaki shorts, a bright-red polo shirt with the insignia of crossed golf clubs with the name Common Down, top-siders, and a red golf jacket also with the Common Down insignia.
    The company, Common Down, had approached him a year ago and asked him to be their spokesmen. Between his people and their people, an amount of money was determined to be his compensation. The company supplied him with their best clubs and clothing for his endorsement. Who could be a better endorsement than Robert John Montgomery using their clubs?
    He started the 15-minute drive to the studio. Recording in the evening was RJ’s choice. He’d started a CD, the partly finished recording they’d be working on tonight. He started to tap out the tunes on the steering wheel, while waiting to turn onto Sunset Boulevard. Driving in the Los Angeles area was mostly a pain in the neck, but RJ whipped his Porsche in and out of stalled freeway traffic. Declining a studio car, he wanted to drive himself, claiming it cleared his head and gave him a chance to tap out songs. When he arrived at the studio, he’d composed new song lyrics in his hand-held recorder. He hurried in and started to plink out a tune on the piano.
    Phil Whittman, the studio’s president, stood in his office with the overhead intercom turned on and heard the plinking of a piano. His was thinking: Here’s another next hit. I’m so glad that years back we took a chance on this nobody and signed this guy. If only…His thoughts trailed off when the phone rang.
    “Whittman, here.”
    After about three hours and several recording retakes, dinner was brought in. RJ and a few members of his band grabbed plates of food and sodas and sat down at an open table. One of RJ’s band members was handing out glasses of ice and pouring from a bottle in a brown paper bag. RJ winked at him, as if they’d just put one over on Whittman. RJ poured some of his soda into the glass and took a sip, he closed his eyes, pleased with the warmth he was feeling.
    They finished recording the last half of the album at about ten p.m. RJ had invited all up to his house for an impromptu jam session. Only a few members of his band accepted his offer, the single guys with no one waiting at home.
    Back at Robert’s home the jam session was beginning in RJ’s basement studio. Everyone present had been to his home before, so they knew their way around the studio. He told the group that there’d be food on the way, when they clamored about eating.
    Gary Johns, Robert John Montgomery’s best friend and road manager, sat on a stool, leaning on the counter, listening to his boss talk about this woman he met in Seattle.
    “Your kitchen remodel turned out nicely. The whole house looks great. That interior designer you chose has great taste.”
    “Hey, I have great taste! She only did what I asked of her. Gary, I’m not just a beautiful face.”
    Both men laughed.
    “Hey, guys grab these boxes and take them with you when you go back downstairs.”
    “Gotcha,” Charles replied. When he saw the snacks he said, “Man, you took the food we were eating at the studio this evening.”
    “Why not? I paid for it. We might as well finish it off.”
    Charles lifted the lid one of the box, removed a chicken wing and started nibbling. He closed the lid, stacked up the four boxes and started back down to the studio.
    “Tell the others we’ll be down in a few,” RJ said. Charles nodded.
    “Gary, when we get to Tahoe, I have a date,” RJ said quietly,