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Nicolette
The man just threw his drink back and walked away. Obviously, he doesn't want the business. I mean, really, who shows up to a meeting smelling of cigarettes and liquor? Him, that's who.
"Nic, you need to apologize." Pop scolds.
"Did you hear how he spoke to me?" I sit back, crossing my arms. I can see Pierce talking to the asshole.
"Yes, and you to him. You know better. I taught you better." Pop shakes his head as the asshole points this way. "Do you have any idea who that is?"
"Not really."
"Kris King. He was set to be the next best thing the year you had your transplant."
"Keyword Pop was."
"Nic, you need him, and obviously, he could use someone to help. Is this what you want to do?"
"Yes," I answer. I already know where this is going.
"Then you know what you need to do."
"Yeah, Pop, I hear ya." I sigh, pushing my seat out and getting up. I'd rather choke on my words than play nice.
Out the doors, I go. I groan as I see all the smoke. Great. Walking over, I pull the cigarette out of his mouth and stomp it with my boot.
“You must be outta your fuckin’ mind!” He barks. “I don’t need the business this bad, Cliff. She’s a damned brat.” He steps away and pulls out his pack of cigarettes.
"Listen here, I'm not a brat because I don't want to die. Been there, done that. I don't give a shit what you do when I'm not around, but I have worked too damn hard to stay alive, and I refuse to let some man who thinks his shit don't stink—kill me."
Pausing, he glances at Pierce. “You serious about this?” My eyes sail to Pierce, who nods. Before my attention can turn back, the asshole is in my face. “I’ll keep the smoking outside, but you need a lemon juice bath. Scrub that fake tanner off and be at my place tomorrow, and try not to look like something Dolly and Ru Paul birthed.” A car pulls up, and he heads for it. “Cliff, you can call another car, I’m sure.”
"At least I don't look like roadkill," I mumble under my breath and get smacked on the shoulder by Pierce. "Pierce, this is insane."
“It may well be, but the guy is a genius with melody and has the best ear for music I’ve ever known. Trust me, you want to be as big in Country as you were in Pop? This is your guy… Or at least he will be if we can dry him out a little.”
"He's an asshole, and just being around him could kill me. What's this about going to his place?"
“It’s perfectly safe. I promise. He’s not a letch or anything. He keeps a fully-functioning studio in his house. It’s part of the process. Any instrument you need, he’s got, right down to a xylophone and a fucking kazoo. Just trust me, you want to change your sound? He’ll change it.”
"If something happens to me, I'm blaming you." I shake my head. "Get me his number, but for now, let's go eat."
***
Happy twenty-first birthday to me. Not! Instead of being on stage like I was supposed to be for my birthday, I’m going to be with an asshole. One who I’m still not entirely sure won’t kill me. I’ve gone through like ten outfits trying to figure out which is the best. Why? I don’t know. I guess because, with Starling, it was all about how I looked. I’m just kind of in the habit of it now. Things are changing, though. For the better? God, I hope so.
Pop and I have only been back in Nashville for like three days. The house didn’t have much. We’ve been cleaning and getting it ready to bring the furniture in. Speaking of furniture, we ordered everything for the downstairs. Stuff should start arriving any day. Then it will be all work and no play until we are living like we should. For now, we’re sleeping on air mattresses.
“Nic, it’s time to go!” Pop calls out from the other room.
I look at myself one more time before letting out a deep sigh. Blue jean shorts, cowgirl boots, a tank that reads You flipped the Bitch switch, so buckle up and enjoy Asshole. I figured why not? I fix my hair in my Chevy ball cap. Grabbing my bag, I’m out the door.
I kiss Pop on the cheek when I stop beside him. “Okay, wish me luck.”
“Good luck, but I’m dropping you off.”
“Pop, I’m twenty—one. I can drive myself.”
