“I can help with the staffing,” Abi said. “I know that there are a few employees desperate for more hours. Offer up time and a half and we’ll have an overflow of staff.”
“There’s still a matter of getting the word out,” Clay said.
“Which is why I’m offering to MC the event.”
It was as if the air was sucked out of the room with shock. “You hate MCing,” Gage said. “You specifically have it written into every contract you sign.”
“This is important to me and if it takes me stepping out of my comfort zone, then out I step.” He couldn’t help but smile. Elsie would be proud of his idea. Hell, he was damn proud of his idea. “I also want to do a small set at the end of the night play one of my new songs.” Rhett looked around the room; everyone looked back. Still silent. “What?”
“It’s just you’ve always said that releasing a single in a small venue is a waste of what could be a big PR event,” Gage said.
“That was Subtle Warfare’s policy. This is just me, and Rhett Easton used to play at his dad’s bar every weekend. Maybe it’s time to get back to that.”
“I don’t even know if the label will sign off on that. And what about additional security?”
“I have a bulldog of an agent who I bet could make those things happen.”
Gage’s smile widened to cover his entire face. “You haven’t even played anything for me. You have a new confidant we don’t know about?”
“Oh, he has a lot we don’t know about,” Piper said, biting back a laugh.
Rhett thought back to Elsie and their conversation the other day and had to smile. Yeah, he had a new confidante and it felt good. Not that he’d played her even a string, but she’d given him the exact advice he’d needed.
“Like a new confidante?” Piper continued. “Red hair, about yea high, couldn’t stop smiling.”
Rhett just shrugged. He neither confirmed nor denied a thing. He’d promised Elsie privacy and he was going to give her that—even when it came to his nosy family.
“What song are you going to play?” Gage asked.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he lied. He knew exactly which song he was going to play, it was the one he’d started that first morning when he’d awoken in bed with a very pissed off Elsie. And his gut told him it was a hit, through and through. He just knew it had that inexplicable quality that made listeners play it on repeat and sing it in their cars with the windows down. It was the kind of song that would be played at weddings and ball games.
It was the kind of song he’d set out to write when he’d decided to go solo.
Chapter Eighteen
Dating Tips from Elsie Dodd
Be you.
Rhett couldn’t look away.
The main music room was done. And it was perfect. The modern lines of the space juxtaposed the gentle curve of the guitars, which were hung in glassless frames, making them look like art, while allowing easy access. Acoustic, electric, vintage, his entire collection hung around the room, creating a 1960s British-rock vibe. The floors were glossy wood, the walls a deep blue, the ceiling slightly domed for acoustics. In the corner, by the massive line of windows, sat an oversized leather chair, with his first six-string propped up on a stand.
In the center of the room washispiano. Not the piece of shit Axel left behind, but a restored mahogany Steinway Rhett bought at auction three years ago and never had the space to display. He didn’t even know how Elsie discovered its existence, since the only person in the world who knew he owned it was Gage.
Goddamned Gage.
Rhett smiled. Two of his favorite people were conspiring for him.
The end result was a sophisticated space with a unique edge, which was a reflection of him and his music. He didn’t know how she’d nailed it, but she’d nailed it.
Rhett walked over to the armchair and tried it on for size. It was the perfect fit. Its buttery leather high arms were the perfect configuration to play guitar, which he picked up. Memories rolled through him as he cradled the present his dad gifted him on his sixteenth birthday. The family didn’t have a lot of money back then, so Rhett cherished the second-hand instrument.
Even though he hadn’t played it in years, one chord and it felt as if his world righted. Like sitting around the family room and tinkering while his old man acted like Rhett had composed something on the scale of Jimi Hendrix.
He rested the body of the guitar on his knee, placed his hand on the neck, and grinned. Even after all these years, it was the perfect fit. The groove where his palm rested, the way the curve hugged his thigh.
He strummed the strings and laughed. It was completely out of tune. Sitting back in the chair, he spent some time tuning it and reacquainting himself, a real get-to-know-you-again kind of moment that resonated with a piece of himself he’d forgotten about. The hungry musician who lived and breathed music.
