Highball Rush: Bootleg Springs Book 6

by Kingsley, Claire

  My phone rang and I set my coffee on Yui’s desk so I could dig it out of my oversized purple handbag. Half my life was in this bag. I shuffled through makeup, a hairbrush, my planner, a few cords, several power adapters, headphones, two bras, a tank top I thought I’d lost, and an unopened toothbrush before I came up with my phone.

  Yui stood. “I’ll let you take that. I need to go talk to Tracey over in marketing.”

  I nodded and tapped the button to answer. “Hello?”

  “Maya, it’s Cole. Thank god you answered. I’m seriously screwed right now.”

  I leaned back in the chair. I’d worked with Cole Bryson a few years ago when he’d been suffering from a serious case of sophomore slump anxiety. His first album had been a huge hit, but he’d caved under the pressure to follow it up. When Oliver had sent me out to work with him, he’d been swimming in liquor and self-doubt. I’d helped him pull himself together, write the rest of his songs, and finish the album. And it had sold better than his first.

  “Hi Cole, good to hear from you. I’m doing just fine, glad you asked.”

  He groaned. “I’m sorry, I’m just panicking.”

  “Panicking over what?”

  “We’re in the studio and I swear to god, nothing sounds right. I don’t know if I can do this again.”

  “Of course you can do it again. You’ve done it twice. Your fans love your music.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Cole, listen. We’ve been down this road. There is no but. Albums can flop, we both know that. It’s the risk you take when you put yourself out there. But you can’t worry about that when you’re in the studio. All you need to do right now is put your heart into your music.”

  “Yeah…”

  “What did we talk about before I left?”

  “Turn off distractions. Get enough sleep.”

  “Have you been doing that?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I leave my phone off the whole time I’m in the studio. I’ve been sleeping normal hours, not going out partying. And no girls. I swear.”

  I rolled my eyes. Like most young men who found fame, Cole had succumbed to the allure of the countless women who were more than happy to jump into bed with him. To say they’d been a distraction was an understatement. “Okay, so what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re just playing head games with yourself,” I said. “Are you still recording in Seattle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Here’s what you’re going to do. Take a day off. Drive… anywhere, really. Just get out of the city. I’ve been there and it’s gorgeous. Go to Mount Rainier or take a ferry to Whidbey Island. Find a place where you’re surrounded by the natural world. A beautiful setting where you can just be. Let that recharge your batteries.”

  “Okay,” he said, and I could practically hear him nodding. “Yeah, that does sound good.”

  “Awesome. Then get back in the studio and get the fuck back to work.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I know, I know. Thanks, Maya.”

  “Anytime.”

  I hung up and dropped my phone back in my bag.

  “Maya?” Oliver poked his head in Yui’s office. “Good to see you.”

  “Hey.” I stood, shouldering my big handbag, and shook his hand. “Ready for me?”

  “Yeah, thanks for waiting.”

  “No problem.”

  I grabbed my coffee and followed him into his office. Unlike Yui’s, which was stylishly modern, Oliver’s office looked like it belonged to a hard-core music fan. He had vintage band posters in frames and several shelves displayed his collection of music memorabilia.

  He sat behind his mahogany desk, dressed in a Nirvana t-shirt. His dirty blond hair was short, his face smooth. His gunmetal wedding ring stood out against his tanned skin.

  I took a seat on the other side of his desk and sucked down more of my coffee.

  “You kinda look like shit,” he said.

  I shot him a glare. “I’ve been in the country for less than twenty-four hours. I think. I’m actually not sure what time it is. Or what day. Who are you, again?”

  He grinned. “God, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. Just tell me why I’m here and not sleeping off jet lag in Yui’s stupidly comfortable guest bed.”

  “Before I tell you, let me just say, I fully intended to give you some time off. I’m not such a dick that I don’t realize you’ve been on tour and you just got back. So I wouldn’t have asked you to come in if it wasn’t important.”

  “It’s not that big a deal,” I said. “I’m used to it. Besides, you know me, I don’t do time off.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  I took another sip. “Oliver, you’re a great boss, but if I need someone to bug me about working too much, I’ll call my parents.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve been home to see them, by the way?”

  “Oh my god. You just told me you were going to give me time off, which means now you’re not. But you’re going to give me crap about how much I work and toss in a guilt trip about my parents?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m probably projecting. Nat’s been on my case about the holidays and how long it’s been since we’ve seen my family. It’s fucking August, and she’s trying to make Thanksgiving plans.”

  Nat was Oliver’s adorable wife. While he was managing a recording empire, she was wrangling their two little boys.

  “It’s fine, and tell her I said hi. But can we get to the part where you tell me where I’m going and whose ass I need to kick? Is it Saraya again? Is she having another existential crisis? Not that I mind. I love Nashville.”

  “No, she’s fine, as far as I’m aware. I actually need you to go check out some new talent for me.”

  That was odd. I wasn’t a talent scout. I worked with Attalon’s existing artists; I didn’t look at potentials. “Why?”

  “Why do I want you to check him out, or why am I sending you?”

  “Both.”

  “Because he has something,” he said. “You know what I’m talking about. That X-factor we’re always looking for. This guy has it oozing from his pores. I want to get to him before someone else does.”

  “And why me?”

  “Because we can’t get him to talk to us.”

  I laughed. “If he won’t talk to you, why bother? Did you run out of wannabe rock stars who’d sell their souls for a record contract?”

  “I’m telling you, he’s different. I have a feeling about him.”

  Oliver did have amazing instincts. If he thought this guy was special, he was probably right.

  “Okay, so he’s good, but he won’t talk to you. I still don’t know why you want me to go see him.”

  “He’s a bit… hostile,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You have the magic touch with guys like this.”

  “You want to send me to meet with a hostile singer who doesn’t want a record deal?” I asked, my tone wry. “How could I ever say no to that?”

  “I’ve sent you into worse situations than this. Hell, when you went into the studio with Outbound I wondered if you’d get out alive.”

  I waved a hand. “They’re a bunch of teddy bears.”

  “You’re literally the only person in the world who’d say that. You handle broody rock stars like a champion bull-rider. You’re a miracle worker, and I need a miracle with this guy.”

  He was kind of talking me into it. Not that I knew what I was doing when it came to signing new talent. But if he just needed me to get the guy to meet with us, I could handle that.

  “Where is he?”

  “Some small town in…” He paused, his eyes going to his monitor. He clicked the mouse a few times. “West Virginia.”

  My back stiffened and I kept my eyes down, smoothing my expression to keep the storm of emotions off my face. I picked up my coffee and took a sip, as if nothing was wrong. As if I didn’t have a sudden surge of anxiety that made my stomach churn.
>
  Oliver didn’t seem to notice. Because of course he didn’t. I was a very good actress when it came to the everything is fine charade.

  “You know, I don’t think I’m the right person to send out there,” I said, still playing the part—and playing it well. I was fine. “I don’t know anything about contracts or making deals. If you need someone to get an artist past a block or prevent a band from breaking up, I’m your girl. But this? Not my area. Plus, I just got back. You admitted I need some time off. Go with that instinct.”

  I was lying through my teeth. I didn’t want time off. I never did. Oliver wasn’t the reason I went straight from one project to another, never slowing down. I visited my family in upstate New York once in a while, but other than that, I was always on the road. Always ready for the next project.

  Unless it was in West Virginia.

  “Fine. I give. I’ll send someone else. Or maybe I’ll go myself. But do one thing for me.”

  “Sure.”

  He clicked his mouse a few times. “Listen to him. Someone took the video in a bar with their phone, so the sound quality could be better. But tell me what you think. Maybe I’m wrong about him. I’d like your opinion.”

  The screen faced away so I couldn’t see—which I appreciated. Oliver was always interested in talent first and foremost, rather than looks or image. We both knew that image mattered, but a pretty face had always been a distant second when it came to recruiting new artists.

  A hum of noise, like a crowd in a bar, almost drowned out the sound of an acoustic guitar strumming the first chords of a song. Someone whistled and another person hooted. The melody grew as the crowd quieted. Whoever he was, he was good.

  The song was soft—almost mournful. Before the guy even started singing, it was tugging at my heartstrings. Then he sang the first line and my breath caught in my throat. That voice. It was deep and husky, with a sexy gravelly quality. I knew immediately why Oliver wanted to sign him so badly—he did indeed have that special something—but that wasn’t why I suddenly felt like I couldn’t breathe.

  Nor was it why I found my lips parting, and words leaving my mouth. “Okay, I’ll go. I’ll talk to him.”

  4

  GIBSON

  The Crafty Cow Tavern in Hayridge—about fifty miles outside Bootleg Springs—was crowded. Couples swayed to our songs in front of the tiny platform they called a stage. Tables were full, barstools all occupied. Not bad for a Thursday night. Tips ought to be good.

  I sat on a tall stool, one foot on a rung, my guitar in my hands. It wasn’t the tips that brought me to places like this. Sure, pocket money was nice. But mostly, I just liked to play. A guitar and a song. It was what I loved.

  The size of the crowd didn’t matter much. Two people or two hundred didn’t make a difference to me. Although even I could admit there was something satisfying about an audience. But it wasn’t about my ego. Music was a transaction. To really be what it was meant to be, music needed a musician to create it, and an audience to listen.

  It was the kind of give and take I could appreciate. And this audience was lovin’ on us tonight.

  Corbin was to my left, on keyboard, and Hung behind, our drummer. We were simple, and country, and didn’t look like we made a lick of sense as a band. Hung was old enough for his hair to have gone gray, Corbin was barely old enough to be in the bar, and at thirty-three, I was somewhere in the middle. But we played damn good music.

  And that was what the crowd was here for tonight. We played. They listened. Simple. I liked simple.

  My fingers strummed the melody and I sang the last few lines. Applause rose in a crescendo as my voice trailed off. I gave a nod and put my guitar back on its stand.

  “We’ll be back after a short break.”

  The crowd clapped and cheered again. Seemed as if a bunch of people were holding up cell phones. Had they been recording me? Jesus. That stupid viral video bullshit needed to die a quick death. It had been over a week since I’d heard about it, and Leah Mae said it had started before that. Some jackass claiming to be from a record company kept calling me, and now this? Weren’t people over it by now?

  I went to the end of the bar and leaned my forearms on the smooth wood. The bartender handed me a water and I took a long drink. Felt good on my throat after singing for the better part of an hour.

  A guy backed into me, spilling water down my shirt.

  “Damn it. Watch where you’re going, asshole.”

  He whipped around, crowding my space. “What’d you call me?”

  The guy reeked of cheap beer and cigarette smoke. I waved my hand in front of my face. “A shower ain’t a bad notion, buddy.”

  “The fuck you talkin’ about? You want to start somethin’, pretty boy?”

  Pretty boy? That was a new one. I’d been called plenty of names in my life, particularly in bars like this, but never pretty boy. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What’choo laughing at?” He poked me in the chest.

  Instantly, I stopped laughing, my blood running hot, my mood flipping to anger like a light switch. My brothers weren’t here to back me up, but I didn’t care. He’d touched me. The need to hit someone—or something—made my hands twitch. I wanted to feel this fucker’s nose crunch under my fist. Craved it like a drunk craved whiskey.

  “Touch me again and I’ll break your face,” I growled.

  “Is that a threat, pretty boy? You think you’re famous now? You can just roll on into our town and be a dick to everybody?”

  “Go ahead,” I said, my voice low. “Touch me again. Please.”

  “Slow down there, Gibs.” Hung’s arm shot out in front of my chest. “Not tonight. We have a set to finish.”

  I held the dickhead’s gaze, my eyes cold, face expressionless. Do it, asshole. Hit me. I loved it when the other guy took the first swing.

  He looked me up and down and took a step back. “Whatever.”

  I didn’t take my eyes off him until he’d disappeared into the crowd.

  “Why you gotta do that, Gibs? We’re here to play, not brawl with the locals.”

  I held out my wet shirt. “I didn’t start shit. He spilled water on me.”

  Hung raised an eyebrow. “It’ll dry. Let’s go.”

  I finished my water and joined Hung and Corbin back on stage. Took my seat on the stool, slung my guitar strap over my shoulder, and adjusted the microphone.

  Without any preamble, we started in on our next song. “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” It was always a crowd-pleaser. In seconds, the dance floor was packed.

  I didn’t bother looking for the jackass who’d almost picked a fight with the wrong guy. He wasn’t important. Instead, I lost myself in the song. In the feel of my fingers strumming the strings. The harmony of our instruments. The rhythm. The way it felt to belt out the lyrics. The energy of the crowd.

  The audience didn’t just take. On a good night, they gave back just as much as they got. Our music made their bodies move, touched their hearts. And in turn, they filled the air with electricity. With a powerful energy. Big crowd or small, the energy was there.

  It fed my soul in a way not much else did.

  We rolled right into another song, keeping the energy alive. It seeped into my skin, ran through my veins. This was my high. Right here, on a little stage in a rinky-dink bar in some podunk town. I loved this shit. I didn’t admit that very often, but I did.

  The crowd danced, cheered, and sang along. With that song done, we paused, just long enough to murmur to each other about what to play next.

  “Play the one from the video,” someone called.

  I glanced up. Who’d said that? I’d only played that song the one time, at the Lookout, and only because I’d lost a bet with Jameson. I’d never planned on playing it again in public. Playing covers of songs everyone loved was easy. They knew them, knew the words, enjoyed them along with us. But my song? One I’d written?

  More people chimed in, calling for me to play the song. I looked ove
r at Corbin, but he just shrugged. Hung nodded.

  I grunted and let out a breath. Fine.

  The crowd hushed as soon as my fingers hit the strings. And there it was again—their energy. It pinged off my skin, like shocks of static electricity. I sang the first few lines and the power grew. It surrounded me, like heat from a fire on a cold night.

  The lyrics poured out, my voice deep and low. I lost myself in the melody, as if nothing else in the room existed but me, my guitar, and that supernatural energy the crowd gave back to me.

  Applause erupted as I strummed the last chord. I opened my eyes—hadn’t quite realized I’d closed them—and stood. Gave the crowd a nod, like I always did. My heart beat a little too fast and I wanted to get out of the spotlight. Singing that song again left me with a full feeling in my chest. I needed some more water.

  I started to lift the guitar strap from my shoulder when my eyes landed on a woman in the crowd.

  Her hair caught my attention. It was long and blond, but in the dim light I could make out streaks of color—maybe purple and blue, it was hard to tell. She had tattoos on both arms. Dark t-shirt. Jeans. She was busy with something on her phone.

  I was about to look away when she glanced up, meeting my eyes. A striking sense of familiarity swept through me, like I should know her from somewhere. She had a scar on her cheek, running down through her upper lip. That wasn’t the sort of thing you’d forget. But I’d never met a woman with a scar like that, so why did it feel like I’d seen her before?

  Once in a while I locked eyes with a girl in the crowd. Sometimes that ended with us in a hotel or back at my place. But this felt different. She was beautiful, no doubt about that. But that wasn’t why I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  She broke eye contact first, her gaze going back to her phone. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. That was weird.

  A second later, I looked up again and she was gone.