CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Chelsea
“Wish me luck.” I clutched my phone in my right hand, and waited for Jake to say something calming.
“Good luck, pretty girl.” He winked. “Just remember, don’t agree to anything until they send over a copy of the contract and we read through it. I don’t want them to take advantage of you because it’s your first deal.”
He wouldn’t open up about his book contract, but he spoke with such passion, I could only assume he had a bad experience with contracts. The advice was good. I needed it. No reason to jump into anything before I had time to think through the offer.
“I’m so nervous.” My knees might actually knock together I was shaking so much.
He held me by the shoulders. “They already love your music. You are the ones with all the cards here.”
“Right. Right.” I bit my bottom lip. Jake’s eyes drifted over my shoulder.
“Hey, what’s going on at The Carribe Inn?” He pointed toward the hotel across the street.
I pivoted on my heels and caught a glimpse of a large group climbing the stairs of the historic building. It looked like there were photographers following the party into the lobby.
“I have no idea. But Bertie would know. She knows everything.” I turned back, needing reassurance from his eyes. They were always so soothing when I got worked up.
He patted me on the backside, followed by a tight squeeze. “Go get ‘em. It’s four.” He spun me out of the rental entrance. It would be silly to ask him to make the call with me, but part of me wanted him close by.
This was more nerve-wracking than my first day of classes at Carolina when I didn’t know a single soul, or the last day of grad school when my future became a black hole of uncertainty.
I forced a smile as I walked to the parking lot. Wasn’t there a saying about smiling on the phone? I couldn’t think of it, but knew it mattered. It was stuffy inside my car. I turned the AC to high, hoping it would cool quickly. There was no privacy in the store, and after my late-morning stunt, there wasn’t any way I could take off early. A call in the seclusion of my car was the best I could work out.
The number for Blue Steel was in my back pocket. I pulled out the email, read the numbers aloud, and tapped the digits into my phone.
“Blue Steel Records. How may I direct your call?” a woman answered.
“Hi, this is Chelsea Davis. I have a conference call with Brandon Edwards.” My stomach flipped with butterflies. This was actually happening.
“Yes, it looks like you’re on the call schedule. Hold please.”
I didn’t know if I was breathing in or out. My chest was so tight, it might have forgotten what it was supposed to do.
“Chelsea! Great to have you on the line.” A booming voice sounded in my ear. “This is Brandon.”
“Mr. Edwards, thank you so much. I couldn’t believe it when I got your email yesterday.” I hoped I sounded like a professional.
“Call me Brandon.”
“Ok. Brandon.” This time I had a genuine smile. I couldn’t help but think parts of his words reminded me of Jake’s accent. They were both from Texas.
“Let’s talk a minute. Looks like we have three songs of yours, and I have an artist in mind who could cut them.”
My heart stopped. “Really?” I thought we were going to discuss them taking the songs on and shopping around for someone to record or demo. It never occurred to me there would be someone lined up already.
“Have you ever heard of Quinn Jansen?”
“Oh my God!” I covered my mouth. All the prepping in the world couldn’t contain my excitement. It sputtered out. Ever since Quinn had made a few YouTube videos that went viral overnight, people were clamoring for anything she could produce. This was unreal.
“So, I take that as a yes?” Brandon chuckled a deep, warm laugh on the other end.
“I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise. Yes, that is a yes. I know who she is.” I noticed that the crowd from The Inn had gathered again. They were crossing the street.
“Good. I think she’ll be the perfect fit for your songs. You’re both young and have that vibe that people really want right now.”
Why were there people taking pictures? The crowd was distracting. Great, they were headed into the store. I would have to wrap the call up quickly, and get back inside before Bertie ratted me out. I could only barter for so much time away from the register.
“Chelsea, you there?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m here.” I shifted in my seat, turning from the scene in front of the store. “I am absolutely blown away. Quinn Jansen is amazing. I think she’d be perfect for my songs. I just can’t believe she’d want to record something of mine.” Quinn was known for her indie roots, but this seemed too good to be true.
“Why wouldn’t she? She’s friends with Ben too.”
I didn’t want to sound like any more of a rookie than I already had, but I didn’t know who Ben was. Maybe a producer.
“When Ben’s agent called and said he wanted us to take a look at your material, it was a no brainer. Ben and I go way back. Played football together in college, but I’m sure he’s mentioned that to you.”
I shook my head. “Mr.—” I corrected myself, “Brandon. I don’t know a Ben.” This was embarrassing. He was probably an important and influential music maker, and I had to admit to the head of Blue Steel Records I had never heard of him.
“Ben Baldwin? Tall guy? Makes all the ladies swoon? He’s got a Texas accent—likes cold beer? You don’t know the movie star, Ben Baldwin?”
I slumped into the seat, my body stiff with fear. Or was it shock? Whatever it was, it made me shake and my stomach spasm. This didn’t make sense. Brandon Edwards could not possibly be telling me that I knew Ben Baldwin. That wasn’t possible. The tall, heart-melting Texan I knew was named Jake.
“I-I don’t know.” It was the best I could muster considering the panic gripping me.
“Listen, Chelsea. I have another call coming in. I hate to cut this short, but I’ll have my assistant email over the contracts. Take a few days, look everything over, and then we can set up a time to talk again. Sound good?”
I nodded, forgetting he needed audibles on the phone.
“Tell Ben I said howdy, and I’m looking forward to grabbing a beer with him when he gets back from vacation. Son of a bitch has been gone all summer.”
Before I could put together a reasonable response or even better, a question, Brandon hung up. I looked at the phone, now dark.
There had to be an explanation. There was some sort of mix-up or funny coincidence. Jake would probably laugh at me when I told him Brandon thought they played football together.
Then I remembered when Jake told me about his concussions. About how he stopped playing, because he was worried it would do more harm to his body as he got older. My mouth went dry.
The beer? Jake loved his Texas beer, but any guy from Texas loved that stuff, right? It didn’t mean anything. Just because I went to Carolina didn’t mean I was the only girl who loved Moscato. That was a ridiculous assumption.
Flashes of Jake scattered through my mind. He used to wear a hat pulled over his eyes and dark sunglasses, and he went through a scruffy bearded phase, which didn’t seem to match the guy I knew now. Little by little his Texas accent appeared, and he called me darlin’—something I didn’t hear him say in the beginning. At that time, I dismissed it. But, could I dismiss all those things together?
It hurt to breathe.
My breaths were shallower. Even with the AC running, the air in the car felt stagnate. Oh my God, I might throw up right in the car. I reached for the handle, not knowing if I needed the humid August air or just something to keep me from falling into the blackness that engulfed me. I staggered to my feet and pointed my body in the direction of the rental stand. Jake would be there. He could fix this. He could explain. I took a step forward when, out of nowhere, the flashes started and someone shoved a microphone in my face.
“Are you responsible for the breakup of Rebecca Campbell and Ben Baldwin?” the first voice shouted.
I turned before the next question.
“Did you know he and Rebecca were still dating when you hit on him?”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Would you like to make an official statement?”
“What’s your favorite thing about Ben?”
I couldn’t catch my bearings. Everything heaved and rocked as if I was clinging to a raft in the middle of a sea storm. I tried to push past them, but the circle was tight and I didn’t know which way was the best escape.
There were more questions.
“Tell us what it feels like to stab America’s sweetheart in the back.”
“Do your parents live here?”
“Is it true you used to date a surfer?”
I grabbed the sides of my head, begging the questions to stop. It was like being swarmed by angry bees. Some stings hurt worse than others, but they were all public and all intensely confusing, leaving open wounds for the world to see.