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“Yes, you are. We’re interviewing some people today,” Hank said.
“No, you’re interviewing people today. I’m going and getting breakfast.”
“You already had breakfast.”
“I had microwaved coffee. Hardly a breakfast,” I said.
“Your fault for sleeping in late.”
“Late? I woke up at nine, asshole.”
“Paul was out the fucking door by seven this morning,” he said.
“How the fuck would you know that?” I asked.
“Because I know Paul. He’s always out the damn door by seven in the morning. The man thrives on routine. Now get your ass inside, or I’ll drag you in by your ear. I’m sure someone would love a picture of that.”
“Asshole.”
“Come on,” he said.
I climbed out of the truck and made my way into the building, making sure Hank knew exactly how unhappy I was with the whole thing. Hank responded by opening doors for me like some kind of a big-dicked asshole, making me look like some sort of diva. We walked through the main lobby of this sprawling office space and stepped into an elevator. Hank pressed the button marked seven and away we went, rising up the massive metal encasing to meet whoever the hell Hank was gonna hire to fix me.
“So—what’s this person supposed to be doing for me?” I asked.
“I’m hiring you a P.A. today. An assistant, of sorts. They’re gonna help you get your schedule together, help you balance your touring and your farm. Help you manage time and get your shit together so you can be a presentable person to society.”
“I’m pretty presentable,” I said.
“You drink too much, and you can carry a tune in a bucket. Good for you. But it’s time that nice country man persona actually became the real deal. Your facade is cracking, and the tabloids are starting to notice. You can only use your wife as an excuse for so long, Drake. You need to get your shit together, for real.”
“Don't you fucking bring Shannon into this--” I growled.
Hank dug something out of his bag and slammed it against my chest. There was an article about me sprawled across the front page. ‘Daddy Needs More Beer,’ the headline read, and it had a picture of me tipping up a beer to my lips at the last concert I did.
“Oh, whatever. They’re just pissed because I’m raking in the dough,” I said.
“No one’s pissed in this article, Drake. But the way the media labels you will affect your career. You think you got it good now, just wait until you fall from whatever heaven you think this is. You’ll be the broke ranch owner trying to scrape together two dollars for your sister’s chewing gum habit if you don’t watch it.”
“You leave my fucking sister out of this, old man,” I said. “I’ll take care of her no matter what.”
“Yeah, but you won’t be able to afford Tammy if you play your cards wrong. That woman has helped your sister more than any of the rest of us combined. Including you. You wanna keep your sister’s caretaker around? Then you’ll fucking put on your best smile and sit through these damn interviews with me.”
The elevator door
s opened onto a quiet level as heads turned our way. People were already gawking and snapping pictures, with women chattering while their cheeks blushed. I tipped my hat to them, and they smiled big for me.
I grinned at all of them as I followed Hank through the aisles. Always had to play my part in this little charade.
“Sit down right here. I’m gonna go talk to someone,” Hank said.
“Yes, Momma. I’ll be here when you get back,” I said.
Hank shot me a look before he walked off, trying to find whoever the hell was in charge of this gaggle of girls. Even though there was a crowd of them forming at the corner of the hallway, there was one girl that seemed wholly unimpressed
I turned my head and took her in as she sat at her desk. Her hands were on her knees, and her back was straight. She was scanning something on the screen as she tapped her long, slim fingers on her thigh. She was so prim and proper.
She also didn't seem to be tripping over herself to catch my attention, which I had to say, was unusual considering the circumstances.
