I crossed my arms, listening intently to every word that fell from Stetson’s mouth while still camouflaging myself into the back of the control room. I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but now I was here and I wasn’t leaving.
“I get that. I really do. But you know my job is to sell records, and if we don’t do that, then I’ll have a lot of people to answer to,” Mark said, a hint of frustration riddled in his tone. “And I’m sure you’re aware that because of all ofthis”—he raised his hands in the air—“I already have a lot of people asking a lot of questions. You literally up and vanished overnight, running away from Nashville with no real intention of coming back anytime soon. Do you know how hard that is to deal with?”
“We’ll sell records, and if we don’t, then you won’t have to deal with me anymore. It’s a win win.” Stetson pushed back. “And as far as everyone’s questions are concerned, didn’t you just tell me that’s your job? To answer those questions?”
The feeling in the room had shifted, I could tell by the stances of both men. Mark had moved from his place on the wall, instead standing tall with his arms crossed firmly across his chest, andStetson had put his guitar on the stand next to him before moving to his feet too.
“If I answer all of those questions honestly, I don’t think you’d be very happy with me.”
Stetson’s eyes darkened as they pierced Mark.
“I didn’t say you had to be honest, I said you had to answer them. As long as I’m writing songs and getting this album done, you’re the only one who needs to know the real reason why I’m here and what I’m really doing. And based on my previous experience, you’re pretty damn good at covering my ass, and for once, I think this situation warrants a cover. Am I clear?” he asked.
The toughness in his voice was something I hadn’t experienced, but whatever he was talking about clearly was very important to him.
“Crystal,” Mark responded.
I surveyed Stetson’s face, watching his jaw relax as he turned back toward his guitar.
A sigh left my chest, but only for a second before I noticed the handle turning on the door connecting the two rooms.
“Shit,” I whispered, panicking as I realized I had no other choice but to stay right where I was.
“Who are you?” Mark’s voice was just as harsh as it had been with Stetson.
“Hi. I’m so sorry. I was just looking for Stetson. I’m Scarlett Carson. I work for theQuincey Falls Tribune, I—”
“Stetson doesn’t need to be interviewed by anyone right now. Let alone theQuincey Falls Tribune, whatever the hell that is.” His snarky tone made me want to smack him across his face. “How did you even know he was here?”
“I, I—”
“She’s with me, Mark. Don’t be a dick to her just because you’re pissed off at me.” Stetson’s stern voice filled the entire control room as he walked through the door just behind Mark.
Mark chuckled, nodding his head. “Hm. Makes sense. I should’ve known the pretty girl was here for you. Some things never change, no matter how hard you try.”
“You can try to rile me up all you want. I’m not coming back to Nashville with you. I’ve made my decision, and you can either live with it and figure out how to make everyone else understand, or you can have one less artist to worry about. Your choice.”
“I’ll call you next week. You better have something for me,” Mark said as he turned and walked out of the steel door I’d come through just a few minutes ago.
Stetson lifted his hand, removing the backward trucker hat from his head and running his other hand through his thick brown hair. I realized this was the first time I’d seen his hair. Well, all of it, anyway. It was always tucked under some sort of hat.
It was wavy and shiny, parting roughly down the middle, bang-like pieces falling on either side of his forehead, kissing his eyelashes. It was messy but somehow still looked effortlessly styled. He ran his hand through one more time before fixing it back in place, this time facing forward.
“Howdy,” he said, already back to his smart-ass tone.
“Hi,” I breathed. “That was intense.”
“Nah. That was just Mark being Mark,” he said, casually strolling across the room near the couch that was perched against the back wall. “He likes to think it makes his dick bigger when he shows up and acts like that.”
In the middle of my thought, I blurted out, “What did he mean by that?”
“By what?”
“Some things never change, no matter how hard you try?” I asked, even though I didn’t think I’d earned the right to. Or even to care.
“Mark was just being Mark. He’s pissed I’m here and not in Nashville showing face and kissing ass at all the events,” he said without skipping a single beat.
Maybe it really was just that. Or maybe he made the comment because just as I’d assumed, Stetson was always looking for his next fix, even when there was aherhe desperately wanted to please. Either way, it wasn’t my concern, and it absolutely wasn’t going to help me write this article.
