"I'd love to do it, honey."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Just tell me when, and I'll be there."
--
Two weeks later, Grace was in Sunset Sound in Hollywood, California, awaiting Joie's arrival. She had heard that Joie sometimes liked to arrive "fashionably late" for recording sessions; some thirty minutes had passed before Grace saw Joie on a security monitor, pulling up to the studio parking lot in his black motorcycle.
A few minutes later, Joie walked into the studio, placing his helmet on a red chair and saying hi to Grace's producer, Allyson Taylor. "Sorry, mate," he said to Grace in a pitch-perfect imitation of a Western Australian accent; Grace, a native of Kalgoorlie, was quite impressed. She was also impressed with how he looked: tangled curly black hair, smooth chocolate skin, a gorgeous smile, and a muscular build almost bursting out of his black leather jacket, white silk shirt and black leather pants. She could feel herself getting turned on.
"Hope y'all weren't waiting too long," Joie whispered.
"It was worth it," Grace replied.
As she watched Joie walk to the Vox Continental, a part of Grace wasn't quite sure what she had gotten herself into. Joie had a reputation as a studio perfectionist, recording take after take from the early-afternoon to 1:00am in the morning, exhausting producers and sound engineers with his obsessiveness; Grace, on the other hand, famously never liked to do more than six takes of a song, featuring that too many takes would ruin the freshness and spontaneity of the song.
From the moment Grace saw Joie's fingers hit the Vox Continental, she was transfixed. Joie's command of the organ was flawless, powerful, arousing; as she watched him play, she imagined how those fingers would feel inside of her, the sensation of those fingers on her nipples, the caress of those fingers over her long, light-brown hair. Rolling Stone once wrote about Joie that "the kid from Cincinnati born Joseph Rollins has a level of talent Mozart and Beethoven would envy"; if his bedroom skills are anything like his musical skills, Grace thought, then he must truly be something remarkable.
"Hey, can I try it again?" Joie said after the first fabulous take.
"Sure," Allyson replied. "If you can improve upon perfection, go for it!"
Joie recorded three more takes of the organ solo, each seemingly even more magnificent than the last. By this point, Grace was in a state of full arousal, her nipples pressing against her light pink blouse, her tongue twitching as she imagined sucking him off right there in the studio. It was all she could do not to control herself. Grace glanced over at Allyson and smiled; thank goodness she's a married lesbian, Grace thought, or she'd be gushing over Joie too.
After the fourth take, Allyson told Joie that every single solo was phenomenal, and that it would be tough to decide which take would be on the final album version of "Pink Mountain." The producer reached out to shake the superstar's hand; as Joie shook it, he whispered, "My God." Then, he turned to Grace, who kissed him on the cheek and also shook his hand; he again whispered, "My God," before grabbing his helmet.
"Oh, by the way," he said before leaving. "Don't put my name on the credits-my label will freak out. Credit me by another name. The focus should be on you, anyway." He then left the studio, jumped back on his motorcycle, and drove away.
