Hesitantly, Jamie stepped forward. “We agreed to use a ghostwriter for my debut. You said I needed a competitive edge. But I don’t want—I don’t need that anymore.”
It was a well-guarded secret with his label and management team. When Jamie’s debut was an instant hit, his father convinced him that it would be crazy not to replicate the success. Jamie Sr. brokered his record deal, paid for the studio time, and had the country music industry in his back pocket.
Jamie, consequently, was trapped.
“I feel like there’s still an opportunity to correct the narrative out there,” Jamie pleaded. “If you let me write something now, that’s a good faith start.”
His father shot him a disapproving look, which made Jamie’s shoulders jerk backward.“Opportunity? Boy, let me tell you something about opportunity. Your generation is up against a different beast, with your little algorithms deciding what lands on the charts. You gotta use all the resources you’ve got. That includes me, and this team busting their hides for you.”
“But that don’t make up for…” Jamie started softly, the last drop of hope siphoned out of him. “I don’t write any of these lyrics, yet we slap my name on them.”
“Many of country’s best don’t write their own lyrics. This has been happening for years.”
“But they don’t lie about it,” Jamie said thinly. His windpipe clenched tighter with each breath. “They gave me a Grammy, for God’s sake.”
On that stage, in front of the world, the industry rewarded him for compromising his integrity.
Could he ever become a legitimate artist? The question was a switchblade. It tortured him each night, when he lay his head down to rest.
Jamie Sr. drained the final whiff of whiskey from his crystal tumbler. Jamie flinched at the clanking of glass on the mahogany table.
“Best New Artist is awarded for performance, not just songwriting. Did you sing those songs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you earned that Grammy.” His father tutted. “Not everyone can write and sing. Not everyone can be like Dolly, or Cash, or hell, like Taylor Swift.”
“You wrote all twenty of your number-ones. I want the same chance to prove myself.”
Jamie Sr. squeezed his son’s shoulder hard enough to prove his point. “We’re building your legacy. Let’s get through thisLandmarkarticle, then you can make whatever album you want next,” his father said. “Just trust me.”
Paranoia and regret soured Jamie’s stomach. For the first time, he couldn’t see a future where he wasn’t locked away in a cell of his father’s making. If his father was willing to go on the record with this lie, with a reputable magazine likeLandmark, there was no end.
There would always be another “trust me” if it led to pursuinghisvision.
A sliver of hope pierced the darkness clouding Jamie’s mind.What if he told his story, on his own terms?
What if he revealed himself as a fraud and rebuilt himself into the artist he longed to become?
What if Brinton helped him? They could work together in secret, like a mission. A calling.
She was damn perceptive with her questions. He couldn’t hide from her, which made him nervous. Usually, women didn’t affect him that way, but it was attractive. Really attractive.
It would also be nice to see her again, to make sure he pictured her face just right. He did this often as he lay awake in bed. Late on the night of their interview, he found her email address onLandmark’s website and wrote a message confessing his guilt. His cursor hovered over “send.” But as his heart thudded in his ears, he lost his nerve.
Again, it wasn’t therighttime. He wanted Brinton’s support, not her pity. Jamie had deleted the email, then poured his frustration into lyrics for a song no one would likely ever hear.
But this new plan…Goddamn, this wasit.
Jamie Sr.’s eyes shifted toward the door.
“We need to get thatLandmarkreporter Brinton Shaw to write the story about me,” Jamie blurted out. “The team loved the social media pop from the Grammys, so why not leverage that? Maybe that storyline is the ticket, because fans wanna see us…reunite?”
Jamie almost felt guilty for manipulating his father with recycled language he had heard in these team meetings, day in and day out. But manipulation seemed to be the only language his father spoke.
Jamie Sr. grunted, then thumbed his jawline.
Was he contemplating, or choosing his preferred weapon?
