Gina’s your vocalist

The woman at the door is none other than your sister Gina, the stunning blonde bombshell herself. She’s been a diva for as long as you can remember, and not just in the self-absorbed, haughty way. Your sister carries a tune damn well, well enough that she got scouted for a record deal in her freshman year of college. Granted, it was by a minor label and the record only ended up being a minor hit in Chile, but whatever talent you’ve got at producing music, she’s got at singing.

Of course, her being a total diva also means that it took quite some cajoling from you to get her to show up today. She’s dressed in a brown cut-out bodysuit and form-fitting jeans, her dangerous curves accentuated by her carefully chosen outfit. She’s smoking hot and she knows it.

“You’re going to owe me one after this,” Gina says, lowering her sunglasses a touch. A small smile slides across her face as she takes in the studio set-up. She seems amused by something that you’ve done, but you can’t figure out what.

“What, no ‘hello’ for your brother? Not even a friendly wave?” you ask, shaking your head.

“You said this would be like a business transaction,” she shrugs. “No need for pleasantries.”

“Wow, you must not be a very good businesswoman,” you say. “Dad used to always say that a good business is built on good relationships. I think he’s got a point.”

“Businesses are efficient. I never said I’d be polite,” she says, her smile growing a fraction wider. “So let’s cut the crap. I’m interested in hearing what kind of junk you’ve come up with.”

“I’m working with some solid material,” you reply, gesturing at your screen filled with the glowing bars of your DAW. “It’s going to be killer, once your part’s in.”

“Only because it will be my part,” Gina laughs. “Even then, I’m not sure if my voice will be enough to elevate the robot sex noises that you call music.”

“I technically have the better Billboard performance than you,” you say, giving her the finger.

“Then show me what you’ve got,” she says.

You pause, deliberately hesitating, and mute the vocals you prerecorded.

“You’re scared to show me your stuff. Aww. Don’t worry, I already know it’s going to be terrible,” she smirks.

“I’ll let the music speak for itself,” you say, hitting play.

The opening notes of your latest hit-to-be lilts over the studio monitors. Glistening chords dance atop one another, evoking a sense of home faraway. It’s music that calls to you, the tempered bass toying with a nostalgic feeling in the pit of your stomach. Gina’s eyes widen ever so slightly as she listens, slowly nodding along to the music in cut time. She may be a bitch, but even she appreciates quality.

“So I was wrong. I suppose you had to get better, seeing where you started. Nowhere to go but up,” she says, somehow sounding not at all apologetic.

You flip your finger at her again and say: “Well if I was shit before, where did that put you?”

“Tell me what you want me to sing,” Gina says. “Let’s see if you learned to write lyrics, or if you’re still stuck ‘remixing’ other people’s words because you can’t come up with your own.”

You take a beat, and come up with a better idea.

“You know, since you think you’re so good at this, why don’t you come up with the words?” you say, raising an eyebrow at her. “I want to hear what your chart-topping lyrics sound like.”

Your sister laughs, a beautiful and terrible thing that’s designed to break the hearts of men.

“Easily done. Is the mic on? You don’t want to miss this.”

An hour and a half into the recording session and you are immensely impressed with Gina’s ability to ad-lib lyrics on the spot. It almost makes you jealous.

“One more take,” you say. “I didn’t like the last one. Too throaty.”

“I thought you liked my voice all raspy,” she says, sounding all sultry as she cradles the mic.

“I’m not trying to seduce the people listening to my music,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Sex sells,” Gina says, matter-of-factly. “You know that about the industry.”

“Then dial the sex up,” you say, just to spite her.

You start the next take, the digital metronome cuing her in. Gina leans in, staring at you, her gaze flicking across your body. Did she just check out your crotch? There’s no time to think. The sorority sister croons into the microphone. Her voice hits the notes high but feels like a crawl up your back, a roughness that’s equally bittersweet. It’s a sensual power that her voice projects. And her blue eyes bore into yours the whole while, every little twitch of her lips caught by you, and in the depth of her eyes is something that makes your legs weak. You almost feel breathless when you hit pause, ending the take.

“Told you sex sells,” Gina smiles, knowing full well the effect that she’s had on you.

“I stand corrected,” you say. “You know better.”

“Don’t waste words,” she says, tossing her hair.

“I’m keeping this take. I think it’s good,” you say, fiddling some more with the track, and then you play it back. “Damn it sounds good, yeah? I owe you one.”

“What did I say when I walked in the door?” Gina smiles, picking up her purse as she steps out of the recording booth. She pauses by the door, just as she’s about to leave. “Well done on the rest of the track. My voice is an instrument that demands an accompaniment of quality.”

Gina + 20