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Present day—Southern Brick Studios, Nashville
Storming into the studio, I throw Dad the magazine that he catches midair, and I almost stumble over a cord. “Dad?”
He places the gossip rag on the grand piano, and looks at the cover, his smile a mile wide. “Yes, Allie, what’s up?” Giving me a disapproving look, he starts rolling the guitar cord I tripped over.
“Have you booked studio time behind my back? And don’t get me started on Tiffany. Dad, you went there?” I ask, tossing him his phone. He gives me a sly smirk and I try not to vomit. I know he isn’t a hermit, but can he at least pretend?
“We had a good time,” he states, sounding proud.
“No, Dad. No.”
He holds up his hands. “Hey, I can’t help it if the chicks still dig this,” he says, motioning to his body.
I close my eyes, counting to ten and hearing him chuckle. Why couldn’t he have a beer belly, instead of a six pack, like a normal dad?
“And before you make up some lame-ass excuse, Tristan ratted you out. By the way, you’re on for next Sunday.” I cross my arms in front of me, tapping my black boot on the wooden floor.
He barks out a laugh, putting his phone in his back pocket. “Yes, man-day,” he yells, throwing his fist in the air. “We’re going over our fantasy football league with Jesse, remember?” He says before smirking at me.
I follow him to the control area of the open studio floor. He takes his seat behind the mixing panel and gives me the ‘dad look’—or tries to.
“Jack, what were you thinking? I book the sessions here, right? That’s why you hired me, didn’t you?” I say, ignoring the fantasy football part, and Navarone’s father. I now hate football because, yeah, it reminds me of him. Tom Brady can shove the balls where the sun don’t shine. To me, soccer—or as the English call it—football, is the real game.
“You’re doing a fantastic job, Squirrel.” He flashes his pearly whites. “But I knew what you would have told Tristan.”
“What?” I spit out.
“No,” he says, winking at me.
“Damn right I would have said no.”
He smiles, strumming the strings of a bass guitar, not looking at me. With a raised eyebrow, he sets the bass back in its designated spot. “You were the one who skipped town, and headed to New York to see your ‘boyfriend,’” he says, making air quotes. Dad brushes his long curly hair behind his ears before putting his baseball cap on backwards. “I miss Max and Tommy,” he says, crossing his arms and reclining in his comfy chair.
“They’re coming here in a couple of weeks to shoot a movie.” I sit opposite him and play with the console.
He takes an acoustic guitar from the wall and starts to play. “You kids and your pretend relationships today.”
“Can you act more like my dad than my best friend? It’s embarrassing enough people think you’re my older brother.”
“Well I don’t hear the ladies complaining; good Colt genes, honey. What can I tell ya?” he says, shrugging.
“Please don’t,” I beg, holding up my hands.
He turns his steely gaze on me, pressing his lips tight together. “I thought you were dying to see Max and couldn’t live without him, according to the tabloids,” he says, placing his hands on his heart.
“It’s a miracle I turned out the way I did being raised by your hippie parenting skills, and two hell-raisers of brothers. And I think you have me confused with Axl or Gunner in the love department.”
He snorts, hanging the instrument back on the wall.
“Dad. I’m not sixteen anymore. Tell me one good reason why you booked Outlaw for the next couple of weeks? And what happened to the other band?” I huff, crossing my arms like I am a teenager. Pathetic, I know.
“Because those boys show promise and I like their music. Not like some of the music snobs around here who listen to the genre we do not mention in front of the Neve.” He drops to his knees, hugging the console in front of him. “Only people with serious problems listen to jazz.”
“My point exactly. I know for a fact you do.”
He shakes his head and rolls his eyes at me, while his hands move over the mixing console in a loving caress. After all these years, Dad is still in love with his analogue mixing board.
“The other band cancelled while you were gallivanting around New York. The lead singer has had some trouble with his voice, so I rebooked them for later this year.”
