“How is she?” Hunter asked, hating himself for not following up with Mackenzie to see how her appointment had gone.
“According to my dad, the first year was hard.”
“Your dad knew?”
Brody nodded. “A year before I did. Helped her through the worst of it. Took her to appointments, got her seen by the right doctors and into the best rehabilitation facility in Nashville.”
Hunter gripped the back of his neck with his hand. “He never said a word.”
“Dad wasn’t one for gossip,” Brody said, and Hunter nodded. “He was a man of his word too. And trust me, the only way Mackenzie would have told him anything was if he’d promised her complete silence.”
Hunter cracked open his beer and thought about what all this meant. To him. To Mackenzie. To the rest of his family. Her need for distance had caused her to miss the funeral of a man she’d loved.
What else was she missing out on?
“She’s doing better now,” Brody said quietly. “She’s got a Seeing Eye dog who helps her to get around more on her own, but the adjustment has been rough.”
Hunter took a long pull, letting Brody’s words settle. Trying to imagine how terrified Mackenzie must have been. “How fast did her sight go?”
It had taken Mackenzie’s mom less than three months to go from normal to completely blind.
“I don’t know,” Brody said, and it was good, because Hunter wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “She doesn’t talk about it, not even to Savannah. She came to me about a year after your wedding, right when you were recording your third album.”
Brody paused, as if waiting for Hunter to finally look him in the eye so he could see he was telling the truth. “I hadn’t heard from her before then. I swear. She contacted me about some songs she wrote, asked if I would be willing to represent her independent work.”
“You already represented her.”
“She explained that was up for negotiation too.”
“Sounds like her.” Hunter let out a strangled laugh. Mackenzie had come a long way. She had emerged from her caretaker role focused, driven, and stubborn as hell. A potent combination.
“I asked her what happened, how I could help. She came unglued, told me in no uncertain terms that she was interested in representation, not a handout. Then she sat down at the piano and started playing.” Brody smiled. “The shit of it was she’d gotten even better. I don’t know how she did it, but before she hit the climb, I knew it was a hit. I told her I could pull some strings if she wanted to play at Big Daddy’s. She said if she wanted strings pulled she’d ask Big Daddy herself, because she wasn’t trying to be the next Carrie Underwood: she’d written the song for you.”
Brody took another long swallow, fiddled with the tab of his can, and added, “Told me it would make your career.”
“‘Unrequited,’” Hunter said, more a realization than a question.
Eighteen months ago, the Hunter Kane Band had been about to propose a new deal with their recording label when Brody had come to him with a song written by a new writing duo he’d just signed. Hunter had listened to the song and asked to look at everything Mack and Muttley had in their library. There were only three songs, but he’d recorded all three.
A few months later, the first single off their album had released, and when “Unrequited” hit the airways, it became the smash hit of the summer. Then went on to earn the band their first GRAMMY, AMA, and Billboard awards.
“She pretty much took you from cult following to a household name, and she’s been writing songs for you ever since.” Brody polished off his beer and tossed it in the garbage. “Her only stipulation, besides complete anonymity, was that you get her songs first. That way you’d write or pick other ones with the same vibe for the album. She’s always complaining you’re the John Travolta of music.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” It was clear from the smirk on his cousin’s face it wasn’t a compliment.
In fact, the accompanying shit-eating grin told Hunter that his question had not only made Brody’s day, it had made his whole week.
“That you’re talented as hell but couldn’t pick career-making material if it came up and bit you in the ass.”
Hunter nearly choked on his beer. “She always said I picked my songs like my women: flashy and too trendy to last.” Images of her standing with wide, vulnerable eyes, stroking her guide dog, sobered him instantly. “I need to see her.”
“Tried that. Less than twenty minutes ago. Yet you’re here, determined to further screw with my night, which tells me she kicked you out or you ran from the room like a scared little girl.”
“I needed time to absorb everything,” Hunter defended.
Brody’s eyes went wide with understanding. “Jesus, after all that pissing and whining, you ran? At least tell me you didn’t say something to upset her.” He held up a silencing hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. As of this moment you are on your own. You may make me bank, but she’s her own printing press.”
“I’m family,” Hunter argued.
