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I watch a kid play guitar like a demon has possessed his fingers on the stage at the Bar. His voice is good, but his playing is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Kid can’t be more than nineteen, blond and sweet-looking, but you can tell the music infects him like it does me. He’s exciting to watch.
“He’s good,” I murmur to myself. Jeremy hears me loud and clear.
“You like him? We could see if he’s interested in a guitarist position for your band. I don’t usually pull guys who want to be solo acts, but his vocals would be a good contrast to yours. I’ll get his name and see if he has representation yet.”
All that because I said the kid’s good.
After that, I keep my mouth shut.
I don’t get on stage at the Bar that night. The demon in my gut is screaming loudly, wanting the outlet desperately, but I’m afraid I’ll slit myself open too wide and let everything I’m feeling leak out. Vulnerable is one thing, completely and utterly defenseless quite another.
Miller is already booked, so I have the whole day to myself. Jeremy tried to fill the time with sightseeing tours, as if a trip to the Country Music Hall of Fame is going to keep me in town. He even mentioned getting me a personal tour guide if I wanted. I felt like that was a roundabout way of asking if I needed any company.
I angrily turned him down outright, telling him I’d take the day to write and have something new for Miller tomorrow.
That had appeased him, both that I’m feeling creative and that I’m not leaving town.
Hours later, I’m stuck. This song had poured forth initially, angry, fresh lines of pain, but it needs resolution and I don’t have one. Not for the song, not for myself.
I look around the hotel room. That first trip out here, it’d seemed fancy—a sign that I was on my way, that I was going to make it big.
Now, it seems so temporary. Like everything else.
Nothing about this contract deal, this dream feels the way I thought it would. It’s not as awesome as I thought it’d be. It doesn’t feel exciting and happy. It feels . . .
Meaningless without Willow.
Fuck, I even miss my asshole brothers and the Bennetts. I miss nightly cornhole tournaments and Shayanne’s pot roast putting us on edge to figure out what she’s up to this time.
I look at the room service menu, searching for pot roast for even a small taste of home. But there’s nothing that unsophisticated on the list of dinner options. It’s all filet mignon and haricots verts. A quick Google search tells me that’s steak and green beans, so why don’t they just say so? Even room service isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
I let the boredom distract me, staring out the window at the lights for a while and watching some stupid television show where I don’t even know what’s happening.
I send Brutal a text.
Me: Hey asshole. You check the east pasture?
Brotherly talk for I miss you, are you okay doing your work and mine? It takes a long fifteen minutes for him to respond.
Brutal: Yep. East and did two rows on the southern end too.
Translation, I’m fine. You do what you need to because I’ve got you covered.
Me: Good work.
I love you.
Brutal: Head in the game, man.
I love you too.
I take his words and his meaning to heart. I have work to do and need to stay focused. This isn’t a done deal, for me or Jeremy. At any moment, he could decide that wining and dining me isn’t worth his time if I’m not signing that dotted line. So I’d better make sure he still wants me and all that I bring to the table.
I sit on the couch, pulling the coffee table over and re-reading the lyrics I’ve written so far. I pick up the pen, painfully ripping my soul open to let it pour onto the page.
Gave you everything, I was yours.
Took your heart because you were mine.
Standing in the tatters that you left behind,
I still love you.
“Holy shit, Bobby. That’s . . . Wow!” Miller breathes out with a wide smile.
The song is slow, plucked chords resonating around notes held until my voice breaks. Until I break.
Miller looks at Jeremy, who’s standing over him like a hawk. “We’ll do another take to be sure, but I think we got it in one.”
Jeremy laughs, jabbing the intercom button. “Goddamn, kid. I guess what they say is true . . . a broken heart is the best inspiration! You’re going to be a big hit. You’re the real deal, Bobby.”
“Play it back again. Let me hear it,” he tells Miller. I join them in the booth. The speakers are better in here.
