Chapter 10
“Mitch?” Dylan called, after ringing the doorbell and knocking several times had been met with silence. He’d stepped into the house, surprised to find the door unlocked. “Mitch, it’s Dylan. You here?”
An odd noise from his left drew his attention to the living room. Once he reached the sofa, the situation became clear. The coffee table and floor were littered with empty liquor bottles while what looked like the last quart of vodka rested on Mitch’s chest.
“Wake up,” Dylan said, shaking his manager. “You’ve been sober for a year. What the hell happened?” As he spoke, he rounded the couch and collected the bottles scattered across the expensive area rug.
Mitch wedged up on his elbows, sending the vodka bottle rolling under the table. “I took a long walk off a short wagon,” he answered, dropping back and rubbing his eyes.
Voice like sandpaper, he smelled like a tub of gin, and his clothes—a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts—were wrinkled and stained. Lord only knew how long he’d been in them.
“Where did you get all of this?” Dylan asked.
“I’ve been stocking up for six months.” Bare feet swung to the floor. “Tucking them here and there, like a diabetic hiding candy bars.”
“Why would you do that?”
“How the hell should I know?” Mitch shifted to a sitting position and reached for the vodka. After a long swig, he balanced it on his knee. “Did you blow them away at the radio station?”
Dylan felt good about his performance, but like anything, he remained dubious. “The interview went well. I played the right chords and hit the right notes.”
“That’s what I like about you, Monroe. You’re determined without being delusional.”
Speaking of delusional.
“We have a show at the Marathon on Friday,” Dylan said. “I need you there, and I need you sober. Can you do that?”
The Marathon Music Works was Dylan’s favorite place to play in the city, and they’d been lucky to land a Friday night opening.
“Boy,” Mitch growled, “don’t talk to me like I’m a damn idiot. I’ll be sober, shaved, and spit-shined by the time they open those doors. You worry about putting on a show. I’ll handle the rest.”
Until a week ago, Mitch had handled everything that Shooting Star Records hadn’t, and some things that they should have. He’d convinced the Tennessean newspaper to run an article on the Louisiana boy about to make good, scored Dylan tickets to the Country Music Hall of Fame dinner Saturday night—offering the perfect opportunity to schmooze some big names and maybe land an opening gig on an upcoming tour—and booked the Friday night show at the Marathon.
Though Mitch’s reputation on Music Row wasn’t the best, Dylan believed in second chances, and Mitch Levine had proven time and again that signing him on as manager had been the right decision. Until the last week, they’d been cruising along, knocking down one door after another.
So why now? Why dive into a bottle when they were so close to their goal?
“Is this week some anniversary or something? The date of a painful memory that you had to drink your way through?”
Mitch rubbed his scruff-covered chin. “A drunk doesn’t need a special occasion to fill his glass.”
“It doesn’t look like you bothered with a glass.”
“I started with one. I’m not sure what happened to it.”
“Why did you drag me down here?” Dylan asked.
The answer had to wait until Mitch had finished off the last of the vodka and tossed the bottle down with the others. With a belch, he leaned back and stretched pale, hairy legs to rest on the glass tabletop.
“I have an idea for branding,” he declared, words noticeably slurred. “We need to play up that pretty face of yours and make you the most eligible bachelor in country music.”
Dylan rejected the idea immediately. “I doubt an unknown is going to knock Chesney off that pedestal. I say we let the music lead and forget about the face.”
“Which is why you pay me the big bucks. Or will,” he clarified. “The country music demographic swings female. The girls want a guy with a nice ass, a pretty face, and music they can dance to. When you’ve got all three, you use ’em for all they’re worth.”
The man had a point. Though Dylan wasn’t sure how he felt about his manager pointing out his nice ass.
“What exactly do you have in mind?”
“I’ve got a contact at Country Today magazine, and they’re working on a list of the most eligible bachelors in the genre. The article won’t come out until the end of the year, but they’re doing the interviews and photo shoots this month.”
Sounded like a good opportunity, but this didn’t explain why Dylan had to drive twenty minutes out of town.
“Give me a date and time and I’ll be there. But you could have told me this over the phone. Why am I here, Mitch?”
The older man met his client’s gaze for the first time since he’d walked in. “You’re here because I owe you an apology, and that needed to happen in person. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t come to you.”
Dylan nodded. “Fair enough.”
“You’re the only client I’ve got, Monroe. The drinking chased the rest off, but you stuck with me, and I owe you better than this. I’m sorry I went AWOL on you. It won’t happen again.”
“I appreciate that,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets.
Mitch had offered representation after Dylan’s first deal had fallen through, when no one else would even take his calls. With dogged determination and unwavering support, he’d spent three years promising another deal, and now they had one. Mitch had more than earned Dylan’s loyalty.
“Then we’re good?” Mitch asked.
“Yes, sir. You need help cleaning this up?”
Mitch dropped his feet to the floor and teetered on the edge of the sofa. “I’ve got it. You want something to drink? I think there might be water in the kitchen.”
Dylan shook his head. “I’ve got rehearsal at two. Do I need to do a quick search for more of the hard stuff and toss it out?”
“Nope. This is every last bottle I had.” The manager stood up, wavering until he caught his balance. “Damn, that first step’s a doozy.”
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, truly concerned.
“I’ll feel like shit for a few days, but I’ll make it. When I lock in a date on the magazine stuff, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, I’ll see you Friday night.”
Waiting a beat to make sure the man remained upright, Dylan pulled his keys from his pocket.
“Call me if you need me,” he offered, heading for the exit.
“Yeah, yeah,” echoed behind him. “I’ll be fine.”
“The radio visit was a success,” Clay said, sitting at the head of a conference table surrounded by his gifted, if small, staff. “How can we build on this?”
Ralph Sampson, Shooting Stars’s radio liaison, chimed in first. “Willoughby has already agreed to add the single to the Eagle rotation, and we’ve locked in two stations in Shreveport anxious to play a hometown boy. I’ve drafted an email sharing news of the adds, as well as our streaming numbers as of noon today. The message will hit the inbox of every major market programmer on our list first thing tomorrow morning, and I may update it with more streaming numbers before hitting Send. I’ll target midsize and smaller markets on Friday, hopefully with an edit to include other confirmed adds.”
“I’m working social media from all angles,” said Daphne Bukowski. “The pics we got from the station meet and greet are garnering lots of attention. If we can up the shares on Twitter, we could crawl onto the Emerging Artists chart on Billboard, but that’s a slow build right now.” The tiny blonde tipped up her glasses as she flipped a page in her notepad. “Newsletter subscriptions are up over the last twenty-four hours, as well as our Facebook and Instagram followers. I need Dylan to be more active on his accounts. He’s the draw for the younger female audience. He needs to give them something to follow.”
“Higher numbers is what I like to hear, and I’ll talk to Dylan about his online activity.” Clay turned to Lenny Cooper. “How are we looking on the distribution side?”
The balding father of two lowered his Tennessee Titans mug to the table. “We’re good. The single went live with no problems on all major outlets, and preorders for the album doubled overnight. Though we’re talking unknown artist numbers, not the kind you’d see for a Luke Bryan or a Miranda Lambert release.”
That was the downside to stacking veterans of the business. They knew the realities of the industry and when their talents were being underutilized.
“We need to start looking at new artists,” added Naomi. “Now that Dylan is up and running, we’re ready for another project. Running a label with only one act won’t get us very far, especially if that one act doesn’t take off.”
Clay knew Naomi well enough to know her comment didn’t mean a lack of faith in Dylan’s abilities or appeal. She was simply speaking the truth. Something the others had been hinting at for the last couple of months.
“I’m glad you brought that up,” he replied. “I’ve got my eye on someone right now.”
“Who?” asked Daphne.
“Chance Colburn,” he announced, well aware that the name wasn’t likely to garner positive responses. What Clay hadn’t expected was total silence. “I’ve never known any of you to keep your thoughts to yourself. Spit ’em out now or forever hold your peace.”
“He’s a risk,” Lenny muttered. “Foxfire dropped him for a reason.”
Daphne leaned back in her chair. “He’s a known womanizer. I can’t imagine we could clean up his image enough to make him viable.”
The person in charge of polishing images uncharacteristically held her tongue.
“Do you agree, Naomi?” Clay asked. “That’s your territory, after all.”
As the team awaited her response, the most senior member of the staff (not counting Clay) drove the tip of her pen so deep into her day planner, the cover developed a permanent divot. “Your call,” she replied, failing to make eye contact with anyone in the room.
Interesting.
“Colburn hasn’t caused a scandal in nearly two years. Foxfire only dropped him because his last album never hit the charts.” Clay swiveled in his chair but kept a side eye on his publicist. “By some miracle, his hard living hasn’t damaged his voice, and I think, with the right songs, he could make a comeback.”
“Is he clean?” Ralph queried.
Clay shared the only answer he could. “For now. But who knows what will happen once he leaves rehab. Which is why he’s still only a maybe.” Rising from his chair, he added, “Until then, let’s focus on the artist we have and make sure he generates enough revenue to keep us all employed.” As the crew rose from their seats, he added, “Ralph, keep me posted on the adds, and compare them to the stations on the tour we start next week. I want to know what we’re dealing with prior to hitting the road.”
“You’ve got it boss.”
Before she could make her escape, Clay said, “Naomi, I’ll let you know what I decide on Colburn. If we take the risk, I’ll need all your expertise to make it work.”
Through gritted teeth, she said, “Whatever you say, sir,” and left the room.
He couldn’t help but wonder if her dislike of Chance stemmed from his reputation alone or personal experience. Either way, she’d have to get on board, because Clay had already made his decision, and Chance Colburn would be a Shooting Stars artist whether his staff liked it or not.
Turned out, getting ready for a date when she had no idea of their destination proved quite difficult. Jeans might be too casual, but Charley doubted he’d take her someplace fancy without a hint of warning.
In the end, she settled for a dark-wash denim skirt that showed off her legs and a simple white top that buttoned down the front. Hoop earrings and a touch of gloss finished off the look. Not bad for a farm girl with no fashion sense.
Trotting down the stairs, Charley sent up a prayer of gratitude that Matty was still at work. They’d been a bit cold with each other since their disagreement over Dylan two days before, and the last thing she wanted was the glare of death looming disapprovingly when he arrived. Which he did, right on time, while she was slipping on her cowboy boots.
“Just a minute,” she yelled toward the door, nearly falling over in the effort.
She’d waited until Tuesday afternoon to text Dylan her address. Truth be told, Charley had spent the twenty-four hours prior debating whether or not to venture down this path. Nothing had changed in her estimation of Dylan Monroe. If anything, he’d grown even more dangerous now that she knew a little more about him.
Other than the one transgression of not telling her exactly what he did for a living, he scored high on every test. He’d admitted he was wrong, he’d shown a passion and talent for something she held dear, and in an interesting twist, he’d called Matty out for not protecting her friend. Even if Charley hadn’t been in need of protecting, a little display of concern would have been nice.
On the downside, Dylan made Charley laugh, turned her on, and adopted the role of protector without question or prompting. The epitome of everything she’d vowed to avoid.
“This ‘wildest dream’ stuff better be good,” she muttered, opening the door to find a casually dressed Dylan. “You’re wearing a ball cap.”
Straightening the Saints hat, Dylan said, “What’s wrong with it?”
Not a damn thing, she nearly said aloud. “Nothing. I expected the black cowboy hat, that’s all.”
“I don’t wear it everywhere,” he replied. “Especially not when it’s pushing a hundred out here.” Assessing her from head to toe, he said, “You look gorgeous.”
Charley clung to her purse strap. “I feel overdressed. Let me put jeans on.”
Full lips curved in a devilish grin. “No way in hell.” Before she could retreat upstairs, Dylan took her hand and dragged her out the door before reaching back to close it. “There should be a law against covering up those legs.”
“Calm your jets, Monroe. No need to come in guns blazing.” She allowed him to lead her to his truck, ignoring the heat sizzling up her arm. “I only agreed to this to find out what you think is my wildest dream. If it sucks, I’m catching a cab home.”
“Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?”
Since she was thinking how much she wanted to drag him up to her room and rip his clothes off, that would be a firm negative. “Only sometimes,” Charley replied. “So where are we going?”
“You’ll see when we get there,” he replied, opening her truck door.
“Is it far?” she asked, attempting to climb into the passenger seat. Not an easy feat in a denim miniskirt.
“Need some help there?” Dylan asked in his typical white-knight fashion.
Charley turned on the running board and hopped until her bottom landed on the seat. “Got it,” she quipped.
“Nice job,” he commended. “Not too far.”
Dylan closed the door and crossed around the front of the GMC. Charley was buckled before he joined her inside, and they were on their way seconds later, traveling in silence, which was fine with Charley.
The silence ended when they reached the exit for the interstate.
“Did you know Gallatin Pike runs almost directly from my place to yours?” he asked.
“I did not.” Charley turned her attention to the passing scenery. “Do you always make geographical small talk?”
“I’m sorry,” Dylan replied, passing a slow-moving Nissan. “Am I boring you, princess?”
Possibly deserved, but still an annoying quip. “And to think,” she said drolly, “I went to the trouble of telling Matty you weren’t a jerk. Guess I spoke too soon.”
Deep laughter filled the cab. “Matty thinks I’m a jerk, huh? That doesn’t surprise me.”
“She didn’t like you calling her out about Saturday night.”
He shrugged. “I only pointed out the truth.” Cutting his eyes to her, Dylan added, “You need better friends, Charley. People who actually care about you.”
Curious, she asked, “Do I seem like a damsel in distress to you?”
“Not in the least,” he replied.
“Then why are you always coming to my rescue?”
A deadly smile split his lips. “Lucky, I guess.”
Charley laughed. “Who’s lucky? Me or you?”
“Maybe we both are.”
A semi merged from an on-ramp, and Dylan eased over to give him space. As they cruised along, his fingertips brushed her thigh. If she had any sense at all, Charley would have pulled away with a firm warning to keep his hands to himself. Instead, she leaned into the armrest and settled her hand on his forearm, pretending the contact meant nothing.