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Present day—Southern Brick Studios, Nashville
“Asshole,” I drawl, adding a mustache with a black marker to the pirate smile that’s gracing the cover of country music’s most popular magazine.
I’ve been sitting in my office staring at Navarone’s picture for ten minutes straight; safe to say, my blood is boiling. Tapping my fingers on my now cold coffee, I glance around my room. The gold and platinum records hanging on the walls from all the artists Dad and I’ve mixed in the last couple of years are a testimony to our producing skills.
My little hideout is filled with memorabilia from being on the road: backstage passes, tour photos of Drifters—my brother Axl’s band—and there is even a picture that I took of Navarone with his guitar on stage stashed behind my extensive record collection, which is taking up the better part of the brick wall. Dad always likes to tease me, saying the studio feels like a mix between a speakeasy and a neon honky-tonk dream. Guess he’s right. Our Nashville recording studio is one of a kind in look and sound.
Sighing I gaze at the framed Rolling Stone magazine cover from the eighties with my mom on it, hanging on the wall. Dad never talks about her, I guess he’s reminded of her enough every day when I walk into the studio. I got my face from the same looks department as her. Big green eyes, long, thick black hair, and red lips like the ones made famous by Dita Von Tease. I’ve spent the better half of my paycheck filling my body with tattoos to put some distance between me and my rock star mom. The black rose on my neck is the latest, and my wish list is still long. I guess she would have liked them though. Mom was a Harley-riding badass, so I figure she’d be okay with all my black ink. My dad loved touring with her, but told me the road wasn’t a place to raise a couple of young kids.
He wasn’t twenty himself when my older brother Axl was born. Mom died when Dad was twenty-three right after me and my twin brother Gunner turned his life upside down. Now I think about it, I doubt my dad is ever going to become a certified adult. I guess we’re all figuring out our lives as we go along—doesn’t matter how old you are.
Grinning, I write LOSER in big, bold letters across the page. I have to admit, the dick I draw next to Navarone’s head is pretty good. That will teach him.
Yeah, right. Like he’s still thinking about me.
Rolling my eyes, I trail my fingers over the interview.
“Outlaw. The new country hit-making sensation,” I read, sarcasm ringing through my voice, while I scan the spread for the ... actually, don’t go there.
Outlaw has been a sure thing, drawing in overflowing crowds every Friday and Saturday night in the bars around town.
Staring into Navarone’s dark eyes, I can’t help but growl. “Yep, still an asshole though.” He’s Nashville’s newest obsession, my own Las Vegas cliché, and the start of my rock-star nightmare.
I guess, judging by this four-page spread, Outlaw’s uphill battle is paying off. After years of hustling, setbacks, and industry no’s, now the rest of America is hopping on their crazy train. They’re making some headway now.
“Or getting head,” I groan, reading the interview again.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh. “A real-life traveling outlaw,” the last radio interviewer called him.
The anthem “Born To Be Wild” is him in a freaking nutshell. He’s a rock-star asshole who spends his time between Los Angeles, his granddad’s farm in the Smoky Mountains where he picked up his panty-melting soft drawl, and Nashville. Then he goes back on the road again with his older brother Sterling, taking the music world by storm.
I can still remember the first time I saw his devilish lopsided grin, as I hauled my ass out of the truck my father had borrowed from one of his old drinking buddies. Ten years haven’t changed his crooked smile. The bad boy I fell for at sixteen can still have me on my knees in seconds.
Dad had thought it was a good idea to bring me and my two brothers out to California to visit Jesse—Navarone’s father, whom Dad had been friends with since starting out as a crew member for the famous guitar player.
“Yeah joke’s on you, Pa.” I smirk, looking at my dad sitting behind his mixing panel in the studio, talking to the guys from Seconds To Midnight, a rock band who’d recorded their latest album here a couple of months ago.
“Why is the universe torturing me like this?” I mumble, brushing my hand over the crumpled magazine.
Navarone didn’t talk a lot, but when he picked up his guitar, I swooned. I was a goner. “A soul-cutting voice,” my dad used to say when he’d hear him play. Navarone’s voice is rough, lived through, and mesmerizing as hell.
Now he’s everywhere, on every music station you tune into. Dad continues to remind me that as an assistant producer, I should stay informed. But Navarone’s catchy compositions make me want to hop on my bike and get the hell out of Nashville.
Last month, I caught my Pops playing one of Outlaw’s tunes over the loudspeakers in the studio, he probably thought I’d already left for the day.
I swore to never be in the same room with the man again; that’s the reason I’ve been hiding in my dad’s studio these last couple of years. I made it this long without having to work with him, and I intend to keep it this way.
Passing my office, Dad and the Second To Midnight guys wave at me. I raise my chin in greeting before focusing on Navarone’s picture again.
“Ahh,” I spit out, throwing the magazine in the bin. After a minute of staring at the trash can, I pick it up. “Shit, I’m weak,” I groan, tapping my fingers on the cover.
The man looks flawless without even trying, fuck those arms, a perfect mix between hard line and muscles, and a six-pack you can grate freaking cheese on hiding under that denim shirt.
Growling, I grab a pack of cigarettes from my bag and head out the back door. Kicking it shut with the heal of my boot I watch Dad saying goodbye to the STM guys in the parking lot. I have to admit, Southern Brick Studios is the best in East Nashville. We’ve been booked solid for months, and I love every minute working here.
“Really kiddo? I thought you quit?” he asks, snatching the smokes from my hand. “Or is Gunn getting on your nerves again?” he winks before marching back inside.
I follow him in, and roll my eyes as he tosses my Marlboro Reds in the trashcan.
