by Jaye Ripley
“Have you called her yet?” EJ blows on his coffee.
My head shakes as I stare at the phone.
“I think I should give you fair warning. I might have called Nana this morning.” Two puppy dog innocent eyes look up at me.
“Why the fuck would you do that?” I growl.
His same old smartass demeanor slips back onto his face. “To save you from yourself.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why are you involving yourself in my shit?” EJ’s so close to me knocking the shit out of him. He always dances next to the line, but never crosses it with me. Right now, he could look over his shoulder at it.
“Because I like her. I like the two of you together. And I think she’s good for you, man. I don’t know why you’re icing her out of your life, but even I’m not so stupid as to know how dumb that is. It’s a sure path to losing her. Unless that’s what you want to do. And if that’s the case, then I need to ask you something.”
My teeth clench, but I try for calm and collected. “What?”
“Can I have a go with her? Because she is one of the smartest, most talented, smart mouthed, beautiful women I’ve ever met. And if you’re done with her, then maybe she’d be willing to give me a shot.”
My eyes close. I count to ten. When that doesn’t work, I use a breathing technique to calm my nerves. When that doesn’t work, my fists curl into balls.
“You’d better step away, EJ. I’m not kidding.”
He sets his coffee down on the table. “You want to hit me, then go for it. At least you’d be fighting for something. But after you take me on, you better roll up your sleeves and fight for your girl. Because I doubt she’s gonna wait around for the scraps you’re throwing her.”
My tightened fists let go. Leaning forward, I put my head in my hands. “Shit. Aw fuck, man. Damn, I’m fucking things up, aren’t I?”
EJ lays his hand on my back. “I’m not exactly the right person to give you relationship advice. But I am your friend. And I’m telling you…you’re better when the two of you are a team. Figure out how to achieve that, and you won’t feel like dog shit.”
I groan and rub my face. “Why’d you tell Nana?”
“So she could talk to Mel. Figured it might take two Wilders to knock some sense into both of you. Call it a preemptive strike to keep things from falling apart.”
The voices of the others float down the hall as they walk in our direction. Hart and Mac discuss our performance, and Levi follows behind as quiet as ever. EJ stands up and offers his hand to help me. We both head into the kitchen.
Of all the people in the world to give a shit about my love life, the last person I expected to give me a wake-up call would be the man standing next to me drinking coffee from a mug with “UNT” printed on it.
* * *
“You better not have a list of women I have to kiss, Cowboy.”
Her text still sends a flood of relief through me every time I read it. Maybe because we’ve earned some days off or maybe because of my self-awareness of being an asshat, but with that one text, she’s given me the strength to swallow my pride and stop being an asshat. Damn, it feels fucking awesome to be back to normal. At least, our current level of normal.
For the past two mornings, I call her so we can wake up together. After she curses me out for not letting her get more sleep, I take advantage of her semi-sleepy disposition, adding to our collective number of orgasms. When my girl gets verbal, she gets creative.
Performing well at the Lyric Ridge’s Showcase has earned us three whole days to ourselves. More time to make up and reconnect with Mel. More time to shake off the load from the pressure. Just more fucking time.
With Mel back in my life as an active participant, things feel more balanced. The extra time to sleep and hang out with the guys without somebody from Lyric Ridge breathing down our necks helps. Mac and I brainstorm lyrics. The more Mel and I talk, the more words and phrases fill my head until they have to be written down.
“It’s about time,” Mac says to me from his perch at the piano.
“For what?” My pen scratches out a couple more words.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “Nothing. Give me the lines again.”
The tenuous formation of a song stretches and pushes, taking shape. I write lines, pulling from my experiences and emotions. Mac picks up the melody I hum to him from the one haunting my waking and sleeping mind. The words come faster after talking with Mel, and there’s no point denying my true muse.
EJ, tired of playing video games, comes into the room and picks up his guitar. It takes two rounds of the completed verses until he picks it up. Adding him into the mix allows the song to round out, go into spaces we haven’t imagined yet. Levi joins us and adds a bass line that shores up what we’ve got. Mac plugs in a USB mic and does a rough cut once Hart settles on his beats. We play for fun, for the music. For us.
The song’s incomplete, but it holds more life in it than anything we’ve written for the label. Yet a major part of me doesn’t want to share it with them.
“No point in asking who the lyrics are talking about.” EJ tries out another guitar run, and winks at me.
“That felt fucking awesome. Like we’re us again, man.” Hart stands up from behind his kit.
“More authentic than that three-chord bullshit they’ve been shoving down our throats,” Levi adds.
We busy ourselves taking care of our instruments, putting them away for the moment. The tension from the time we’ve arrived to the Showcase has masked our true frustrations. If we all sense trouble after such a short break, then how big are our problems?
I sigh. “We can’t just quit.”
“Why can’t we?” asks Hart.
“There’s this thing called a contract. We all signed it.” Mac leans against the piano. “If we don’t give them what they ask for, we’re in breach of it.”
“But they can’t ask for our souls, can they? There’s gotta be a way to compromise. So that we stay, you know, us.” EJ holds onto his favorite guitar like a security blanket.
“How many more shows will we have to fight simply to play what we want to play?” I ask. “You heard Aislynn. Until we make it big, we don’t have much of a choice. And how will we get big if we don’t follow the label’s ‘advice’ so they’ll pimp us out?”
“Pimp. Now there’s an appropriate word.” Hart plays a rim shot. “Spread your legs, guys, because we’re gonna give it to the masses.”
We laugh until the reality of the analogy hits us. Are we whores who do what the pimp of a label says so that they give us just enough?
“Fucking hell. I don’t want to fight every single time we go on stage. And what’s with her pushing you as the face of us? I thought when we got signed, it was as a group. Now it’s the Hunter Ford and Tailgate Down shitstorm all over again.” EJ busies himself with putting away his guitar.
Fuck this shit. Not again. “You think I started all that?” The anger in my voice swells. “That I picked out that shitty shirt all on my own? Or that I’m the one who took the first few pictures? Yeah, of course, I’ve always been a douchebag to all of you. Thank you so much for being my back up band for the concert.”
Old wounds never heal. They scab over.
“No one’s accusing you, Hunt. But it’s clear what image they’re pushing out there. Whether you started it or not, it’s the way things are. How’re you going to stop it?” Mac stands up from his piano. “We’ve got the rest of the weekend until the meeting at the office on Monday. We have until then to figure out how we, collectively, are going to address our issues. We’re all in or we’re all out. Breach or not, I won’t let this come between us.”
The peacemaker speaks and puts us all in our places. For almost a month, we’ve jumped through hoop after hoop, each one a little further away than where we intended to go. Accept one concession, then it’s not hard to give in to another tiny one. We’ve all been stepping on eggshells around each other without knowi
ng it. The last straw comes from us fighting over something as stupid as what we wear or who’s getting the attention, let alone messing with our motherfucking music. Fuck. That. Shit.
We walk out of the room, united in one thought: Things have got to change or end.
34
Hunter
“You can’t just walk away.” Mel’s voice echoes in my bathroom from my phone propped up on a towel and the toothbrush holder.
My fingers work gel in through my hair. “Well, they can’t arrest us and chain us there at the offices. So technically, we can walk away.”
“I meant from your contract, asshat. It seriously can’t be all that bad.”
I freeze and bend down so she can see my face. “Need I remind you of the shirt?”
She smiles. “There are other country stars who wear shirts exactly like that.”
“Not unbuttoned down to here.” My finger touches the top of my abs.
“Where?”
I tap myself. “Here.”
“Pick up the phone so I can get a closer look at where you’re talking about. Or move that finger further south.”
Her sassy mouth causes my dick to stir awake. No time for those types of games this particular morning. I flip her off.
“You can start with that one finger, but you better add another one if you want to feel me come.”
My cock pays even more attention. It starts its own internal argument about having time to canoodle together.
I groan. “Fuck, you’re gonna have to stop, baby, or I’m gonna lock myself in here.”
She laughs. “Okay, okay. So, you feel like the music they want you to record fundamentally changes your image, right?”
I pull up my jeans and tuck Mr. Happy away to focus. “Yeah. That’s part of it. We’ve never been a beer-swilling, no responsibilities, partying type of group. I mean, we’ve done the covers, sure.”
“You guys can play anything and make it sound good. But that’s not the point. Now that a larger audience is going to hear your music, you want it to have integrity. You want everyone to get to know the real band, not some fake image.”
My girl always understands the important things without me having to spell it out. Fuck, I wish she were here in person so I could kiss her face off right now. A picture or video with her in it definitely isn’t enough. Another problem that needs fixing. But not now.
“Well, here’s my two cents. And remember, this comes from a girl who’s never been in the business and only recently recorded a song because she was banging the lead singer of the band.”
I pause and pick up the phone. “Baby, you recorded a song because you have serious talent. And the lead singer would like to bang you whether you sing with him or not.”
She closes her eyes for a second. Her hair spreads under her head and over the pillow as she lies on her side, talking. Looking at me, the corner of her mouth crooks up. “Thank you for that. I was thinking that I would have jumped you right now if I were there. God, I miss you, Hunter.”
My heart stops beating for a moment at her breathy confession. For a split second, the space between us closes, and I feel her presence with me, supporting me.
“We’re going to have to fix that particular problem soon, you know.”
She sighs. “Shit, yeah, I know. I can’t just take a vacation since I used up a bunch of days off before you left. I’ve got bills to pay and a life I have to lead right here for now. But maybe I can take some time off in like a month.”
A month? Too fucking long. Maybe while we’re at the office today, Mac and I can continue working on our additional promotion plan.
EJ bangs on my bedroom door. I pull my black T-shirt over my head and tell him to give me a few more minutes.
“Shit. I’ve gotta go.” With my phone in my hand, I carry her with me into my bedroom.
“Then let me get this last piece in. Remember this. Every last one of you is a true musician. Talented as fuck. And they can’t take your talent away from you no matter what. Even though they heard what you played at the Showcase, load your absolute best on your phone and have that in your pocket. Play them for whoever you’re talking to. Make them see who you are.”
Why hadn’t we thought of that? What use is having technology if we can’t use it to our advantage? Mac needs to bring his computer with him so we can transfer some of our latest rough cuts from our downtime jam sessions.
She finishes. “And if that doesn’t do it, then fuck ‘em. Whatever you and the boys decide, you know you’ve got my support. In this day and age, you can build a career by connecting with the fans directly. You can control the social media rather than letting it fuck with you.”
“Fuck, Mel. I love you.” The words burst out of my mouth. My heart swells with pride, appreciation, and so much fucking love.
A shy smile spreads on her lips. “Love you, too.”
Those words cover me as my shield. No matter what goes down, my girl says she loves me without pain, without suffering. She’s the only true fan I’ll ever need.
“Let me know how things go. Now, go get ‘em, Cowboy.”
* * *
The shiny office building conveys everything it was built to do. It exudes success and power on a grand scale. It buzzes with activity, people running around, doing work, waiting for meetings, carrying papers. Large artistic photo banners of the most successful artists produced by the Lyric Ridge Records hang on the extensive walls.
EJ leans into me and quotes some of our favorite lines from a cult classic about storming the castle. Hart joins in and asks if I think it’ll work.
“It’ll take a huge fucking miracle,” I breathe out. The five of us chuckle.
Aislynn walks toward us. She looks every bit the young executive. Her hair falls in perfect waves, and her dress shows off her curves.
“Damn, if she wasn’t such a calculating bitch that reminded me a bit too much of your ex, I’d actually try to hit on her,” EJ adds.
Her heels stop clicking when she stands in front of us. “Hunter.” She spends an extra second addressing me directly. “Boys. Right on time. Follow me.”
When the elevator doors open, she takes my arm and pulls me in the right direction. Unable to shrug her off without offense, I allow her hands to stay on my bicep. She grips me a little too tight for my liking.
At the door to a glassed-in conference room, she stops and waves us all in. Anyone can watch the meeting and see what goes down. The advantage goes to them. Assistants run in and out of the room to talk to Aislynn, pour us water, or offer to get us anything we want.
Our asses sit at the end of the table in comfortable leather chairs. Everything around us screams money. Instead of excitement pumping through me, a sense of dread overtakes my confidence. If we walk out, they have enough power and finances behind them to smash us to pieces. It’s clear who the royalty is and who’s the motherfucking serfs in a room like this.
Aislynn stands up when she spots three men walking down the hall toward the room. She holds open the door for them. Instead of the queen bee bossing people around, she switches into a more submissive roll.
The guy in the middle of the two suits strides over to us. His face looks familiar. He shakes all of our hands in turn. When he gets to mine, he places his other hand on top to show how truly happy he is to meet me. The subtle hints and actions that shove a wedge between the rest of the guys and me reignite the fire in my belly.
“Hey, guys. I’m Price Howard.”
He introduces the other two men, but my focus hones in on the one at the head of the table. He goes out of his way not to look like the other two. Simple shirt. Jeans, no doubt expensive. Cowboy boots. He wants us to think he’s one of us. His age is harder to figure out. Judging by his face, he’s older than us, but his physique suggests he still cares about his image. Maybe in his late 30’s, early 40’s. Hard to think of him in charge of something so important at his age.
Mac leans to whisper to me. “What the hell is Price Howard
doing in this meeting? He manages some big names. Like Stacia Rollins.”
Fuck, I knew I recognized him. In all my research, his face has popped up a few different times. But Mac knows everyone, making it his mission to understand all of the business side for us.
Aislynn turns her chair and her entire body to face Price, offering him a megawatt smile. “Welcome Price. I’m so happy we could all meet today to discuss the Showcase and the future for Hunter and his band. I hope we can talk about and show you some of our new direction for A&R at Lyric Ridge and what we can do for star artists.”
The guys to the left of me shift in their seats. Not one of us misses the fired shot of Aislynn singling me out again.
Price smiles down the table at us. “Your first performance in Nashville was a great way to start. Tailgate Down by far has the most potential to explode on the scene. You guys know how to work a stage.”
Mac speaks up. “It was an incredible opportunity for us to show what we can do.”
Aislynn interrupts over his last word. “They are so talented, Price. They can play just about anything. So far, the songs we’ve given them sound like instant hits to me. Like the one that brought the house down at the end. If they play like that, they’ll be a household name within the year.”
Fucking conniving bitch. She has her own agenda to attack with, and the ear of the most important exec in the room.
All eyes of my band turn to me. I take a deep breath. “Thank you for the compliment, Aislynn. It’s been an absolute privilege to be included in the cadre of incredible artists you have here, and especially to play for the Showcase. As we all discussed with you, though, we’re even more excited to play the new stuff we’ve been working on. So the households who get to know our name know what we stand for.”
The smile on my face masks the absolute terror coursing through me. The old saying of killing them with kindness only works if they have a weak spot. Aislynn turns her hard gaze on me, challenging me to bring it on.
