Chapter 12
Chance found Shelly waiting for him on a bench outside the office entrance. At least she didn’t expect him to ride the bus after throwing him under one.
“Did you know that was coming?”
She didn’t look up. “Yes.”
The betrayal cut deep. Shelly was the only person on the planet that he trusted. The only person he’d ever put his faith in.
“I thought you were on my side.”
“We’re all on your side, Chance. Everyone but you.” Looking up, she lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. “I’ve told you before. You’re your own worst enemy.”
Taking the seat beside her, he considered arguing, but as always, she was right. “I’m not doing those demos.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I said—”
“Enough,” she snapped, as she flattened her hand against her stomach. After a succession of deep breaths, she asked, “Do you have two songs or were you lying?”
He may have been a drunk, but Chance was no liar. “I have two songs. But they aren’t ready.”
Shelly dabbed sweat from her brow. “Then get them ready. You have the equipment at your house. Give the record label two simple acoustic tracks. And then I suggest you consider the offer to bring in other writers.”
She could not be serious.
“I tried that once. You know what happened.”
“That was eight years ago, Chance. Eight years. I’ve never pushed because you’ve always come up with the songs, somehow producing hit after hit regardless of the drinking, womanizing, and abusing anyone who dared to look at you the wrong way.” With a warm hand on his arm, she turned to face him. “If I don’t push you now, I won’t be doing my job. Things have to change. Putting down the bottle isn’t enough. If we don’t pull out of this professional chasm, we’re taking a lot of innocent people down with us.”
So many times over the last year, Chance had wanted to walk away. To chuck it all and say fuck it to the world. Shelly had made sure he had a sizeable fortune in the bank. Though he’d never figured out how she’d kept him from blowing it all, Chance knew he had enough to hide for several years.
Why not give up? He’d had a good run. Achieved more than he’d ever dreamed was possible.
The answer was simple. Chance made music. That’s all he’d ever wanted to do. Sure, he could sit on his porch with a guitar and play all day long, but the effect wouldn’t be the same. He needed the stage like he needed air. Now he was on the brink of pissing it all away. Again.
“Do you still believe in me, Shell?”
“Darlin’, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. And I mean that literally. It’s taking everything I have not to barf on your boots right now.”
Chance nudged her with his shoulder. “These puppies cost me five hundred bucks, so I appreciate your effort not to destroy them.” Watching two birds fight over a bread crumb, he offered a concession. “I’ll think about the collaboration stuff. But only if the songs quit coming.”
Shelly’s eyes dropped to her folded hands. “People write together in this town every day. There’s no reason to believe history will repeat itself.”
No reason at all, but that didn’t make him any more willing to try again. Chance had been a nobody eight years ago when another writer had taken full credit for three of his songs. Since he’d had no evidence of his contribution, there had been no way to prove the other writer had lied. When one of the songs went to number one, Chance made a vow never to put himself in that position again.
After years of writing solo, he couldn’t imagine collaborating again. Not out of fear, but out of habit. Now more than ever, he needed to trust the process that had gotten him here. As Shelly had pointed out, he’d turned out hits over and over—maybe not because of his bad habits but despite them.
“Like I said. I’ll think about it.”
Someone coughed behind them, and together they turned to find Naomi lingering by the door.
“I have an update about tomorrow,” she said.
Shelly rose to her feet. “Has the interview been canceled?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll wait in the car.”
Since he knew Shelly felt like shit, Chance let her go. Holding his ground, he waited for Naomi to come to him. Annoyance evident, she crossed the sidewalk, stopping a good four feet away.
“The reporter from Country Today sent me an email while we were in the meeting. They’ve changed the time of the interview from eleven to two o’clock. We’d also planned to hold it here, but they’ve asked that we come to their offices downtown.”
Information she could have easily passed on to Shelly. “I’m fine with that. Anything else?”
Naomi extended a sheet of paper. “I’ve compiled a list of questions I’d like to forward over. You’ve made it clear that you don’t want to limit what questions are asked in these interviews, and I respect that. These are suggested questions with the caveat that we are open to others, but you reserve the right to decide whether or not you want to answer anything not listed here.”
Chance recognized a compromise when he saw one. Scanning the list, he nodded.
“Okay.”
She retrieved the paper. “Good. We can do the same as yesterday, with Shelly bringing you here and us riding together, or she can take you directly to their offices. I’ll make sure she has the address.”
Heels clicking on the pavement, she marched back into the building. After his outburst in the conference room, most adversaries wouldn’t have come outside to face the firing squad again. But then, Naomi wasn’t most people. She never had been.
Strolling toward the Lexus, a lyric floated through Chance’s mind. Men think they’re the strong ones, hard as leather, strong as steel, but women are the fighters, fearless warriors in high heels. Not his usual fare, but not a bad start, either. Whether the tune would turn into anything remained to be seen, but the truth couldn’t be denied.
For better or worse, Naomi had become his muse.
Naomi rarely imbibed on weeknights, but made a onetime exception. After she had been growled at by Chance, her boss had expressed his own displeasure. With less dramatics, but the effect had been the same.
She’d screwed up.
Reclining on her couch with a hot washcloth across her forehead, Naomi replayed the meeting in her mind, seeking the exact moment things had gone wrong. She kept coming back to Chance’s confession. He wasn’t supposed to admit anything was wrong. That wasn’t his style.
Chance was supposed to say that everything was fine, and then Clay would have casually suggested bringing other writers in, which should have led to a reasonable discussion. At which point Naomi would have taken Chance’s side, pointing out that he wasn’t cut out for collaboration, turning the entire thing into a challenge he couldn’t resist.
But no. Chance had to go and be honest. The jerk.
Tossing the now-cold washcloth onto the coffee table, she watched her ceiling fan spin. What should she have done differently? Surprised him with a blind-date-style writing session? Would he walk out on a respected colleague like an unhappy toddler?
Yes. Yes, he would.
Maybe she should have kept her suspicions to herself. Too many cooks and all that. A one-on-one approach might have garnered better results. Her boss would still be blissfully ignorant of impending disaster, and Chance might have taken the bait without an audience to witness his surrender.
There was one more possibility, of course. Perhaps nothing would have worked. A notion Naomi strongly rejected. Every problem had a solution. Over, under, or around, there was always a way to the other side. With Chance, the way through would likely require dynamite, but she was willing to keep all options on the table.
His cooperation when she’d shown him the list of approved questions had been encouraging, and another sign that perhaps Chance was changing. The jilted-ex side of her brain dismissed the possibility, but the fair-minded side acknowledged the differences. Still confident, but humble in ways he hadn’t been before. Self-deprecating instead of arrogant. Aware of and even honest about his shortcomings.
Which led to the most dangerous change of all, at least for Naomi’s peace of mind. Vulnerability. No longer were the doubts and fears hidden behind a wall of cocky disdain. The enigmatic star had fallen back to earth, his flaws and faults fodder for headlines and dissected in endlessly cruel comment threads.
The troubled man behind the fearless façade had been exposed, tapping into Naomi’s most basic instincts. Not that she entertained any illusions about fixing the man, but she couldn’t help but want to fix his situation. To give him the opportunity and means to heal. And that danced much too close to caring, not on a strictly business level, but on a personal one.
A slippery slope for sure. And another reason to think of Chance as a client and nothing more. At least Naomi had been able to stop Clay from canceling the scheduled session time until after he’d heard the demos on Monday. These two songs could be the greatest songs ever. Hope sprung eternal, as her dear departed grandmother used to say.
Leaning up, Naomi reached for her wineglass as a knock sounded at the door. She checked the clock. Seven fifteen. This could be only one person. Crossing the small living room, she opened the door for her visitor.
“Hey there, sis,” Baker greeted, dropping a kiss on her cheek as he stepped inside. “What’s for dinner?”
She rolled her eyes as the door swung shut. “I ate more than an hour ago. There’s leftover spaghetti in the fridge.”
Her little brother grabbed a fork on his way to the refrigerator. “Awesome. I’m starving.”
Baker was always starving. Mostly because he was broke. Four years at Belmont University had led to four years of finding himself, as their mother called it. Since graduation, he had changed jobs every few months. So far, he’d been a valet and an usher at the Bridgestone Arena, bussed tables at nearly every restaurant downtown, and even driven one of the rolling taverns that toted tourists around lower Broadway, powered entirely by those tourists pedaling their beer-drinking little butts off.
“You could have let me know you were coming.” Naomi had made this request multiple times. She didn’t necessarily mind him dropping by, but a heads-up would be nice. Actually asking if she wanted company would be better, but she wasn’t silly enough to expect that much.
Baker skipped the table and dropped onto the couch. “Why is the TV off?”
“Because I didn’t feel like watching anything.” This was going to take more than a glass. Naomi snagged the bottle of Merlot off the counter. “You can turn it on if you want.”
Kicking off his shoes, he reached for the remote. “Vandy baseball is on.”
Sports. Awesome. Naomi had never been an athlete, and rarely watched sports. Except for the Predators. April had become the go-to stylist for many of the players’ wives, and she’d started dragging her best friend to the games a couple of years ago. Clueless at first, Naomi eventually figured out the rules, and now looked forward to hockey season more than she ever thought she would.
As Baker found the channel for the game, Naomi topped off her glass. “How’s the new job going?”
For once, he’d found a position in his field. If entrepreneurship could be a field.
“Good so far. But, you know, it’s only been four days.”
The remote hit the coffee table seconds before the first bite hit her brother’s shirt. “That’s going to stain.” She reached for the wet rag on the table and dabbed at the spot of sauce. “Mom bought you all these nice shirts, the least you can do is take care of them.”
Working in an office had required a brand-new wardrobe, which their mother had willingly supplied. Naomi suggested outfitting him with a few pieces and leaving the rest for him to purchase on his own. That did not fly with Mama Mallard. Her boy would never go without. Heaven forbid.
“It’s fine. Mom will get it out.”
Naomi swatted him with the washcloth. “Is she still doing your laundry? Baker, we talked about this. You need to stop leaning on her for everything. It’s time to grow up.”
“I am grown up,” he mumbled around a bite of spaghetti. “Besides, she likes doing this stuff.”
A sad truth Naomi could not dispute. “That doesn’t mean you should let her. Someday you’re going to find a wife, and Mom is going to make that poor woman’s life miserable. Nothing she’ll ever do for you will be good enough.”
“Nice hit!” Baker yelled before replying to his sister. “I’m not getting married anytime soon.” Turning from the game, he said, “Do you know what Mom asked me this week? If there was some grandkid running around that she doesn’t know about. Where does she get these crazy ideas?”
Naomi lifted her glass. “I have no idea.”
They watched another play in silence, until Baker asked, “You got anything to drink?”
“There’s soda and water in the fridge.” The wine was hers. “Get whatever you want.”
Baker sent her a pleading look. “A Coke would be nice.”
Old habits die hard. “Of course.” Naomi set down her glass. “Let me get that for you.”
Since the living room and kitchen were essentially one large room, she didn’t have far to go to fetch the drink. When she returned with the soda and a paper towel, he at least had the manners to thank her. Minutes later, the inning ended and the game cut to commercial.
“Are you ready for this big dinner on Sunday?” he asked after a long drink.
The Mallards had dinner together every Sunday. Why would this weekend be any different?
“What’s so big about it?”
A dark brow arched. “You don’t know? Maybe I’m not supposed to say.”
Oh, no he didn’t. “Talk, dear brother. What is Mom up to?”
He held a forkful of noodles in front of his mouth. “Uh-uh,” he said before shoveling the food in.
Naomi leaned close. “I know things about you, buster. Things that Mother would be very disappointed to hear.” Her voice turned menacing. “Spill now, or I’m making the call.”
Green eyes identical to their mother’s went wide. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“Fine. But Mary Beth said you knew anyway, so if this gets back to Mom, I’m saying she told you.” Baker rested the spaghetti bowl in his lap. “Mom’s got that Neal guy from next door coming over. It’s a setup all the way. From the way it sounds, she’s already picking out invitations for your wedding.”
Why? Why couldn’t her mother leave Naomi alone? One of the only positive results of her short-lived time with Michael had been the revelation that not only did she not want a man in her life, Naomi didn’t need one. Not even the doctor next door.
“She has officially lost her mind. There’s no way I’m going through that. I just won’t go.”
Baker laughed. “Right. Like that’s an option.”
Leaping off the couch, she pointed at her brother. “It’s an option for me. I’m thirty years old. She can’t make me go.”
With pity in his eyes, her brother tilted his head. “We both know you’ll be there.”
Naomi dropped back to the couch, grabbing the wine bottle on the way down. “Dammit. Why do we let her do this?”
Baker tapped his soda can to her bottle. “Because she spent thirty-six hours in agonizing labor to bring us into the world, and the least we can do is come for dinner once a week.”
They’d all heard this manipulation so many times the Mallard offspring could recite it in their sleep. “Thirty-six for you. Only twenty-two for me,” she corrected him. “She’s going to embarrass the hell out of me.”
“Definitely.” Her sibling lifted the leftovers. “Game’s back on.”
Ignoring the TV, Naomi stared at the mail on her coffee table only to be taunted by a perturbing magazine cover. KNOW WHEN TO SAY NO: CREATING BOUNDARIES FOR A HAPPIER YOU. Naomi shoved the mag onto the floor before drinking straight from the bottle.