“It’s not bad. It’s fucking terrible,” Mustache retorted.
Ponytail cleared his throat. The sound was thick with phlegm. “We agreed the Heartbreak Prince thing was working. The first album soared with the buzz around you and Kendall. Hell, we wrote a whole album around it.”
Jamie’s team had masterfully engineered the “Heartbreak Prince” persona amid his breakup with Kendall Chase two years ago, before his first album came out. Kendall was a gifted singer from Memphis. With her family connections in Jamie’s tiny hometown of Iris, Tennessee, Jamie Sr. insisted they get acquainted.
Kendall was ambitious and spoke her mind, which Jamie admired. That took guts in an industry that fed on complacency. They dated off-and-on for a year, and much to Jamie’s chagrin, the tabloids christened them as country’s Justin and Britney.
Mustache’s crooked smile widened. “Jamie and Kendall should get back together. Social media will eat that up, and—poof—our problem is solved.”
Jamie’s team didn’t know that for Kendall, at least, the feelings were real. Six months in, she had told Jamie that she loved him, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Not when love failed to keep his family from falling apart after his mother’s death.Love hadn’t saved her from the abyss. Jamie knew it wouldn’t be any different for him.
It was better to keep things light. Detached.
When Jamie finally broke things off, Kendall embarked on a scorching press tour, painting him as the “heartbreaker” who had strung her along and betrayed her trust. He hadn’t done either of those things on purpose, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t take any of it back.
“I’m just saying,” Mustache threw in, “let’s make lightning strike twice. It clinched us the eighteen-to-thirty-four women’s demo. Though the cougars love you too.”
What he meant was, they pushed Jamie as the serial bachelor. It was a perfect—and lucrative—contrast to Jamie Sr., whose personal brand in the ’80s and ’90s centered on traditional family values.
His team set him up with a stable of celebutantes and ensured all the right details about his “relationships” were leaked to the press. Jamie wasn’t keen on building a fake public persona, but his father was on board.
Even as a thirty-year-old man, Jamie still yearned for his father’s approval. It probably seemed crazy to anyone not from a small, Southern town, but there were rules for how sons and daughters honored their elders.
Respect for family legacy was at the root of everything.
Beneath the table, Jamie balled the frustration in his fists, offended by how little anyone actually believed in him. He should have told Mustache to screw himself.
“Kendall and I are not getting back together. We’re just friends.”
This was mostly true. While they weren’t in a committed relationship, Jamie and Kendall met each other’s basic needs on occasion. A scratch-my-back, I’ll-sit-on-your-face kind of arrangement. Though it had been months since he’d last seen her.
“What we need is a media push, something fit for an icon in the making,” said a man with a combover and sweaty brow. “We get you on a cover ofLandmark, and the buzz is guaranteed. Six months after your daddy’s firstLandmarkspot, his debut went platinum.”
Combover’s gaze flitted to Jamie. It was a fruitless gesture, considering everyone knew who would make the final call.
All eyes cut to Jamie Crawford Sr., seated opposite his son. Now in his late 60s, he was as rugged-handsome as ever, with short, salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back and the right amount of stubble on his squared jaw. If Nashville was the mafia, then Jamie Sr. was Don Vito Corleone. Jamie was expected to leave the gun and take the cannoli.
Jamie Sr.’s low grunt tumbled out like loose gravel. “We’ll set it up.”
The Suits unleashed an obsequious chorus of “how genius” and “Landmark’s perfect” and “fit for an icon.”
While Jamie had done press interviews with local and regional outlets, nothing came close toLandmark’s prestige. The reporters were often on Jamie Sr.’s short list of middle-aged white guys with coffee-stained teeth. They were all guaranteed to write something favorable.
Landmark’s journalism was deep and probing. It turned moderately famous artists like himself into household names. Jamie didn’t want that if it was all based on a big, fat lie.
The Suits filed out as Jamie’s father rose from his seat.
Hopeful, Jamie pushed back from his own chair. “Daddy, can we talk for a second?”
Jamie Sr. impatiently checked his gold Rolex. “We need to get back to the studio. Got some re-writes for the last few tracks.”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to discuss,” Jamie said,shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “You said if I let you handle the first album, you’d let me write my own songs on the second album. Then you said ‘wait and see’ after the Grammys, and if I won, I could write on the third album. If we keep pushing things back?—”
Jamie Sr. rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. He narrowed his eyes. “You know I’d never steer you wrong.”
“But you said?—”
“This ain’t the right time to…experiment. You heard the team. This album needs to be a smash. Luckily, you’ve got the best songwriter on Music Row working for you.”
