1
Max
Nashville, Tennessee
December 1
What am I doing?
The question had been nagging at Max Brody all day. Actually, ever since he’d agreed to joinStarmaker’s country music reality show, making him one of twenty contestants vying for that coveted first place.
Most people would think Max didn’t need any of what aStarmakerwin could mean—not the money, nor the fame. He had grown up in the Nashville celebrity spotlight, thanks to his father, Holden Brody, who was an iconic country music singer. And yet, here Max was: on a soundstage, trying to decide between a rock-hard blueberry muffin or a days-old custard pastry from the craft-services table. He chose neither and turned back to watch the other contestants warming up on the stage.
The room was decked out in preparation for the upcomingholiday-themed shows, and it did look festive. But everything was fake—from the plastic evergreen boughs, to the cotton swaths of “snow”—which left Max feeling less than merry.
He didn’t want to be here butStarmakerwas Max’s last kick at the can to make music on his own terms, in his own way—something he had so far been unable to do. Sure, he had released an album (who hadn’t, in his music-royalty boots?), but the record hadn’t done well. There had been no real splash, low sales... certainly nothing to warrant a second album.
Since then, he had been knocking around Nashville, being featured in entertainment magazines (“Who Is Max Brody, Son of the Great Holden Brody, Dating Now?” and “How Does Max Brody Keep That Stunning Six-Pack Looking So Fine?”) and waiting for his next great thing so he could prove he had “it,” just like his dad. No... to prove he wasnothinglike his dad. To show everyone he could be a star, too, but not the way his dad had done it—which, in Max’s view, had meant trading fame for his soul. Holden Brody was as well-known for his addictions and philandering as he was for his Hall of Fame country music songs.
So, Max knew it was nearly time—past time—to leave Nashville, with its suffocating expectations and musical heartbreaks, behind.
“We don’tneedthis, that’s for sure,” he whispered to his dog (and best confidante), tucking her squirming body deeper under his arm.
Patsy Canine, Max’s rescue pup, was a papillon mix and ten pounds (if that) soaking wet. Her tiny body had a light coverage of hair, but her ears, which were twice the size they should have been based on her body, had waterfalls of blond haircascading from them. Patsy continued wiggling inside the lavender-hued cable-knit sweater she wore, trying to get closer to the sugary pastries.
“Hey there! No dogs near craft services.” Max turned at the familiar voice.
“Why must you always be breaking some rule, Max Brody?” Tasha Munroe added, before pulling Max into a hug, making Patsy squeal at the sudden crush.
“Oh, sorry there, Patsy Canine,” Tasha said, giving the dog a chin scratch. Max had known Tasha since they were kids, and she was one of his closest friends. Though she had started out singing in her church choir, Tasha Munroe had fallen in love with country music and the world had fallen in love with her. With multiple platinum albums under her rhinestone belt, and at only thirty-two, she was the artist that most up-and-coming musicians wished to emulate. A superstar now, Tasha was better at deflecting the negative aspects of celebrity than Max was. She never apologized for her ambition and knew precisely who she was.
Now she gave Max a once-over. “Damn, how are you always sofreakingeffortless?”
Max not only had the musical pedigree, he had also inherited his father’s impossibly good looks: dark hair that settled back into perfect waves when he ran a hand through it; a five-o’clock shadow that worked so well on him you’d wonder why he’d ever shave; cheekbones for days, and long eyelashes that framed deep brown eyes.
“You’re one to talk,” Max replied, to which Tasha waved a hand, dismissing the compliment.
“Smoke and mirrors. You know show business.”
Tasha took a muffin from the craft-services table and then grimaced at its obvious staleness.
“That’s what you get for agreeing to be a judge on a B-level show,” Max said, looking pointedly at the sad muffin.
Starmakerhad once been the hottest ticket in Nashville, garnering millions of viewers. Tasha Munroe had been discovered in the first season—chosen by the great country music producer Cruz McNeil, who was one of the show’s creators—and was now back as a guest judge. But recent seasons were lagging. Perhaps the show’s predictable format was tiresome to viewers, especially in a sea of reality show options, but there had been much talk and anticipation that this year was going to get it back on top of the Nielsen ratings. And from the producers’ perspective, Max Brody was a big part of the strategy.
“Now, come on,” Tasha replied. “Didn’t you hear we havetheMax Brody joining this season?”
They both laughed, and Tasha broke off a piece of the stale muffin for Patsy.
“Tash!” Max twisted away, but not before Patsy got the treat. “You know she can’t have gluten.”
Tasha rolled her eyes, her fake eyelashes so long they hit above her eyebrows. “Max,you know she can. Look how happy she is. Aren’t you, girl? Aren’t you?” Tasha cooed, giving her another small bit of muffin despite Max’s annoyed glare. “Nice sweater, by the way.”
“Oh, thanks.” Max ran his hand over Patsy’s sweater and felt a wave of pride.
On the stage in front of them, a dozen or so of the other contestants were warming up. Max had no clue who thecontestants were, or what their stories were, because he hadn’t met any of them yet—he hadn’t bothered to.
It was probably time to pay closer attention because these contestants were his competition. But the white noise of the mingling voices made it tough for anyone to rise above the rest.
