Chapter 9
This should be good.
Chance considered keeping his seat, but antagonizing his publicist would only make matters worse. Nothing she said in that hallway was going to change the fact that he didn’t have new music to talk about. There was the one song—which he’d titled “Man Up”—but one song didn’t make an album. Hell, there was no way to even know if that song would make the final cut, assuming he came up with a dozen or so more options.
Outside the booth, he found Naomi pacing the narrow hall.
She stopped in front of him once, only to pace away again as a slender hand sliced through her hair. Stopping a second time, she said, “Are you trying to drive me insane?”
Seemed like a self-centered question.
“Not intentionally, no.”
She held his gaze for several seconds, as if attempting to decipher a maddening riddle. “You’re a professional musician, Chance. A performer. All you have to do is talk about the music. Why won’t you do that?”
The truth teetered on his tongue, but he swallowed the words. “I don’t like to talk about the songs before they’re ready.”
Naomi slammed her hands on her hips. “You used to play me your songs before you even had the final verse written.”
That was back when the lyrics poured onto the page. Back when he wrote every melody with a glass of Jack by his side.
“Things change.”
“That’s what we’re here to prove. That you’ve changed.” The declaration made him feel defective, which Chance supposed he was. “Ruby isn’t asking for a detailed rundown of every song. Just talk about the overall tone. Upbeat. Sullen and philosophical. A mixture of reggae and Russian folk music. I don’t care what you tell her, but you’ve got to say something.”
Chance didn’t like the idea of lying, but he was enjoying watching Naomi get all hot and bothered. “You think I’m a reggae guy?”
One thin brow arched high. “Now you’re provoking me.”
So much for flirting his way out of this.
“Look, it’s country music. Losing the girl and getting her back. Missing old friends and drowning your sorrows. I’m not reinventing the wheel here.”
Naomi clapped her hands in approval. “There you go. Tell that to Ruby. But leave off the reinventing-the-wheel part. Nobody needs to know that you’re doing the same old thing.”
His inner artist bristled. “I never said it was the same old thing.” Chance might not yet know what he was making, but the last thing he wanted to do was repeat himself.
“Right. Of course.” She pushed him toward the radio booth. “The album will be totally original and nothing like the million other songs about driving a truck and living in a small town. Now hurry up. We’re running out of time.”
She made him sound like a walking cliché. Chance made a mental note never to rely on Naomi for a pep talk.
Once inside, he returned to his stool as his publicist returned to her seat. “We’re all set, Ruby.”
“Way to crack the whip, girlfriend.” The hostess pinned Chance with a look. “I know you’re a man of few words, but nods and short answers don’t make for good radio. You ready to talk?”
His gut clenched in rebellion, but he nodded like a good little artist. The closer they got to airtime, the surlier Chance grew. He didn’t like this dog and pony show, and he sure didn’t like being the damn pony. In the past, he’d only agreed to a promo of this kind when a new album released. He’d play a tune, talk about his upcoming tour dates, and shuffle out the door.
No personal questions.
No demands to play nice.
No publicist in the corner shooting him just do what I told you to looks.
Ruby and Payton discussed something on the other side of the board, while Naomi stopped shooting him dirty looks long enough to snap a picture on his phone. “Smile,” she mouthed. Chance glared and she took the shot anyway.
“Thirty seconds, guys,” Payton called. Those wandering the room found either a seat or the exit.
Chance slid his headphones into place and waited for the questions to resume.
“Welcome back to the Ruby Barnett Country Crew, live from historic Music Row here in Nashville, Tennessee. One of the bonuses of being where the action is, of course, is getting to hang with guests like the one we have today. For those of you just tuning in, we’ve got Chance Colburn in the hot seat this morning.”
Not for long, he thought.
“I’m sure everyone out there is excited and looking forward to new music from Mr. Colburn here, so I’m going to try one more time to pry some details out of him. Chance, what can we look forward to on this new album?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure yet.”
Naomi gasped and Ruby’s expression shifted from confident to concerned.
“There must be something you can tell us. Are you writing all the songs for this one?”
“Working on it.”
Heavily lined eyes cut to the publicist. “There must be a couple of songs that stand out for you.”
Chance crossed his arms. “Nothing yet.”
With a screw you grin, the interviewer said, “Then I guess there’s nothing more to talk about. Thanks for joining us, Chance, and good luck with the new album. It sounds like you’re going to need it.”
Instead of thanking his hostess, Chance removed the headphones and left the studio.
“You need to get that boy on a leash,” Ruby snapped, as Naomi rushed after Chance.
The morning hostess was the least of her problems right now. If Chance actually wanted to save his career, he had a messed-up way of showing it.
Naomi looked both ways, knowing that either hall would eventually lead to the reception area. She wouldn’t put it past him to take the opposite way from how they’d come in just to keep her from catching up. Too bad for him, because unless he intended to walk, she was his only ride out of here. Due to an appointment that couldn’t be changed, Shelly had dropped Chance at the Shooting Stars offices so Naomi could drive them both to the radio station.
Choosing what she thought might be the shorter route, Naomi turned left and rounded a corner only to run into Charley Layton. Literally. The collision nearly knocked her to the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” Charley cried. “Are you okay?”
She shook off the concern. “I’m fine, Charley. Did you see Chance Colburn go by here?”
“Yeah, he shot past me about five seconds ago. Is everything all right?”
“Of course.” Naomi started to rush off before realizing Charley shouldn’t have been at the station. “Wait a minute! You just had the baby last week. Why are you here? And how are you so skinny already?”
Charley held her hands palms out. “Turns out water weight goes away pretty fast. And I left Dylan home with Violet so I could pick up some of the presents listeners sent in. I’m still in shock they sent anything at all. Some of the blankets are handmade.”
Naomi couldn’t stop staring at Charley’s skinny jeans. Mary Beth had nearly doubled in size with her last one, and two years later she was still trying to get the weight off. “That’s really sweet. I hope you’ll bring her by the office soon.”
John Willoughby, the station program manager, appeared behind Naomi. “Ms. Mallard, we need to talk about that stunt your artist just pulled.”
Naomi suddenly remembered the crisis at hand. “You have my apologies, Mr. Willoughby.” She hustled by Charley. “I’m sure Chance had a good reason for leaving like that. I’m going to check on him right now.”
“Good luck,” called Charley, as Naomi burst into the reception area. Before she could even ask, the young woman behind the desk said, “He took the elevator.”
“Thank you.” Naomi took the stairs to the bottom floor and caught a glimpse of the bad boy in black leaning against a brick half wall outside. Instead of looking defiant, he looked . . . lost.
Taking time to breathe, she paused at the door to watch him. With fitful movements, he drew a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket behind the trademark black vest. As he struggled to light it, Naomi realized his hands were shaking. Unable to keep the lighter steady, Chance gave up and tossed the unlit cigarette to the ground.
In that second, she regretted bringing him here. Regretted insisting he face public judgment head-on. Naomi regretted a lot of things. Before stepping into the sunlight, she schooled her features. He’d been through enough today. Pity would only add insult to injury.
“I’m not in the mood for a lecture,” he said, continuing to stare at the sidewalk as she approached.
“No lecture.”
Chance looked her way. “You aren’t going to tell me how I fucked that up?”
She watched a bus roll past with Dylan Monroe’s face on the side of it, and thought about how different the two artists were. Dylan was a dream to work with. Chance was more like a nightmare. A test of her skills and patience.
A test she was failing so far. Time to change tactics. To stop pushing against the tide and try rolling with it.
“Doesn’t sound like I need to.” Naomi gestured toward the parking lot next door. “You ready to go?”
Chance didn’t move. “Did I miss something? How come you aren’t chewing my ass?”
“I tried chewing your ass once today. Didn’t get me the results I wanted.” The warm breeze carried the scents of coffee and fresh-baked bread. “So tell me what you need, Chance. Tell me what I can do to make this work. Because believe it or not, I truly want you to succeed. Do you need more coffee? More cigarettes? A new cat toy for Willie? Just tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”
The silver lighter disappeared behind the vest. “I could go for a doughnut.”
A simple enough request. “Bavarian cream, right?”
“You remember?” He peeled himself off the wall.
Naomi shook her head. “Don’t read anything into it, Colburn. It’s only a doughnut.”
Chance fell into step beside her, silent until they reached the car. “You still like the chocolate frosting with sprinkles?”
The question brought a smile to her face. “What happened to ‘drunks don’t remember much’?”
He strolled around to the passenger side. “I guess I have one or two brain cells left after all.”
“This is so good,” Naomi moaned around a large bite of doughnut.
If she kept making those noises, Chance would not be responsible for his actions. They’d chosen a parking space away from the little building, refraining from sitting inside, for obvious reasons.
“Shelly says I’m replacing booze with food.” Having finished off his treat, he wiped his hands on a napkin. “As if that’s a bad thing.”
Naomi finished her bite, head thrown back in ecstasy. “Doughnuts are never a bad thing. Which makes me wonder why it’s been so long since I’ve had one of these.”
“How long has it been?”
“Years,” she sighed.
Chance lifted his orange juice from the cup holder. “Me, too.”
Rolling her head his way, she closed one eye. “Are we still talking about doughnuts?”
She was leading them into dangerous territory. “Do you want me to answer that?”
As if coming to her senses, she looked away. “I do not.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So,” she said, cleaning off her hands, “I owe you an apology.”
He didn’t see that coming. “For what?”
“I hate to admit it, but your manager was right. I shouldn’t have pushed you into these interviews.” She shoved her trash into the white paper bag. “I’m sorry.”
“Naomi, don’t—”
“I’m willing to admit when I’m wrong,” she cut in. “Shelly clearly knows you better than I do. I should have listened.”
What happened back at the station was more about panic than recovery. Chance felt put on the spot, and he didn’t have any answers. Because he didn’t have any damn songs to talk about.
“Ignore Shelly. She’s overprotective.” He added his trash to the bag. “The last thing I need is one more woman in my life treating me like an injured puppy.”
Naomi started the car. “Heaven forbid anyone try to be helpful. And we both know why she’s overprotective.”
Not this again. “I told you. Shelly is not in love with me.”
“Chance, you’re a lot of things, but clueless isn’t one of them.” She looked both ways before easing into traffic. “I’m sure things would be awkward if you admitted the truth, but that doesn’t change the reality.”
Only one thing would convince her. “Shelly is my sister.”
Naomi slammed on the brakes, eliciting a loud honk from the car behind them. “She’s what?”
“You’re going to get us killed. Drive the car.”
“I am driving the car.” The BMW rolled into motion. “How have you kept that a secret all this time?”
He told the truth. “Nobody’s ever asked.”
She continued up Twenty-first Avenue, still casting him curious glances. “You two don’t even look alike.”
“Technically, she’s my stepsister. Her dad married my mom after my father died.”
“That’s right. The guy who passed away back when we were dating wasn’t your birth father.”
Chance had gotten the call about Wayne Ransick dying of a heart attack while sitting on Naomi’s couch. She’d assumed he spent the next three days mourning with family and attending the funeral. In truth, he’d gone to see his mother for the first time in six years, only to find her high and hysterical.
Instead of welcoming her son home, Debra had demanded he get off her property, ranting that he wasn’t getting any of the life insurance money. Chance had left a wad of cash in the mailbox, then stopped at the cemetery long enough to spit on Ransick’s grave.
“No, he wasn’t. My real dad was killed in a robbery. He walked into a convenience store at the wrong time and took a bullet to the chest.”
This was more than Chance had told anyone in years. He blamed the sugar and a lack of nicotine.
Naomi turned right on Edgehill Avenue. Students wrapping up another year traversed the sidewalk along the Vanderbilt University campus. “Oh, Chance. I’m so sorry.”
He kept an eye on the familiar greenery of Magnolia Lawn, where sun glistened on a bright white tent visible through two sprawling maples. “I was five. I barely remember him.”
If it hadn’t been for three old pictures he’d found while snooping through his mom’s closet the summer after seventh grade, Chance wouldn’t even know what his father looked like. Until then, he’d been a blurry figure in distant memories, casting a line beside him, or tossing him a baseball in the yard. Chance had stared at those pictures for hours that night, and hidden them away to keep them safe. Only recently, after finding the photos in an old box, did he see the resemblance in the mirror.
Drifting into the turn lane to make a left on Sixteenth, Naomi’s voice turned solemn. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”
She was lucky that way. Since they’d never been public when they were dating, Chance had never met Naomi’s family, but he knew they were close. No drinkers. No name calling. No backhands because the dog shit in the yard.
“It’s ancient history. Done and over.” Chance could almost hear Harmon saying, if it was done and over, he wouldn’t be an alcoholic. But what did Harmon know? Other than what it was like to be an alcoholic.
Naomi pulled into the mostly empty lot in front of the sprawling two-story office building that housed Shooting Stars Records. “Is Shelly coming back to get you?”
Chance held up his phone. “I’ll call Archie. He lives close by. You think Clay was listening this morning?”
She made a pained face. “I’m sure of it. But you go on. Clay won’t be in for another half hour, and I’ll handle things when he gets here.”
“I don’t need you to make excuses for me. I screwed up. I’ll face the music.”
He reached for the handle on his door, only to hear the lock click.
“Would it kill you to just once take my suggestion?” Naomi asked. “Just once?”
Fine. She could have her way this time. Chance lifted his phone and called Archie’s number, holding it up for her to see.
The musician answered, sounding groggy, as Chance knew he would. “Hey, Arch. I need you to come get me. I’m over at Shooting Stars.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, now.”
A thud echoed down the line. “Well, shit. I don’t even have clothes on.”
“Cover your whacker and get over here.”
Dark brows furrowed in question, but Chance left Naomi in the dark.
“All right. I’ll be there in five.”
The line went dead. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
She pressed the button to unlock the doors. “Then you might as well come in and wait. Belinda is the only one here this early, and she’ll have coffee ready.”
He almost refused, but decided Archie might appreciate a solid hit of caffeine for his trouble. They made their way to the entrance and Chance opened the door for her. She brushed against him, clearly by accident, and a jolt of awareness shot to his groin.
Naomi hurried forward, letting herself in the second set of doors. “I have work to do, but you’ll be in good hands out here with Belinda.”
Without waiting for a response, she hustled down the hall and disappeared around a corner. Chance nodded to the receptionist and made his way to the coffee station. If they kept throwing sparks like this, their business-only relationship wasn’t going to last much longer. Did he want to trek that path again? Common sense told him hell no.
Too bad he’d never been all that good at common sense.