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“Yeah he told me last week after dinner there about his plans, and called me this morning saying he was going through with them. It will be good for him. Too many memories of Grandma in the big house.” He gives me a sad smile.
“I guess so.”
He picks up a deep red guitar and heads for the control room. I find him in there after quickly checking the messages on my phone and answering some emails. Hanging my leather jacket over my chair, I see Rone talking to Denver—Dad’s favorite bass player—who is wearing a Broncos shirt. Not kidding. Denver’s shaggy black hair falls in front of his light grey eyes as he tunes his bass guitar, the neck lying on his muscled leg.
He grins when he spots me. I make my way into the live room and give him a big hug.
“Been too long.” His voice is soft with the hint of a drawl.
“It sure has,” I tell him, while he sits again with a content smile on his face. I know he likes being in the studio much more than being on the road.
Wyatt, one of the best session piano and keyboard players in Nashville, smiles when he sees me. “Hey, kid,” he says, hugging me, his blue eyes kind.
Wyatt is my youngest cousin and used to work as a hired gun, and from what I heard in the stories Dad let slip, Wyatt hit it off with all the Outlaws.
George pushes Rone aside—not an easy thing to do with Navarone’s frame—I giggle as he lifts me up. George is an amazing guitar player and one of the greatest banjo players in the business. He twirls me around in the air. Navarone grunts behind us when George kisses me on my cheek, just missing my mouth. With dark green eyes and an eighties-inspired haircut that should look ridiculous, his supermodel mom’s facial features and his dad’s rock star swagger guarantee he is drool-worthy.
Winking at me, the sneaky bastard knows what he’s doing. “Dad sends his love,” he says, knowing what a fan I am of his father’s music.
George lets me go, and I turn to Navarone. “Rone,” I say, nodding, trying to ignore that he looks devastatingly handsome in the best possible way. His hair is perfectly styled and those dark ripped-at-the-knees jeans, boots, and a white shirt straining around his upper arms make my clit pulse with need.
“Allie.” The way he says my name makes my throat tighten. The smirk on his face tells me he knows I’ve taken my own trip down Memory Lane. Fuck. Sterling walks into the studio and gives me a wave, which I return.
“Need to get back in there,” I motion to my dad, who is sitting behind the console trying to look busy when I can guess he has actually been watching us. I turn around and stomp to my seat next to him. The guys all start laughing while Rone explains something to them.
Dad gives me a two-finger wave while they grab their instruments. He pushes the volume up. “Is that out there going to be a problem for you, Squirrel?” His eyes are kind and his fingers move over the console with the ease of years of experience as he sets up the groundwork for the song.
“No, Dad. I’m going to be fine.” I turn in my seat while he counts back from five for the first recording. I look up at the whiteboard with the names of the songs they want to work on.
The songs are divided into different parts that we mark when finished. The first number on the roll is called “Whiskey.” The song is cut up into a drum, bass, guitar, rhythm guitar, piano, lead, and backup vocals section. Each piece has its own color, so it’s easy to keep track of which segment we’ve finished.
Dad likes to keep it old school and hang the board in the control room so everyone can see which part of which song needs to be wrapped up. We do use the studio setup, but a lot of the time the band will pile into the open control area, and we’ll have them sit next to the controls and speakers and play their guitar or bass parts over the ones they’ve already recorded. Dad loves the open-plan studio and it works like a dream.
But it all depends on the band and how they like to record. Dad and I steer them in a direction, and they decide whether to run with it or go a completely different way. Recording is really a team effort.
We go through “Whiskey,” which Outlaw have written a rough draft for. It already sounds good—dark and rough around the edges. The harmony between Rone and Sterling’s voices is perfect. I never knew Rone could sing like that, and sure, it is country, but it’s also very rock and somehow fragile yet strong at the same time. A voice that could break and steal your heart.
I should know.
Acting the whole time like I am a professional, I turn up the sound of his guitar and the kick pedal of Paulie’s drums, pretending I don’t see the line of sweat running down Navarone’s neck into his shirt. Or the way he sits down when he picks up an acoustic guitar and starts to play. And the way his black jeans stretch out in front and around his perfect hard butt.
Closing my eyes, I put my headphones on, listening to his guitar part, writing down notes here and there to go over with Dad later. We both use tape and Pro Tools to record. Dad had gotten his hands on the Neve panel years ago—for the insiders, it is the Holy Grail. Bands come to record here only for the panel and my dad.
I listen to one of the playbacks from Rone’s voice, ignoring how much he sounds like his father on one of my favorite songs from their band’s first self-titled album.
I had written a song inspired by the track when I was eighteen and Rone and I were still together. That had been the beginning of the end, although I hadn’t known it back then. Sometimes I would sing the lyrics in my head. It was a piece about the decisions we make, the pain keeping us company, and the dreams we find and lose all over again. Like the love we once shared.
We spend the next two weeks in the studio laying the groundwork for every single one of Outlaw’s songs. Two are almost finished. I hate to admit it to myself, but I like working with the guys—the brooding stares Navarone shoots my way not included.
“Earth to Allie,” Dad says, humor in his voice. I take my headphones off, smiling up at him.
“We are calling it an early night.” He stretches his hands in front of him, flexing his fingers.
I look at the clock on the wall; we’ve been at it for ten hours.
“Not bad progress, Squirrel. Not bad at all.”
George pokes his head around the open door. “Want to come to the housewarming party at Sterling’s with us?”
