“Good morning, Mr. Tannen. I’ve been instructed to take you back for a photo check first thing. Mr. Marshall wants the images to discuss during your meeting.” The receptionist clicks down the hall, but my longer strides put me even with her.
“Photos? I didn’t know anything about pictures,” I tell her.
She smiles kindly, and I realize I’m simply a checkmark on her to-do list.
I’m not ready for pictures today, though I’m not exactly the fresh-shaven, styled-hair type. I just need to mentally prepare myself to pose and be paraded around. The ability to let someone else take control isn’t really my best feature.
“Wow,” Rory, the photographer says with a smile when we come in.
The receptionist smiles and talks to Rory out of the side of her mouth as though I’m not here. “I know.”
I ignore their shit, not wanting or needing their attention that way. Only Willow’s.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, Bobby.”
Rory pulls a stool from somewhere and sits me down by the large window. “Lean forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped together. Give me a flirty smile.”
Click.
That sound is so familiar. Aching and longing rise up in my throat. I want to check Willow’s blog and see what she posted today so I can live her day with her. Since I’m not there, it doesn’t seem as creepy. And as this point, I don’t give a fuck if it is.
“Yes,” Rory coaches. “Madder. Show me angry.” Click. “Okay, now like you want to hate fuck, not kill me.” Click.
“Are you comfortable doing a few with your shirt off?” Rory asks. “Your call, but I think we could get some good shots if I’m right about what’s underneath that T-shirt.”
I’m not shy about my body. It serves me well, doing the work I need it to. “That’s fine. As long as they’re not . . .” I search for the word I want, but Rory jumps in and reassures me without it.
“Tasteful, of course. Nothing pornographic or too vulgar. Fresh out of bear-skin rugs, I’m afraid.” He laughs, teasing, and though it takes me a second to follow suit, I do because I’ve relaxed with him enough now.
I pull my T-shirt over my head and lay it on the table. I stand where he directs me and he takes several more shots. Click, click, click.
He looks at his camera, an even bigger one than Willow’s, and smiles. “We’ve got it. Several options, in fact. I’ll send them on to Jeremy right now.”
I shake Rory’s hand, all professional. “Thanks, man.”
“Pleasure was all mine. Good luck, Bobby.”
I pull my T-shirt back on right before the receptionist comes back to get me. “This way, please. They’re ready for you now.”
In the conference room, there’s no mistaking the vibe. They’re eager, smiling, hungry, and excited. That’s got to be a good sign.
“Bobby! Come on in and have a seat. So much to go over.” Jeremy is more enthusiastic than he was at Hank’s, bordering on Loretta territory. But he wants my music, not my dick. Presumably.
I sit down and see that the folders are back, thicker than they were on Friday.
“How’s your weekend been, Bobby?” Jeremy starts. “Have you enjoyed yourself?”
I don’t see why that matters at all, but the truth is, I have. Singing for a new crowd is something I would’ve never done, but it felt like a test I aced. And the recording studio time was a learning experience I’ll never forget. In the span of a few hours, Miller made me a better musician, something I’ll always be grateful for. Room service is also something I could get used to real fucking easily. One phone call, and any type of food shows up at the door, and you can eat in bed leaned back on a pillow fort’s worth of feathers.
“It’s been an experience,” I reply. “A great one.”
His smile grows, and I get the sensation of being a fish on a hook, but if the boat is a record deal, reel me the fuck in, Bassmaster.
“Good, good. Okay then, let’s get to it. Crowd reports?”
Glasses Guy—I should probably learn his name if this does go somewhere—opens his folder and reads from a sheet. “Overall, positive feedback across the board. The audience really liked the voice, the songs, and the appearance. Some slight variance in presentation versus expectations, as we’ve discussed.”
The voice? You mean my voice?
The songs? As in my songs?
The appearance? Like the way I look?
He’s talking about me like I’m a loaf of bread on sale at the grocery store, not a real person.
“Demo?” Jeremy inquires.
The television comes to life, and a camera recording from the studio plays. I hadn’t even realized they were recording there, other than the audio tracks.
Miller coaches me on the growl, and it plays back the updated version. If I say so myself, it sounds great. Then there’s Miller’s praise.
One of the guys from Friday night pipes up, “Miller said this was one of the best voices we’ve sent him in years. And he’s coachable. He’s all in with the changes we went over.”
I’d love to work with Miller more, but what changes?
“What else?”
Blue Blouse, who ironically is wearing another blue shirt today though this one is pale cornflower, raises her hand. “I’ve got raw images from Rory. These two are my selections.” She types on her phone, then points to the screen where two images of me are displayed side by side. In the first, I’m sitting and snarling at the camera. In the second, my shirt is off and the light through the window creates shadows over my chest and jawline.
Not bad, Tannen.
I’m cocky enough to know those pictures look damn good.
Jeremy nods, humming. “So, we’re all in agreement on the direction we’re going?”
Everyone else smiles and nods back, mimicking the boss man. Except for me. I lean forward, hands folded over one another on the table. “Excuse me, but what the fuck are y’all talking about?” I growl.
Blue Blouse flinches again. I think I scare her. But Jeremy grins as he points at me. “That. That’s what we’re aiming for.”
I glare, still confused.
I think this weekend has gone well. It felt like it did to me. But I do not like feeling like the only stupid idiot in the room not in on the joke. They’ve got ‘directions’ and ‘changes’ they’ve discussed, and I don’t know a damn thing about any of it.
Jeremy’s chuckle irritates the fuck out of me this time, getting under my feathers and scratching deep. “Let me explain how this all works, Bobby. I forget sometimes that regular people don’t know this side of the industry like we do.” He gestures to the people at the table, not including me in his little clique. “Step one, I have to feel that you have something special. That unique thing that makes me want to know more. Step two, basically . . . this weekend. I’m good, but I have people I trust to help me make these decisions. Like Miller and Rory. Step three, if I think you’re good enough, moldable enough” —he looks me in the eye— “and lucrative enough, then we make a deal. That’s the goal, right? A record deal, your name in lights, crowds chanting your name and singing your songs?”
I get the feeling he’s given this speech before, but just because it’s practiced doesn’t make it any less true. He’s right, and he damn well knows it.
That is what I imagined all those years ago.
I take a breath, forcing myself to settle and hear him out. Not because he’s right but because he has something I want, and flying off the handle isn’t the way to get it.
“Good,” he coos, and I grit my teeth at his tone. “As I was saying, I do think you’re good enough. Your voice is special, Bobby. One in a million, instantly identifiable with that first note but with that shock of surprise when you push or break.”
Shit’s getting deep in here. Part of me wants to preen at the praise and part of me wants some waders to keep my boots clean because this is slimier than pig shit.
“Thank you.” Mom and Mama Louise would be proud
of my manners. Hell, Judge Myson would be too, considering my past.
“As for lucrative, I think you could be. It’ll take a team, marketing to radio, planning appearances, vetting endorsements, and choosing songs, but together, I think we could change your life in a major way. What’s something you’ve always wanted? Think big, Bobby. Anything at all . . . cars, boats, house. What is that thing for you that would truly signal success?”
I feel that fishhook wiggling and swim right after it, wanting in that boat.
“Tannen Farm,” I answer easily. There’s not even a question. That’s what I want more than anything, to own our land again. We’ll figure something out with the Bennetts because we’re pretty integrated now, and dividing it back up would be hard as hell. But we could do it.
“I can make that happen, Bobby.”
Jeremy’s smile is predatory. He thinks he’s the hunter and I’m the prey. Truth be told, I’m hunting him and what he’s hoarding . . . that record deal. My record deal. It’s the means to an end for me. It’ll let me buy the farm, support Willow and me, and give me an outlet to quiet this monster inside me the only way I’ve ever been able to, with singing on stage.
“What’s the catch?”
There’s always a catch.
“Not a catch, a question. Like I said, one of the things we look for is how moldable you are. Every artist comes in here one thing and leaves another. It’s all about image, perception, character. Some are family guys, and we do everything we can to make sure nothing gets out that might tarnish that image. Some are party hit makers, and they talk about beer and alcohol like water even when they’re one hundred percent sober. It’s all about creating Bobby Tannen.”
My name doesn’t sound like my name when he says it like that.
“Okay,” I drawl out. “So you want me to write an ode to Jack Daniels?”
Everyone laughs. I don’t get the joke.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Glasses Guy pipes up. He writes that down on a sticky note and puts it in the folder.
“You don’t need me to tell you that you’re an attractive man,” Jeremy says, pointing at the television screen that still has my pictures up.
“Uh, what?”
“You have a certain look . . . rough, country, an asshole bad boy.” The first of those are true, and honestly, the last one is too, to a certain extent, so I don’t argue. I’m hoping we’re not discussing my arrest record again, though. “That was the biggest feedback we got at the Bar too. When you came out, people were ready for something harder, edgier from you. I think you have that in you, so we want to play that up. Find you some songs that pull that direction, maybe even have you work with some of our proven writers if you’d like to create some. The plan is to really make you seem Bad Ass—that’s with a capital B and A.” He winks at me like that was funny.
“So, some new songs? I can do that.”
That’s totally doable. I can channel into some darker experiences—the anger I felt when Mom died, the confusing blend of relief and fury I felt when Dad died, the heartbreak of losing the farm. And they don’t have to be about my life. I can write from someone else’s point of view to share their experience too.
Pain, sharp and sweet, like whiskey through my veins. Makes me feel alive, only to make me numb.
I can do that.
“Songs, but there’s more. We’ll need to put together a band. You can have a hand in selecting from a small group of vetted musicians so that the vibe feels right. We’re leaning toward something like this for promo shots—”
He looks to Blue Blouse and she clicks on her phone again. The television screen changes. The picture of me without my shirt on comes to the center, but it’s been edited. The shadows are enhanced, the contrast bumped up and some sort of dark, splotchy frame overlaid on it. With my thick arms crossed over my bare chest, featuring the tattoo on my bicep prominently, and my eyes near black and piercing, I look like a man who would beat the shit out you and fuck you at the same time. The text across the bottom proclaims, To Hell and Back. Underneath that is my name.
“This is a mock-up of the cover album art,” Blue Blouse tells me.
“I look like a mean son of a bitch,” I growl out, not sure about this. Blue Blouse shrinks a tiny bit.
“Aren’t you?” Jeremy asks.
He’s got a point. I guess I’m just not used to seeing myself that way. Nobody’s taking pictures when my brothers and me are throwing down. But in this room, I’m definitely the anomaly. Hell, maybe my whole family is the anomaly and most people are softer, sweeter, and kinder than we are. Willow certainly is.
But it’s not all that I am. I’m the guy who likes to rub a baby goat’s soft belly just because it feels good. I’m a guy who lets my nephew sometimes win at cornhole when he’s having a bad day. I’m the uncle who airplanes Cindy Lou around the fields, lifting her to touch the fruit she wants to grab.
I tilt my head instead of agreeing with him.
“Last but not least, I think you’re well aware that your primary audience is female. I saw a woman asking for your autograph at Hank’s. The crowd there was largely female, and the feedback from the Bar is that the women mostly wanted to sleep with you, whether you could sing or not.” He laughs, shooting me a good ol’ boy grin that I don’t return.
“Yeah, I don’t really care about any of that. I’ve got my girl back home. Willow.”
I sense the eyes at the table turning to Jeremy and watch his smile melt into a frown.
“About that, we’ll need you to lose the girl.”
“What?” I hiss.
Anger boils in my gut. My teeth clamp down and my hands fist as I glare across the table. I measure the distance, deciding whether I need to go around the table to punch Jeremy or I have the wingspan to reach him from here.
He holds up his hands, palms toward me in a ‘settle down’ motion. “Wait. I’m not asking you to break her heart . . . though that would actually be good for your image if you’re looking for a way out?” At my silence, he continues. “But a single, sexy bad boy whom all the women want sells albums. And that’s my goal. And yours too, right?”
It is. But not at the cost of losing Willow.
Not when I just found her.
“Not that way. I love her. And she has nothing to do with whether I can sing or not.”
“Of course she doesn’t. But she has everything to do with the image you project, and it’s our job to tell you when what you’re doing doesn’t work. The way Miller helped Dig Down Deeper be better and Rory helped you pose to show your best assets. You can see that, right?”
“That’s not the same thing and you fucking know it.”
Jeremy looks cool as a cucumber while I’m fired up and ready to walk. He purses his lips, hands steepled in front of his chest. “Here’s the deal, Bobby. NCR Records is prepared to offer you a very good deal. This is not the sort of deal most new artists receive, but I believe that you have the makings of a true star. I want to help you get there. On stage, your name in lights, people singing along with every word. I want you to buy Tannen Farm for your brothers and sister.”
He knows which knife to twist because I feel that one sharply.
“But only you can decide if you want that. You have to be willing to go all in. You sing cover songs. You think those guys didn’t do things they didn’t want to do? You think they didn’t give up one dream to chase a more important one? Hell, I have a kid who gave up a full-ride scholarship to an Ivy League school for a record deal that was a hell of a lot less than what I’m offering you. You’re special, Bobby. But this industry will test you every single day to see how much you want it, how far you’re willing to go to get it.”
No. It’s too much to ask.
I’m ashamed to say that there’s a tiny seed of doubt, though. This is something I’ve wanted for so long, since before I got Betty. This has been growing since I was a kid singing along with the songs on the radio. A dream I lost a long time ago when real
life took priority and took away any real chance I might’ve had at making a go of my music. But maybe I didn’t lose the chance. Maybe this is it.
Now.
To get on stage and bleed myself for bigger crowds. Surely, that would quiet the thoughts and emotions and broken phrases of lyrics that never leave me alone.
To buy the farm back. I know Brody wants that more than anything. It holds him back in everything he does, even with Rix. He feels like a failure because we lost it when he was in charge of protecting it and us. It wasn’t his fault, but no amount of telling him that can make him truly believe it. But this would let me give him his pride back, his square of dirt that he builds his entire self-worth on.
To show Mom, up in heaven, that her boy did make it. That I’m good enough.
Fuck.
“You don’t have to decide right now. In fact, I want you to think it over. That shows how serious you take it, how much this means to you and how dedicated you’ll be once you’ve signed on that dotted line you’ve wanted for so long.” Every word out of his mouth is designed to manipulate me, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. It might very well take that.
The question is . . . is the payoff worth the price of admission?
No, it can’t be. It won’t be.
The refusal is on the tip of my tongue, ready to be spat out with all the venom I feel at his even considering this a reasonable demand. But my mouth stays shut, my teeth ground together.
“Have a lawyer read over the contract and get it back to me. But don’t wait too long, Bobby. You’ve already waited long enough, stayed in that small town long enough. It’s your turn. Your time now.”
He’s playing me like a damned pro, and he’s good at it, hitting every chord just right and letting it reverb so I feel the echo of it like a scream across a canyon inside my soul.
Chapter 18
Willow
“You heard from Tannen yet?” Unc asks for the fifth time today. Forgetfulness is not a side effect of his medication or his condition. However, he’s as anxious as I am about Bobby’s trip to Nashville and wanting news.
Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3) Page 25
