“Same as before: a regretful no,” Brody said without an ounce of regret in his tone.
“That’s it?”
“Yup. That’s it.”
Hunter rested his weight on his arms and leaned over the tabletop to make sure Brody could see the whites of his eyes. It wasn’t a lack of effort on his cousin’s part that had gotten them here. In fact, Brody was one of the hardest-working agents in Nashville—his roster of exclusive clients proved that. He just had a hard time thinking outside the box.
If there was one thing Hunter had learned on his road to success, it was that there was always more than one way to sweet-talk a deal, and it usually involved skill, persistence, a couple of cigars, and a whole lot of alcohol.
“Afraid that answer won’t do. This meeting needs to happen, and it needs to happen this week.”
His career depended on it. If he didn’t hand over new material for the next album, his label was going to lock him in a room with another set of shitty writers. The band would freak. The songs would suck. So the only way he was going to please all parties involved was to submit the perfect batch of songs.
The tricky thing about perfection—it killed creativity.
“The label gave you a list of qualified writers,” Brody pointed out. “You scared them all off.”
“Having a YouTube channel doesn’t make you qualified.”
“Cody Kelly has more than ten million followers.”
“He’s nineteen,” Hunter said. “With peach fuzz for a beard. If the kid can’t keep a proper beard, he can’t fucking write with me.”
Brody leaned back and let out a frustrated breath.
Right there with you, cuz.
Hunter had studied the industry, identified the patterns that made some bands a mere flash while others held on for the long haul. Only a select few made it to the coveted icon status. The Hunter Kane Band was going to be one of them.
And fucking peach fuzz wasn’t going to get them there.
Not that Hunter cared about the fame or money—he was neck-deep in both and threatening to go under. What he needed was the artistic freedom to write songs that connected—songs like he’d had at the beginning of his career.
Hunter wasn’t just a musician. He was a writer, and he was at a point in his music where he would either lose momentum and fizzle into obscurity or move on to become more than just another industry fluke. In order for him to do that, he needed to try something new. Which was where the writing talents of Mack and Muttley came in.
Hunter scanned the iconic bar’s walls. Big Daddy’s was one of Nashville’s oldest honky-tonks and the first venue Hunter had ever played. He took in the gold and platinum records, which hung beneath the neon MASON JARS ARE AS FANCY AS WE GETsign and next to an oldphoto of the bar. The records were his, but the picture was of his uncle, taken the night he’d opened the honky-tonk in the late seventies. The gleam of pride and joy in Big Daddy’s eyes made swallowing hard.
That was the kind of man Hunter wanted to be. Big Daddy had been the hardest-working man Hunter had ever known. He’d given 100 percent of himself to this bar but never compromised time with the family and never gave up the fight to make his dream come true.
It had been only six months since Big Daddy had passed, but the loss was so fresh Hunter could taste it. That’s why he loved coming to Big Daddy’s: his uncle was in every brick and bar top.
Hunter remembered the summer he’d spent with his uncle and cousins resanding all five thousand square feet of original wood floors to earn enough cash to buy his first guitar. Mostly, though, he remembered the day Big Daddy took out a loan against the bar to fund Hunter’s demo tape.
Big Daddy hadn’t had a lot of money, but he’d been rich in love and faith. Enough so that he’d been willing to put his bar on the line to help Hunter reach his dreams. Even though Hunter wasn’t his kid.
That demo tape had taken him from playing opening gigs for no-name acts in small towns around the south to landing a record deal with one of the biggest labels on the planet. And now the Hunter Kane Band played stadiums and arenas all over the country. Sometimes as the opening act, sometimes as the headliner, but always to a sold-out crowd.
It wasn’t the loan that had made the difference. Big Daddy’s unwavering belief that Hunter could be more than his old man had given Hunter the singular focus he needed to push ahead in an industry designed to hold performers back. Hunter was determined to live up to the opportunity his uncle had provided.
He had the fame and a growing collection of platinum albums, but every day, every song, was starting to feel the same. Hunter wanted to create something deeper, more textured—a journey that his uncle would have chosen. One that challenged his talent as much as his character.
Hunter knew in his gut that this next album would help him find that feeling of fulfillment missing in his life and his work of late. He just had to finish writing it.
Releasing a sigh, he dropped his head against the seat back. “The band won’t record any more crossover fluffy crap. And if we come out with another album like the last one, there won’tbea band. I want the long career, not the flash and fizzle.” Hunter paused. “If we do this right, we can position the band in a unique spot to go the distance, just like Mackenzie and I mapped out.”
Hunter felt his chest tighten.
After all this time, saying her name still brought on a rush of longing and pain so intense it was physical. He was at the exact place in his career they’d planned for, fought for, and dreamed about, but she was no longer a part of that dream. Hadn’t been since the rehearsal dinner.
