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“You’re only here because you had no choice. I’m sure you would have pawned this trip off on someone else if you could have, just like you did with lunch. But I’ll save you some time. I’m not changing my mind. I’m telling you, it’s impossible. Stay or leave—I don’t care. It won’t make any difference.”
Piper crosses her arms, the defiant gleam that’s appeared at least once every time I’ve been around her showing up once again. “We’ll see.”
I shake my head and turn, heading up the stairs.
Hating how the lyrics to “Blue Rain Boots” are running through my head the whole climb.
CHAPTERSEVEN
PIPER
HARPER: You’re in TEXAS? With KYLE SPENCER?!
PIPER: I don’t want to talk about it.
HARPER: Going that great, huh?
PIPER: It’s not *going* at all.
PIPER: He’s a stubborn cowboy who lives in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
PIPER: Not to mention a multimillionaire who doesn’t have air-conditioning.
HARPER: I went in for $100 that you’d get him to sign a new contract. Don’t let me down.
PIPER: Then, we’re both screwed.
PIPER: What are my odds?
HARPER: You don’t want to know.
PIPER: Y’all suck.
HARPER: You’re Southern now?
PIPER: BYE!
Waking up in the bunkhouse is weird. If it had air-conditioning, it would be tolerable.
But it doesn’t. So, I barely slept, tossing and turning on the tiny, too-firm mattress until enough light was in the sky to make it obvious that it was morning and the sun would keep me up even if the heat didn’t.
Right after the monthly meeting—which my assignment here excused me from—ended on the East Coast, Harper texted me, confirming that the office gossip mill is churning and I’m unfortunately included in the latest batch of news.
Kyle Spencer has always been a popular topic at Empire despite rarely doing anything newsworthy.
Refusing to sign a new contract? That’s newsworthy.
Me here to talk him into signing a new contract? Also newsworthy.
Especially to colleagues like Harper, who’s a friend and also aware of the fact that Kyle Spencer is the last musician whose career I’d voluntarily assist. My feelings for the man and the genre known as country music—Kyle’s fans refer to him as the King of Country, so the two are practically one and the same—are well-known in the office. A source of amusement and entertainment more often than not.
I never expected Kyle might mention noticing that nearly a year after the last time we saw each other.
My job is simply one small cog in the massive machine known as Kyle Spencer’s career. Had I left the label anytime in the past few years, he would have kept chugging along just fine without me. Except now, suddenly, I’mthecog. Whether or not Kyle Spencer’s career continues to exist seems to rely solely on me, and it’s a responsibility I really don’t want.
Worse is realizing that Kyle is aware I don’t want it either. And at this point, I know he won’t believe me if I claim otherwise or act like I’ve become a fan of songs featuring beer bottles and pickup trucks overnight.
Honesty is my best policy if I want him to trust me.
