“All right, enough stalling—let’s get into pitch.” Rich yawned. “Brinton, whatcha got on the Crawford piece?”
“I’m thinking of a legacy piece,” she said evenly. “With the new album coming out, I’ll make connections sonically to his blue-ribbon history. Obviously his father, but also his godparents—Garth Brooks and Shania Twain? I’m sure I can sit in on some listening sessions. Plus, I’ve been in touch with people who grew up with him and know him best, so it’ll be an intimate character piece too.”
She hoped it was adequate enough to secure the respect she’d coveted—no, that she hadearned. Steadily, she had built her self-worth on a job that had produced diminishing returns. Brinton regretted this, but she was desperate to be defined by more than her anxiety.
Unfortunately, the room fell silent, quiet enough that Brinton could hear Agatha’s nails clicking on her phone screen.
Rich pinched the bridge of his nose. “Brinton,” he started, carefully drawing out the sharpest blade from its sheath. “I didn’t send you to Iris for an intimate character piece. I sent you there for something that would sell copies and drive clicks to the website. Juicy, remember?”
“I know, Rich, but this is better thanjuicy. This is a generational look at a man poised to redefine country music.”
“It’s dry as fuck,” Agatha squawked into her steepled fingers.
Laughter rippled through Brinton’s laptop speakers. Her cheeks grew hot. Nervous stress made her top cling to her lower back.
“I could absolutely turn Crawford out,” Agatha continued, licking her lips. “Journalistically, of course.” She winked into the camera.
Brinton fantasized about rearranging Agatha’s smug face like a Picasso.
“I think he’s all hype,” Agatha added listlessly. “Nothing inside that sun-kissed head of his. No real purpose. That’s the story. A Nepo Baby Prince hand-delivered a kingdom.”
“Can’t say I disagree.” Rich laughed.
Agatha typed on her laptop. A ding rang out. Rich looked down at his screen, smiled, and nodded to her.
Panic, sharp and acidic, flooded Brinton’s stomach, but she couldn’t let Agatha win. “Rich, I got this,” she choked out. “What I’ve shared is only a start. You’re going to love it.”
“Doubtful,” Agatha cooed.
Brinton grimaced.
Rich’s expression shifted between skepticism and boredom. “Yeah, it’s a pass for me. But Agatha, send me over a full pitch. It never hurts to have a backup in case…”
Not only did Brinton need this opportunity, but now she knew, in detail, the magazine wasn’t only out for her blood. Jamie was as much of a target to be exploited. Especially if Agatha sank her Gel-X claws into him.
Initially, Brinton had turned Jamie down because she was afraid to break a story so controversial she’d be exposed to more backlash than with the Grammys. She was also afraidthat somehow, she couldn’t execute in the way Jamie needed. He’d resent her for it.
But nobody atLandmarkwould handle Jamie’s truth with dignity. And Shay was right. So far, Jamie had been nothing but kind to her. Brinton wanted to extend that same kindness. He was an unlikely friend in a sea of sharks.
“I’m working on something else,” Brinton put in, already piecing together a fail-safe plan to get her cover storyandhelp Jamie. “I can update you soon.”
“I know you will,” Rich said, not bothering to mask his sneer. “Or I’m reassigning this story.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Later that Tuesday afternoon, ear-splitting ticking grated Jamie’s already frayed nerves. He rubbed his throbbing temples as his eyes settled on the taunting seconds hand of his father’s antique clock.
Tick-tock, jackass.
Jamie wished to foil the impending trainwreck, but he couldn’t. He shifted on the maroon leather couch inside his father’s office, quite possibly his least favorite place on the planet. Here, Jamie Sr. courted ghostwriters, producers, and label executives. Jamie was never invited to those meetings, of course. Another signpost of his powerlessness.
Across from Jamie, Tex and Sammi sat on matching leather armchairs facing Jamie Sr., who presided from his imposing cherrywood desk. Its broad Queen Anne silhouette never failed to make everyone else in the room appear half their size.
The three of them were going on about logistics for the upcoming tour. Jamie had tuned it out, instead waiting for the ticking to stop, when he’d sign that God-awful contract binding him to another two albums.
Hell, who was he kidding? He was never getting out now.
“You hear me boy?” his father asked. He held a thick stack of papers in his hands. “I asked how the interview with Ms. Shaw was going?”
