Chapter 1: The Mansion Recording Session
The mansion rose out of the Atlanta night like it had been carved from the darkness itself, all sharp angles and glass, each window reflecting fragments of the city skyline. O-Sean parked his rental in the circular drive behind a vintage Jaguar that looked like it hadn't moved in weeks. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the tick of cooling metal, the distant thrum of crickets, the bass rattling from somewhere deep inside the house. In his early 30's O-Sean dressed in a black and grey sweater vest over a white v-neck shirt, sagging black jeans and a pair of black and grey high top adidas with wings and glasses, he looked great.
He hadn't seen Saint-Andre and Sean Black in over four months since they sang background for their boy Jordon Polo who was hononred for his contributions to music. Both O-Sean and Saint-Andre had performed with De-Clique a group that Sean was a member of had reunited with the surviving members to honor Polo and to pay homage to their friend Raymond who died the following year. They had a great time performing that night.
The front door swung open before he could knock.
Saint-Andre stood in the frame, backlit by amber light, wearing nothing but black silk pants, suede timberlands and a chain that caught the glow. His chest was bare, skin the color of dark chocolate, and he looked exactly the same as O-Sean remembered—ageless, impossible, like he'd been poured rather than born.
"O-Sean." Saint-Andre's voice was low, unhurried. A smile curved at the corner of his mouth. "You look old."
O-Sean laughed and pulled him into a hug. Saint-Andre smelled like sandalwood and something sharper underneath, something that burned. "You look like you still don't eat."
"I eat." Saint-Andre stepped back, gestured him inside. "I just don't age. It's a curse."
The foyer opened into a space that made O-Sean stop walking. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a painting. A grand piano sat in the center of the room, its black surface so polished he could see his own reflection distorted in it. Guitars hung on the walls like art. A staircase twisted upward into shadow.
"Jesus Christ," O-Sean muttered.
"It's excessive." Saint-Andre shrugged. "I know."
"Where's Sean?"
"Studio." Saint-Andre tilted his head toward a hallway. "He's been in there all day. Won't come out. Says he's working on something."
O-Sean followed him through the house, past rooms that blurred together—leather, glass, more instruments, a kitchen that looked like it had never been cooked in. The hallway narrowed, and the air changed, grew warmer, thicker. He could hear it now: a piano, soft and searching, playing something that wasn't quite a song yet.
The studio door was open.
Sean Black sat at a keyboard, his back to them, fingers moving slow across the keys. He was forty-nine now, but age had been kind to him. His shoulders were broad under a black T-shirt, black sagging jean shorts and white uptowns, his hair cropped with waves salt-and-pepper at the temples. He didn't turn around when they entered, just kept playing, lost in whatever he was chasing.
Saint-Andre leaned against the doorframe. O-Sean stood beside him, watching.
"Does he know I'm here?" O-Sean asked quietly.
"He knows." Saint-Andre's voice was barely above a whisper. "He's just... in it."
The song shifted. Sean's left hand found a bassline, something low and mournful, and his right hand began to layer chords on top. It was beautiful. Raw.