Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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****

The atmosphere in the car was relaxed, the tension and wildness of New York left far behind.

Lindsay chattered excitedly about the dress she planned to wear to the premiere, her hands animating her words. Amy sat quietly, reviewing a schedule on her PDA, occasionally glancing up at Marvin with a look that wasn’t strictly professional after the kiss.

Up front, Gordon guided the car through the slow crawl of late-afternoon traffic along Sunset Boulevard. He reached toward the dashboard, looking for the traffic report.

Instead, the speakers came alive with a burst of upbeat music, followed by a voice every Angeleno recognized instantly.

”KIIS-FM! Rick Dees with you this afternoon!”

The veteran DJ laughed before continuing.

”Okay, okay... before anyone calls the station—yes, Britney is still number one, yes, Christina’s still climbing, and yes, the Backstreet Boys are still making half of Los Angeles scream loud enough to register on the Richter scale.”

He paused dramatically.

”But every once in a while... something different lands on my desk.”

Another pause.

”Something that makes everybody in this building stop talking.”

A faint rustle of paper.

”Now I know what half of you are thinking. ’Rick, if you play ...Baby One More Time one more time, I’m getting out and walking.’ Well... good news. I’ve got a brand-new record.”

”Now, unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last week, you’ve probably heard about that crazy story coming out of New Zealand. Two escaped leopards. A film crew. Peter Jackson. And a thirteen-year-old kid with a bow who somehow walked away looking like he’d stepped out of a Robin Hood movie.”

Rick laughed.

”I swear, every newspaper says something different. Half of Hollywood thinks it’s the greatest true story of the year, the other half still thinks it’s a publicity stunt.”

He lowered his voice conspiratorially.

”Personally?”

”I’ve seen the footage.”

”That kid is scary.”

Another chuckle.

”Now here’s the funny part.”

”As if writing bestselling books wasn’t enough...”

”As if starring in movies wasn’t enough...”

”As if saving filmmakers from leopards wasn’t enough...”

”He disappears for a few days...”

”Comes back...”

”And casually drops another Columbia produced single on my desk.”

Rick let the silence linger for a beat. ”You know what’s funny? It’s been almost two years since we got a proper Marvin record. Sure, we’ve had a couple of singles here and there...”

”A demo on Oprah...”

”Remember that?”

”That little *Bumblebee on the Ferris Wheel* performance?”

”Half the country spent the next morning calling record stores asking where they could buy it... and the answer was...”

He laughed. ”You couldn’t.”

The studio laughed with him. ”That’s all anybody got—a demo.”

”Meanwhile, this kid’s been busy releasing another book that doesn’t stay on the shelves for long, making movies, and turning up in magazines every other week...”

”And then New Zealand happens...”

”Now everybody who wasn’t already paying attention suddenly wants to know who Marvin Meyers is.”

Rick clicked his tongue.

”Bad timing for the rest of us, because I’ve been getting buried in calls for months.”

He shuffled a stack of papers dramatically. ”Seriously... listen to this.”

”When’s Marvin releasing another song?”

”Has he quit music?”

”Has money gone to his head?”

”Is the album real?”

”Rick, do you know something we don’t?”

He laughed again.

”No! I didn’t know anything!”

”Until this landed on my desk yesterday.”

Another deliberate pause.

”Honestly?”

”I wanted to hate this kid.”

The control room burst into laughter.

”I really did.”

”Because nobody should be allowed to write bestselling books, star in hit movies, survive leopard attacks, and then stroll back into the studio like, ’Oh yeah... here’s another song.’”

More laughter echoed behind him.

”Life just isn’t fair, folks.”

He sighed theatrically.

”But...”

”I’ve heard the record.”

”Three times.”

He paused.

”Actually...” he admitted, ”four.”

”And now it’s stuck in my head.”

”Which means...”

”Congratulations...”

”It’s about to get stuck in yours, too.”

You could hear the smile in his voice.

”All right, Los Angeles... everybody across America... and to everyone catching us around the world...”

”...You’ve waited long enough.”

”Here’s the world premiere of Marvin Meyers’ brand-new single...”

”*That Girl*.”

The first piano notes floated from the speakers.

Conversation inside the Mercedes vanished.

Even Gordon found himself easing off the accelerator, unconsciously matching the gentle rhythm as the city rolled past outside.

At that exact moment, the same melody spilled from tens of thousands of radios across Southern California—through convertibles on Mulholland, diners along Ventura Boulevard, record stores on Sunset, beach cafés in Santa Monica, and apartments from Pasadena to Long Beach.

Most listeners had tuned in expecting another afternoon of familiar hits.

Instead, they were about to hear the beginning of the next one.

The prelude alone was enough to magnetically attract the attention of listeners. It was a hook that dug deep and refused to let go.

Then, Marvin’s clear, resonant, magic-filled voice—carrying a hint of soulful hoarseness that completely belied his physical age—sounded through the speakers.

The trap was fully sprung.

Across the city, people found their attention irresistibly drawn toward it. The Incubus magic woven deep within the vocals and the tender warmth hidden beneath the melody quietly began working its influence. It was a yearning woven into the music itself—an aching desire for affection, adoration, and love that slipped gently into the hearts of all who listened.

The effects were immediate within the enclosed, intimate space of the car.

Marvin sat perfectly still, staring out the tinted window at the passing city lights blurring in the rain. He was entirely aware of the shift happening around him.

As the chorus hit, Lindsay went completely silent mid-sentence. Her breath hitched. She shifted closer on the leather seat, the space between them evaporating. Her small hand reached out almost involuntarily, wrapping around Marvin’s right arm. Her fingers clung to the fine fabric of his shirt as the melody washed over her, her eyes wide and entirely focused on his profile.

A second later, he felt a soft weight on his left side.

Amy, the consummate professional who had spent the last two days sitting stoically in meeting rooms, unconsciously mirrored the action. She slid closer, her platinum bracelet catching the streetlights. Her hand wrapped around his other arm, her grip surprisingly tight. Her eyes drifted shut as the music filled the car, completely surrendering to the overwhelming, protective warmth and the charm of the young man sitting between them.

Marvin didn’t pull away. He simply let the rain streak down the window, entirely satisfied with the song’s effects on his women.

The windows of the car blurred the neon lights of Manhattan into long, glowing ribbons. Inside the spacious, leather-scented cabin, the atmosphere was thick, vibrating with an energy that had nothing to do with the engine.

​Gordon steered the SUV through the congested evening traffic, while Jeff sat in the passenger seat, tapping his PDA. The piano music had faded out, replaced by a crisp, driving acoustic guitar riff that bled through the high-end speakers, instantly cutting through the sticky summer heat of 1999.

It was followed by a tight, rhythmic, pulsing bassline that felt refreshingly alive—nothing like the over-synthesized bubblegum pop dominating the charts. This was proper pop-rock: warm, melodic, and full of heart.

The production was immaculate, the acoustics inside the car making it feel as though the band were performing from the backseat. At that very moment, the same melody was pouring from radios across the eastern seaboard, threading itself into the lives of millions simultaneously.

Then Marvin’s voice filled the car—textured, slightly hoarse, and carrying a resonance far too mature for a thirteen-year-old vocals. The Incubus magic was already woven deep into every note and frequency.

*”There’s a girl... but I let her get away...”*

His delivery was lazy yet aching, intimate in a way that made the hairs on listeners’ arms rise.

*”It’s all my fault... ’cause pride got in the way...*

*And I’d be lying if I said... I was okay...*

*About that girl... the one I let get away...”*

The magic acted like a carrier wave, slipping effortlessly past defenses and sinking straight into the soul. What should have been simple radio pop felt like a private confession whispered directly into each listener’s ear.

Across radios in cars, shops, and living rooms, people unconsciously turned up the volume.

*”I keep saying no...*

*This can’t be the way it was supposed to be...*

*I keep saying no...*

*There’s gotta be a way... to get you close to me...”*

The driving acoustic guitar kept its crisp, forward momentum, the bass pulsing steadily beneath it like a heartbeat. Gentle electric guitar layers and smooth backing harmonies filled the spaces, giving the track a soothing pop-rock warmth—catchy enough to move your shoulders, emotional enough to stop you in your tracks.

Although the lyrics spoke of regret and loss, Marvin’s voice transformed the song into something healing.

It gave the song an unexpected lightness, as though even heartbreak could become a memory worth smiling about.

The melancholy was raw and honest, but wrapped in a strange, comforting magic that soothed the exact wounds it described. It was a beautiful paradox: the song made people feel the ache, and then gently healed it at the same time.

*”Oh... you don’t wanna lose that love...”*

His voice dipped lower, warm and persuasive, like a caring friend offering life advice.

*”It’s only gonna hurt too much...*

*I’m telling you... you don’t wanna lose that love...”*

Across the country, conversations trailed off.

As the song spread across the airwaves, small moments unfolded almost unnoticed.

In downtown offices, radios that usually faded into the background were turned up a notch, conversations tapering off as people listened without quite realizing they had.

A woman sat in her car outside a supermarket with the engine still running, fingers resting on the steering wheel long after the light had turned green behind her.

A teenage boy, stretched across his bed with homework scattered around him, stopped pretending to read. He stared at the ceiling instead, thinking about a girl he hadn’t spoken to in months for reasons that suddenly felt embarrassingly small.

In diners and cafés, waitresses paused beside tables for an extra heartbeat before carrying on with their rounds.

Teenagers sprawled across bedroom floors reached for the volume dial instead of the station selector.

The song never demanded tears.

It simply lingered where old memories lived, brushing against words left unsaid, apologies never offered, and people who had quietly drifted out of one another’s lives.

For a few minutes, the noise of the day seemed a little farther away.

Nobody knew the lyrics yet.

Nobody was singing along.

But by the time the first chorus arrived, countless listeners had made the same quiet decision without thinking about it.

They stayed.

Just to hear how the song ended.

That was all a new record could ask for on its first spin.

The chorus swelled again, the acoustic riff driving forward with renewed energy while Marvin’s textured voice soared with just the right amount of soulful grit:

*”There’s a girl... but I let her get away...”*

The emotional enchantment made every listener feel personally addressed. Some whistle under their breath. Others let tears slip down their cheeks without embarrassment. The song didn’t just play—it reached in, held the pain for a moment, then left behind a gentle, hopeful warmth.

By the final repeat of the hook, the entire track felt like a soft summer night breeze carrying both nostalgia and renewal. The crisp guitar, the pulsing bass, and Marvin’s uniquely mature, magically charged voice blended into something unforgettable.

Even long after the song ended, the melody lingered in people’s minds, but not as torture. It lingered as comfort. A quiet reminder that it was okay to feel the regret... and even better to finally let it go.

Marvin had done it again.

The song slipped quietly into people’s hearts.

A girl who had spent the past hour crying over a breakup realized, somewhere between the second verse and the chorus, that she’d stopped crying.

A university student buried beneath textbooks leaned back in his chair and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding all afternoon.

A middle-aged man driving home after another exhausting day reached the end of the song before noticing he’d missed his usual exit.

Most listeners wouldn’t have been able to explain why they stayed.

Music critics would spend the following weeks trying.

They wrote about the melody, the restraint in the arrangement, the sincerity of Marvin’s delivery, the way sadness and hope seemed to exist in the same breath. They called it emotionally resonant. Cathartic. Timeless.

They weren’t wrong.

They simply couldn’t hear what lay beneath the music.

Marvin’s voice carried more than lyrics.

The melody carried more than notes.

****

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