Chapter 13
Clay Benedict traversed the concrete floor of Marathon Music Works to reach the bar on the far-left side. “Jack on the rocks,” he informed the female bartender. The room wasn’t as packed as he would have liked, but the show didn’t start for another forty-five minutes. He spotted Mitch Levine at the other end of the bar, staring into a glass.
Mitch’s battle with the bottle was the stuff of Nashville lore, and Clay knew full well he’d recently fallen off the proverbial wagon. Once upon a time, the older man had managed some of the best-known acts in the business, and he’d made a fortune for both them and himself along the way. Most of the money had gone down his throat in the form of alcohol, but he’d managed to pull things together often enough to keep himself financially afloat.
Unfortunately for him, the Nashville music scene operated like a nosy small town, where everyone knew everyone else’s business, and transgressions could scar a member for life. Somewhere in the last decade, Mitch had become a pariah of sorts, with few labels willing to work with him or any of his artists.
Essentially, signing with Mitch Levine Management had become a death sentence for any artist, and more than one had missed out on promising opportunities because of their connection with the unrepentant drinker.
When Clay had found Dylan singing in a bar in Printer’s Alley, he’d known the boy had star potential. He also knew that he’d signed a previous record deal, but as was typical of the business, it hadn’t worked out. Likely, shortsightedness on the part of some exec who wouldn’t know a Dobro from a mandolin.
After sitting through the entire show, Clay had worked his way through an impressive crowd of adoring females to reach his potential new artist. As soon as he’d expressed interest, Dylan had shared the name of his manager, which gave Clay second thoughts. But Mitch had been clean and sober at the time, and he’d deployed well-honed negotiating skills that landed Dylan a deal any artist would be happy to have.
The new wave in label contracts involved signing over what some had termed 360 rights, meaning the label took a cut of all elements of the artist’s career, including touring, merchandising, and even endorsements. In Dylan’s case, and because he was the first artist signing to a brand-new and unproven label, Shooting Stars took a piece of his record sales and nothing else. If his career went as Clay hoped, they would renegotiate for another album with new terms that balanced out the pie in both directions.
“We missed you on Monday,” Clay said as he set his glass next to Mitch’s drink. “Dylan said you had another meeting. Is there a new development I should know about?”
“We both know that was bullshit, but I appreciate you playing along. As of now, the hidey-holes are once again empty, and I’m back to sucking down water.” Mitch tipped the lemon from the side of the glass into the liquid. “I do have something to share, though. Country Today has agreed to include Dylan in an article about eligible bachelors in country music. The issue will hit stands in December and hopefully boost album sales during the holiday.”
“Nice job,” he commended. “Do we need to supply an image, or are they shooting their own?”
“Photo shoot lined up for next week.”
“Good timing, since the radio tour starts the week after that. Daphne is pushing through social media, and Ralph has locked in ads at nearly fifty major market stations, including Dallas, Houston, and Denver. According to Lenny, the streaming numbers are looking really good. If we keep the pressure on, the single should hit by the end of the month.”
Mitch turned his back to the bar. “Maybe then the boy will calm down.”
“He seems calm to me.” Clay had been pleasantly surprised by Dylan’s quiet demeanor—considering the level to which his life was about to change.
The older man shook his head before sipping his drink. “Damn, I hate this stuff.” He set the glass on the bar. “Dylan hides it well, but he’s nervous. That first deal falling through messed with his head. I’ve spent three years rebuilding his confidence, and I thought for sure signing with you would settle his fears.”
Everything he’d seen from Dylan assured Clay that the boy could handle whatever came his way, but fear of failure ran through the heart of every artist in this town, whether they admitted to it or not.
“The numbers will reassure him. By the end of the year, every other label in town will be kicking themselves for passing him by.”
Eyes on the stage, Mitch said, “Damn straight. Shortsighted bastards.”
“And with his success comes redemption for you,” Clay pointed out. “I’m assuming that’s a nice bonus.”
Mitch nodded his agreement. “It sure doesn’t suck.”
Charley entered Marathon Music Works at eight fifteen, but only because Sharita refused to let her hide in the car. Not that she didn’t want to see him. Truth be told, she couldn’t wait to lay eyes on him. Meeting his bandmates was the problem. What if they didn’t like her? What if they didn’t approve? This was a lot of pressure, considering she’d known the man for less than a week.
If she were lucky, Dylan would be too busy getting ready for the show to come out and get her. But since she’d promised, Charley sent a short text alerting him to her arrival.
“I love this place,” Sharita said, scanning the crowd with a smile on her face. “My buddy Malcolm shoots concerts here, and he’s trying to get me on the list of approved photographers. God, that would be awesome.”
The cocoa-skinned intern rarely went anywhere without her camera, but due to venue rules, she’d been forced to lock her baby in the trunk of Charley’s car. A second-year student in the photography program at the Art Institute, Sharita’s duties at the station included creating amazing images from any event in which the Eagle participated. To her credit, several artists had requested her shots for their promotional efforts.
In addition to being a talented photographer, Sharita was a fun, upbeat person, and Charley enjoyed having her along on remotes.
“Did you let him know we’re here?” she asked, having dragged from Charley the reason they were attending this particular show. “I can’t believe you scored a date with Dylan Monroe.”
There were times in the last couple of days that Charley hadn’t believed her luck, either. Dylan had sent a text Wednesday night, seconds before she’d turned off the light for bed. The naughty conversation had carried on for at least two hours, which had made sounding perky and alert on the air Thursday morning much more difficult. She’d ended up napping the previous night away, which worked out well since somewhere around eleven o’clock, they’d picked up where they left off. Before the conversation had ended at two in the morning, Charley had crossed into new territory, enjoying the previously unknown pleasures of sexting.
“I sent a message,” she said, “but I don’t know if he’ll see it before the show starts.”
“Oh, he got it,” the intern said. “And if that look on his face is any indication, he’s really happy to see you.”
Before Charley could respond, Dylan swept her off her feet as his mouth landed on hers, stealing her breath and burrowing through another layer of her heart.
“Hi,” he said when he finally let her breathe.
“Hi,” she replied, too dumbstruck to say anything else.
The black hat teetered high on his head while a goofy grin split his face. “I missed you.”
Ignoring the heat climbing up her cheeks, Charley said, “You talked to me last night.”
Dylan shook his head. “But I didn’t get to do that.”
As Charley’s toes dangled in the air, the woman beside her coughed. “I’m Sharita,” she said. “Remember me?”
“Sure I do,” he said, lowering his cargo to the floor. “You took the pictures. How did they come out?”
“Great,” she replied, beaming with pride. “With a jaw like that, you’re a photographer’s wet dream.”
Taking the odd compliment in stride, Dylan smiled. “Thank you, ma’am. You girls ready to come backstage?”
Sharita smacked him on the arm. “Are you serious? I get to go, too?”
Hugging Charley close against his side, he said, “Hell yeah you do.”
“Up top,” the younger woman ordered, and the pair high-fived. “I’m so glad I did that remote today.” She hadn’t been scheduled to accompany Charley for the dealership broadcast, but she’d shown up anyway, claiming nothing better to do. Being out of school for the summer wasn’t easy on a person with so much energy to spare.
Leading them around the edge of the crowd, Dylan tugged Charley along, glancing back several times to make sure Sharita was still with them.
“You’ve made a fan for life, you know that?” Charley yelled over the crowd noise.
As they reached a set of doors to the left of the stage, he said, “I like her enthusiasm. And no one’s ever called me a wet dream before.”
Charley found the last statement shocking. He’d certainly turned up the heat in her dreams for the past week.
Once through the doors, they made an immediate left into a cozy-looking room with an exposed-brick wall, plush gray sofas, and a foosball table. She recognized Casey sitting on the arm of a sofa, sticks in hand, tapping out a rhythm on what looked like a small wooden crate. Two other guys, dressed in jeans and graphic tees, lounged on the opposite couch. The moment the threesome entered the room, Dylan broke all contact with Charley.
“Hey, guys,” Dylan said, “I’ve got a couple ladies I want you to meet.”
The two strangers rose to their feet while Casey barely spared them a glance. “Hey,” he mumbled, the drumsticks never missing a beat.
“He gets intense before a show,” Dylan clarified. “Ignore him.” Gesturing toward the others, he made the introductions. “This is Lance Roberts and Easton Atwood. Lance plays bass, and Easton is the best guitar player you’ve never heard of.”
Handshakes were exchanged.
“Guys, this is Charley Layton from the Eagle and photographer extraordinaire, Sharita . . . I’m sorry, honey, I forgot your last name.”
Instead of answering, the doe-eyed intern stared at Easton as if he’d descended in a flash of white light with flapping angel wings. To be fair, if Dylan weren’t standing beside him, the guitarist would be the best-looking guy in the room. Spiked black hair. Deep blue eyes. Stubble-covered chin. She didn’t blame Sharita for falling under his spell.
“Lewis,” Charley supplied. “Sharita Lewis. It’s nice to meet you, guys.”
“So you’re the voice in my radio,” Lance said. “It’s nice to put a face with the name.”
“Thanks for coming to the show,” Easton said, seemingly unperturbed by Sharita’s silent adoration. “And thanks for playing the single.”
If either man knew of her personal connection to Dylan, they didn’t betray the knowledge.
Shrugging off the gratitude, she said, “Wish I could take credit, but I only play what they tell me to. Nearly every time it comes around, the phones light up. I’d say you’ve got a hit on your hands, gentlemen.”
Dylan rubbed his hands together. “From your lips to the music god’s ears. You want something to drink? There are plenty of options.”
A mini liquor buffet covered a table along the far wall, but Charley had to decline for the both of them. “I’m driving, and Sharita is underage. Do you have any sodas, by chance?”
“We’ve got a couple of those,” Easton replied, navigating Sharita to the display with a hand on her back. “Pick whatever you want.”
The musician had no idea he’d made a young girl’s year. Without a word, her friend chose a can of Coke before turning to Charley, dreamy-eyed and smiling like a postlobotomy patient.
Charley snagged a can for herself, turning to find Dylan had remained with his bass player.
“We should probably go find a spot to watch the show,” she said, annoyed that they were back to playing games.
“I’m not in a hurry,” Sharita said, taking a side step closer to Easton and whipping her phone out of her pocket. “We need to get a picture.”
Playing the good sports, all three men posed for selfies with Sharita before huddling in for a group shot. Casey remained on his perch, and Charley lingered near the door, waiting impatiently for her chance to escape. By the time they’d all admired the images and made sure that Sharita tagged them properly on Instagram, Charley’s patience had worn thin.
“Sharita, I’m heading back out front. Come find me when you’re done here.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Dylan said, dragging himself away from an impromptu Snapchat tutorial.
Charley charged through the door. “Don’t bother. I can find my own way.”
“Hey,” he said, grasping her hand once they were in the hall. “What’s wrong?”
She jerked away. “One minute you’re kissing me in front of a roomful of people, and the next you’re pretending we barely know each other in front of your buddies. What that’s about, Dylan?”
Closing the door to the room they’d just left, he pulled her to the side. “I’m not playing a game. This is an important time for us, and I don’t want the guys to think I’m distracted, that’s all.”
A distraction? She’d give him a distraction. “If you remember correctly, I’m the one who said we shouldn’t do this. I tried to walk away. If spending time with me is such a distraction, there’s a simple way to remedy the situation.”
“Dammit, Charley. I didn’t say you’re a distraction.” Snagging her hand, he dragged her farther into the dark hallway. “These guys have been through hell and back with me. They’ve given up family time, lost girlfriends, and lived hand-to-mouth all so we could get to where we are now. My name is on that contract, and it’s my responsibility to make sure this thing works. I want you in my life, but this has to come first right now. They need to trust that I’m all in. That this deal is my top priority. Do you understand?”
She understood perfectly. “I know that you’re committed to this, Dylan, and something tells me the guys in that room know it, too. This was obviously a bad idea. Good luck on your road to stardom, and rest assured I won’t be getting in your way.”
Stepping around him, she walked off without looking back. In her head, she knew it was better to get out now than later, but her heart didn’t feel quite so lucky.
“What are you doing out here, man?” asked Casey when he found Dylan leaning against a wall behind an empty road case. “We go on in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be ready,” he said, but his mind was somewhere else. “You know that I’ve been seeing Charley, don’t you?” Dylan had been vague about his plans for Wednesday night, but Casey wasn’t stupid.
The drummer shrugged. “That’s your business.”
“You don’t think the other guys will have a problem with it?”
Leaning on the large black case, Casey crossed his arms. “They know what this shot means to you. So long as you don’t start skipping practice or ditching commitments, it’s all good.”
Dylan leaned his hat back to scratch his forehead. They’d put their faith in him once before, and he’d taken them all to the bottom. That they’d stuck with him anyway felt like an incredible gift he had no idea how to repay. “Did you see the email from Ralph?”
“Fifty-four stations,” he said. “We’re taking off, buddy. The train has left the station.”
“Yeah, but is there room on that train for Charley?”
Casey narrowed his eyes. “If Pam and I were still together, would you expect me to drop her for this?”
“You were together for two years. Charley and I have had two dates.”
Two amazing nights that topped any he’d experienced to date. And not because of the sex or the sexting. They just . . . fit. When Charley was around, Dylan felt as if he could accomplish anything he put his mind to.
“But you like her, right? I’ve known you for six years, and I’ve never seen you fall this fast. That’s gotta mean something.”
Pulling off the wall, Dylan crossed his arms. “The timing sucks, though. We leave town in a little over a week and won’t be back for ten days.”
“Dude, if you can’t leave the girl for ten days, how are you going to handle going on tour?”
Good question. He knew what being a working musician required, and he understood that any personal life would have to come second to the music. Dylan had seen couples make it work and others who didn’t survive the first month. Until Charley had come along, he’d never met a girl worth taking the risk himself. Which made him a royal idiot for what he’d pulled a few minutes ago.
“What do you think about adding ‘Better Than Before’ to the set list tonight?”
His best friend flashed a grin. “I’m up for it, but you need to make sure Easton knows his solo.”
That was one thing about surrounding himself with master musicians. Dylan never had to worry about the guys behind him.
“He’ll know it. Now let’s hope she stuck around to hear it.”
As they headed back to the lounge, a familiar figure stepped through the doors to the front of house. Pam froze in place, blue eyes locked on Casey.
“Hey,” the drummer said.
“Hi,” replied his ex.
As if they’d run out of words, the pair stared in tense silence, prompting Dylan to step in.
“We’re glad you could make it, Pam.”
“Yeah,” Casey agreed. “Glad you made it.”
She nodded. “I kind of feel like I’ve been in this with you guys since the beginning. Only seemed right to come watch the first big show.”
“That’s why I put you on the list,” Dylan said.
Pam’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Anyway, I found this on the kitchen table.” She extended a green ball cap to Casey. “I know it’s your lucky hat, so I wanted to make sure you had it before showtime.”
The Titans hat had been a present from Pam to Casey, given a month into their relationship. He’d worn it for every gig since.
“Based on recent developments,” Casey said, “I figured the luck had run out on that one, so I’m wearing a different one now.” He removed the plain green ball cap from his head and rolled it in his hands.
Hurt filled Pam’s eyes as she tossed the hat onto a black case. “Right. That makes sense.” With a quick wave, she added, “You guys have a good show.”
As she marched toward the exit, Dylan elbowed Casey, who brushed him off. “Forget it, man.”
Dylan had reached his limit.
“Pam, wait. Those pictures you found were never intended for Casey.”
“Dude,” Casey growled.
“He doesn’t even know who she is,” Dylan continued. Casey had insisted he keep his mouth shut before now, but Pam deserved to know the truth whether his friend liked it or not.
She stopped walking and turned around. “Then why were they on his phone?”
“Easton thought it would be funny to give Casey’s number to a woman who wouldn’t take no for an answer. He thought she’d call, Casey would tell her wrong number, and the woman would go away.”
Jaw tight, she said, “But she did more than call.”
Dylan nodded as Casey slapped the replacement hat against his thigh.
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Pam asked, closing the distance and shoving Casey hard in the chest. “Why did you let me believe the worst?”
“I didn’t let you believe anything,” Casey argued. “You didn’t ask me about the pictures. You threw them in my face and said, ‘Fuck you, we’re through.’ Like I hadn’t earned a little trust after two years.”
Fists clenched, her jaw twitched. “You should have told me the truth.”
Slamming the hat back on his head, he said, “You weren’t interested in the truth.”
Anger and betrayal were a dangerous mix, and Dylan should have known better than to start this now. Before he could soothe the situation, Easton walked into the hall.
“What’s going on out here?”
Talk about bad timing.
Pam threw herself at the guitarist, sending him flying against the wall. “This is all your fault. Where the hell do you get off giving out Casey’s number?”
“Whoa,” Easton said, hands up in surrender. “I didn’t know she’d send him pictures. I offered to explain, but Casey wouldn’t let me.”
Shaking her head, the furious woman raged at the men around her. “You’re all a bunch of assholes.”
With that parting shot, she stormed into the club, leaving three stunned males staring after her.
“Nice, dickhead,” Casey murmured to Dylan as he stomped into the lounge.
As he passed, Easton said, “Man, I—”
“Forget it,” the drummer snapped. “We’ve got a show to do.”
Dylan grabbed the discarded ball cap off the case. “She’s right,” he said to Easton. “We’re all a bunch of assholes.”