by Terri Osburn
“Are you certain she’s willing to work with him on this album?”
Hand shading his eyes, Silas searched for the flag in the distance. “He joined us all for dinner Friday night, and they seemed friendly enough.” After putting his ball on the tee, he met Clay’s gaze, expression dead serious. “My girl is ready, willing, and able to make this record. So long as your boy knows what he’s doing, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
There was a reason Silas Fillmore had been a staple in this town for nearly five decades. Clay had respected him from the moment they met, but today, he was starting to like him, too.
“I have faith in Ash,” Clay replied.
“Faith in Jesse is more important,” the older man pointed out. “She’s your artist, not Shepherd.”
Fair point. Like any producer, Ash could be replaced. So could Jesse, if necessary, but Clay wasn’t the type to toss an artist aside without giving them his full effort first. Jesse’s track record with the Honkytonk Daisies, her songwriting abilities, and her natural presence on-stage were all assets in her favor. Most other hopefuls in town didn’t come with such credentials.
There was also her voice, which was as good as, if not better, than any female artist on the radio today.
Doubts put to rest, Clay leaned on his club and offered Silas a friendly smile. “I have complete faith in Jesse, or I wouldn’t have signed her. I just want to make sure we have the right combination going into the studio. If we need to make a change, I prefer to find out now rather than later.”
Silas relaxed and took his position behind the ball. “That’s good to hear.” The club made a whooshing sound before cracking the ball, sending the little white dot sailing over the green to land less than fifty yards from the hole.
This outing may have put Clay’s fears to rest, but Silas’s performance was putting a serious dent in his ego. Clay had played many a pro/am tournament and held his own. The next tournament invite he received, he’d be reaching out to Silas to fill out a foursome.
“That’s a beautiful shot,” called a woman from behind them. “Even for you, old man.”
Clay turned to find Samantha Walters approaching with Clay’s former partner, Tony Rossi. The sight of her, dressed in white pants that accentuated her long legs, a long-sleeve pink polo, collar high, and a white visor settled over dark waves sent the now-familiar surge through his system that hit whenever she was around. A surge of pure attraction. Now that she represented Dylan Monroe, their paths crossed often, and resisting the urge to pursue a more personal connection was proving difficult.
Seeing Tony caused a very different reaction in Clay. First was the ever-present guilt, followed by a hefty dose of jealousy. Clay had never been the jealous type, but the combination of these two individuals together was more complicated than he could untangle in a matter of seconds.
As Samantha embraced Silas, Tony approached Clay with an outstretched hand. They’d parted ways after a nearly twenty-year partnership and a friendship that went back even further. In the two years since, Clay had never been honest with his oldest friend as to why he’d removed himself from the label they’d built together.
“Good to see you, Clay,” Tony said. “I hear you signed the other half of the Daisies. Looks like a score for both of us.”
The Honkytonk Daisies had broken up because Taylor had been coaxed away to Foxfire Records as a solo act. A move Clay would not have tolerated if he were still part of the company.
“I consider it a score, yes.” Clay didn’t want to talk business. Not with Tony. “Silas and I were just moving up the green. We’ll be out of your way shortly.”
“We could make it a foursome,” Tony suggested, and called to Samantha. “Do you mind if we join forces, Sam?”
Samantha met Clay’s gaze. “I don’t mind at all.” There was an invitation in her eyes, and he considered his dilemma. The desire to spend time with the brilliant manager warred with the equal and opposite desire to spend as little time with Tony as possible. A feat he’d managed since following his conscience, ending his affair with Tony’s wife, and walking away from their partnership.
“That’s a nice offer,” Silas said, “but Clay and I are mixing business and pleasure today. Afraid we’ll have to take a rain check.”
Their business discussion was all but over, and Silas knew it. Clay appreciated the out but wondered about the older man’s motives.
Tony’s smile wavered as he said, “Another time, then.”
Samantha joined her golf partner without another glance in Clay’s direction. As he and Silas strode to their cart, Clay made a bold decision.
“Samantha!” he called, and she looked his way. “I’d like to set up a meeting. Are you available this week?”
Though he hadn’t included a reason for the request, she nodded with understanding. “I can make room in my calendar.”
Clay failed to hide the smile as a feeling of accomplishment filled his chest. Two years was long enough. He could never undo his misdeeds, but the self-imposed hiatus from anything personal couldn’t go on forever.
“Good,” he said with a nod. “I’ll call you.”
Once the cart was in motion, Silas said, “Be careful there, boy.”
An odd statement. “Careful about what?”
“I know why you parted ways with Tony, and I know he has no idea. Don’t put Sam in a position to be caught in the crossfire.”
No one knew why Clay left Foxfire except Joanna Rossi, Tony’s wife and Clay’s former lover. Therefore, there was no way Silas could know anything.
“What crossfire?”
Silas sighed. “I ran into Mrs. Rossi around the time we were negotiating Jesse’s contract. She thought the information might give me an advantage. As you know, I didn’t use the knowledge then, and I don’t intend to in the future.” His voice softened. “But I like Sammy. Don’t put her in Joanna’s sights. She doesn’t deserve that.”
They rode on in silence, Clay astounded that Joanna would sink to such depths, yet he should have been prepared for something like this. Not long ago, she’d warned him that she wouldn’t take kindly to being replaced. Clay had written the threat off as a bluff, but he’d clearly miscalculated. If she’d shared the truth of their affair—a secret that could destroy Joanna as well as Clay—to put him at a disadvantage in a minor business deal, what would she do if Clay started dating Samantha?
Suppressing the anger rising inside him, Clay clenched his jaw and breathed through his nose. “Thanks for letting me know, Silas.”
Silas gave a curt nod and kept his eyes on the path ahead.
Eight
For Jesse, reporting to an office on a Monday morning was a completely foreign experience.
She’d worked retail, waited tables, bagged groceries, and even mucked out stalls at one point in her life, but had never worked in an office. The concept of spending eight hours perched in front of a computer, manipulating spreadsheets and answering inane questions when you’d rather staple your lips shut than explain one more time how the copier works, seemed unbearable.
Jesse would take drunks requesting “Free Bird” any day.
Upon entering the Shooting Stars building, the always-smiling Belinda let her know that Ash was waiting in a back conference room. Jesse shoved her sunglasses up on her head and set off down the long corridor behind the reception desk, stopping at the break room for a bottle of water. On the wall to the right of the fridge were two huge posters. One for Dylan Monroe’s debut album, which had released the year before, and the other for Chance Colburn’s forthcoming CD. Both artists were larger than life, and for the first time ever, Jesse considered Taylor breaking up the act a good thing.
Without that kick in the pants, Jesse wouldn’t be on the verge of making her own debut album. And unless she got her butt moving, the verge was as close as she would get. Following the receptionist’s directions, she ducked around a corner and spotted Ash waiting in a small, windowless room.
“It�
��s nine o’clock,” he said the second she walked in. “I thought we said eight thirty.”
“It’s a Monday morning. Cut me some slack.” She set the guitar on the floor and dropped into a black leather chair.
“Still not a morning person?”
“Nope.”
On the table in front of him rested a Fender acoustic. Ready to work, Jesse withdrew her prized possession—a Gibson Dove she’d found in a pawn shop six months after moving to town—from its light-brown case. Unaware of its full value at the time, she’d known enough to recognize that the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar asking price had been a serious bargain.
Later, she’d done her research and put the value closer to twenty-five hundred.
This wasn’t Jesse’s only guitar, and she typically saved it for special occasions, but after getting a taste of Ash’s collection on Saturday, she’d grabbed the Dove with the sole purpose of impressing her new producer.
“Wow,” Ash said. “Where’d you find that beauty?”
“Hickson Pawn in Hermitage. I stumbled across it not long after moving to town. One of those right time, right place moments.” Jesse gave the strings a strum. “Sounds as pretty as she looks.”
“Nice. Give me a taste and play me something.”
Jesse had six songs she was sure were album material, and four more that had potential. She kicked off the first option, titled “Baby Baby,” with its simple melody and lyrics that told the basic girl-meets-boy story. The chorus was super catchy, and she could already imagine crowds singing along during live shows.
When the song came to an end, the last chord still hung in the air as Ash said, “What else do you have?”
Right. Not the reaction she’d hoped for.
Jesse played the next one, which told the story of a girl who literally tripped over Mr. Right, that was titled “Fall For You.” Not as upbeat as the one before it, but the song featured another catchy chorus, and Jesse had always enjoyed performing the tune live back in her days playing the local bars.
Watching Ash more closely this time, she tried to gauge his expression. No head bob. No toe-tapping as far as she could tell. He wasn’t frowning, but he wasn’t smiling either. Adding a little more oomph to her delivery, she finished with a dramatic high note and waited for an encouraging word.
Instead, she got a chin rub and a head tilt.
“Are you considering these songs for the album?” he asked, brows drawn.
“I was,” she drawled, not feeling the love. “You don’t like them?”
Ash shrugged. “They aren’t bad, necessarily, but…”
“But what?”
“They’re fluff.”
Jesse blinked. “They’re what?”
“Fluff,” he repeated. “Musical cotton candy—sweet, thin, and one-dimensional.”
The critique stung. “Tell me how you really feel.”
Ash made no effort to soothe her ego. “What about the songs on the Daisies’ CD?”
“I’m not re-cutting those songs.”
He leaned forward in his chair. “I’m not suggesting you do. I’m asking if you have more songs like those? That’s a great album, and I know you wrote most of the material.”
Partially true. “I co-wrote those songs, and they didn’t sound like the finished versions the first day we walked into the studio.” Wasn’t that why they were here? To take these raw ingredients and make them sparkle? “You don’t think the two I played could be polished into something album-worthy?”
He sat back. “An arrangement can go only so far. What do you have with a little more substance?”
Substance? She wasn’t writing symphonies here. This was a country record. Not that country music didn’t have substance, but Jesse wanted her album to be fun. And more importantly, radio-friendly.
Determined to win him over, she tried another. “Here’s one called ‘Come See Me.’”
Jesse slowed the melody from how she’d originally wrote it and added a bluesy vocal as she sang about a woman suggesting to her ex that he should leave the bar and come see her. At the end of the song, when she thinks he’s ignoring her text messages, the guy shows up at her door.
The song came to an end and again, Ash’s face gave away nothing. Finally, he said, “That’s a solid maybe, but is that all you write about? Women looking for guys?”
What kind of a question was that? Men sang about picking up women all the time. So why couldn’t she sing a few love songs? Country music was built on love and heartbreak, for crying out loud.
“What would you like me to write about, Ash? World peace? Global warming? The eternal chicken-or-egg question? Tell me what you want.”
Unmoved by her outburst, he crossed his arms and held her gaze. “We’re three songs in, and you’re already getting defensive. Did you think this was going to be easy?”
“I didn’t expect you to make it so hard,” she snapped. “And I don’t appreciate the double standard. No one ever tells a guy he should stop singing about getting a woman.”
“I’m not saying you can’t sing about men, Jesse. I’m saying if you’re going to sing about them, it should involve more than the woman saying come over and you can have me. What about all that anger from the Taylor stuff? Have you put that into a song like we talked about?”
Why was he so insistent that Jesse look like the bitter artist who couldn’t get over being ditched? “Did it ever occur to you that if the first thing people hear from me is how Taylor left me high and dry, that I’m the one who’ll look like a loser?”
“I told you, aim it at a guy. Make it a traditional breakup song and say everything you want to say to her.” He arched a brow. “You won’t look like a loser when your song becomes the hit of the summer.”
Jesse liked the sound of that and stopped arguing long enough to consider the idea. She could load all of her anger and attitude into a tune, but she’d done that her first couple of years in town and gotten nowhere. Not until she’d met Taylor and softened her image to fit the duo did anything positive happen. Fiery Jesse had been stuck in small-time honkytonks. Sweet and smiling Jesse had gotten a record deal as part of a duet and managed to grow a modest fan base.
Did she dare mess with her image?
“I’m not interested,” she said, determined to stick to her game plan. “Try this one.”
She ripped into “Letting Loose,” a song about blowing off steam on a Friday night, and though the last verse mentioned having a twirl around the dance floor with a cute guy, the song had nothing to do with finding a man. With a final strum, she looked up, certain to find approval in Ash’s eyes.
“I don’t get it,” he said, knocking the wind out of her. “This isn’t you. Where’s the edge? The attitude? That’s what sets you apart.”
He could not be serious. “These are me. I wrote these songs, and I stand by them.” This was Jesse’s album, dang it, and she would cut the songs she wanted to cut. “I want the record to be fun and upbeat, and this is what will get me on the radio.”
Jaw tight, Ash exited his chair, slid his own guitar into its case, and headed for the door. Was he really going to quit before they’d even started? How dare he walk away from her. Again.
“You can’t—”
“So you want to be on the radio?” he interrupted.
The question confused her. “Of course, I do.”
“Then pack up and let’s go.”
Before Jesse could form a response, Ash ambled from the room and disappeared around the corner. Fearing he’d leave without her, she packed up as fast as she could and hurried after him, catching up just before the receptionist’s desk.
“Where are we going?” she asked, slightly winded.
Ash opened the door, and then held it for her to pass through.
“We’re taking a research trip.”
“To where?”
Pulling keys from his pocket, he headed for his pickup, forcing Jesse to hustle in order to keep up with his long strides. Casting a gla
nce to her Jeep, she debated whether to leave it or not, but then she couldn’t exactly drive herself when she didn’t know where the heck she was going.
After lifting his guitar into the truck bed, Ash took hers—making the decision for her—and slid it into the cab behind the seats. Without another word, he walked around to the driver’s side, leaving the passenger door open.
Jesse crossed her arms, determined not to be kept in the dark. “I’m not getting in until you tell me where we’re going.”
Ash buckled his seatbelt. “If you want to make this record, then get in. If not, take your guitar and go.”
She ground her teeth, trying to decide if he was bluffing.
“In or out,” he snapped.
Cursing a blue streak in her head, Jesse climbed into the Nissan, buckled her seatbelt, and stared straight ahead as the engine roared to life.
“Good choice,” Ash said and set the truck in motion.
Ash pulled into the Music City Center garage, snagged the ticket from the machine, and waited for the bar to lift. Jesse hadn’t spoken since they’d left the label office, which was fine with him. She’d find out his purpose soon enough. Nashville didn’t have much of an off-season when it came to tourists, but October was a less popular month, so he managed to find a space not far from the entrance.
When they climbed from the truck, Jesse reached for her guitar.
“You don’t need it,” he said, closing his door and coming around the front.
As they walked toward the exit, Jesse found her voice. “Where are we going?”
“Next door.”
“What’s next door?”
Ash stopped, and it took Jesse two more steps to realize she was walking alone. Spinning, she said, “What?”
“Are you telling me you’ve never been to the Country Music Hall of Fame?” How did she plan to carry on the legacy of those who’d come before her without knowing anything about them?
Blue eyes rolled. “Of course, I’ve been there. I took Mom and Dad when they visited two years ago.”
His teeth clamped tight enough to chip a molar. “Is that the only time you’ve gone?”
