Darren gets the message and steps away, focusing all his attention on me.
“Please, have a seat.” He waves toward the leather chairs as he walks back around his desk. “I’m gonna be straight with you here, Tucker. We want you. We think you have tremendous promise and want to work with you. Your sound is raw and unique, and I think we could sell your whole image. You’ve got the tortured singer-songwriter thing going on, and the ladies are going to eat it up.”
I catch Maura shift around out of the corner of my eye at the mention of other women. I automatically want to turn toward her and reassure her, but for now she’s supposed to be my manager, not my…whatever she is.
“Here’s the thing, Mr. Darren,” I start.
“Just Daren,” he interrupts.
I exchange a humor-filled glance with Maura because I’m not one hundred percent sure if he wants me to call him “Daren” as in his first name or “Darren” as in his last name. I guess it doesn’t matter since they both sound the same.
“Daren,” I amend. “I want to record. I want to play music for a living. It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember. But what I don’t want is the ‘hot guy’ routine. I want to sell the music, not myself.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” he backpedals. “That’s what we want. We want to focus on the music. I mean photoshoots, music videos, interviews and meeting with fans are all inevitable…”
I press my lips into a firm line. “Sure,” I say tersely.
It’s not that I didn’t know those were all part of the music industry, but Daren’s making it seem like they are the music industry. I’m starting to get this icky feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Ms. Doughers, you’re his manager. How does this all sound so far?”
Maura peeks over at me and then back at Daren. “Music is the focus. That’s what we want. That’s all we want.”
“Great. Glad we agree there,” Daren says in a voice that rings with false cheer. “How about we take a tour, huh? You can see what the building has to offer, maybe get a feel for the place.”
We follow him back toward the main office. We step into the elevator, and Daren starts giving the spiel. Maura, doing a damn fine job of acting like my manager, starts asking all kinds of questions. I honestly only listen to part of it—something about in-house studios and shit—because I don’t like this. I thought it would feel different, but so far it all feels…fake. I was hoping I’d have this big moment like in the movies. You know, that one where the lonely street musician walks into the fancy record label, falls in love with everything and everyone, and then becomes a giant rock star.
But I guess I always forget about the scene toward the end where he realizes he’s not doing the right thing, where it dawns on him that he’s too good for those record label people.
I have a feeling that this may be a case of the latter.
The elevator dings, and I shuffle my feet along to follow Daren down a darkened hallway. There are several rooms with multi-colored doors, where I assume all the magic happens. I want to peer inside them, see for my own eyes what style of music is being made, but I refrain.
Daren turns toward us when we stop at a door near the end of the hallway. “I’m going to make sure we won’t be interrupting anything. One moment.”
And then he disappears.
“Well?” Maura asks when the door shuts.
I lean up against the wall, and she does the same across from me. I stare at my feet, unsure how to answer her without sounding like a complete dumbass.
“Tuck?” she prods when I don’t answer.
Shrugging, I look back up and stare at the wall next to her beautiful, blonde head, so I don’t have to stare her in the eyes when I admit defeat. “It’s not feeling good.”
She lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank God,” she mutters. Pushing off the wall, she walks the few steps over to me and lowers her voice. “I thought I was the only one not feeling it. I don’t think you fit in here.”
“I’ve been trying to wrack my brain and figure out what exactly it was that wasn’t feeling right, but that’s it. It doesn’t feel like me or my style. It feels…”
“Fake,” she supplies.
The door clicks, and we straighten up as Daren pops his head back out. “You ready?”
Maura and I exchange a glance. She tips her head forward, letting me be the first to make the move. I hesitate, not sure if I want to continue. Finally, I take a step toward the open door because my curiosity doesn’t know when to quit.
No one acknowledges us as we step into a small dark space filled with soundboards, desk chairs, guitars, and people. Through the huge glass (or is that plastic?) window is Jackson Jones, the singer-songwriter who’s currently topping the charts and making girls lose their panties all over the world. I look over at Maura to gauge her reaction to him. She’s watching him like he’s a normal guy and not a huge rock star. Thank God. Then again, he is dressed similarly to me in an unbuttoned black dress shirt, jeans, and boots. I know for a fact his stage appearance is a lot different.
He’s hunched over an acoustic guitar, appearing to be into the song, but when he slowly leans back up, opening up his eyes, I can see it. They’re empty. He doesn’t feel the lyrics. He’s not pouring his heart and soul into it. It’s not something that can be easily spotted by fans or people outside the music, but to me it’s so obvious. And all it does is raise my already too-high red flags.
The only thing that feels positive so far is this room. Not the people in it, just the room. Being in this small box, surrounded by the boards and instruments, a producer behind the scenes, it all screams you belong here to me.
But I’m not so sure I believe it. At least not here.
A guy sitting at the soundboard leans forward and says, “Good, Jackson. It feels real.” Bullshit. “Let’s take five.”
Jackson sets his guitar down and walks out into the small booth.
“Hey,” he says, sticking his hand out to me. “Jackson Jones. I’ve heard what you can do. You’re wicked awesome, man.”
Taken aback, I clear my throat and shake his hand. “Thanks. I love ‘Take It All Back.’ Great hook, and the simplicity of it is staggering.”
I say this partly because there’s no doubt in my mind that song was written by him and is one that he’s proud of. It’s something I think he needs to hear. I also say it because it’s true.
I must be right, because he perks up at the mention of it.
But his excitement is very short lived. He hunches his shoulders as he’s ushered out of the room by the person I assume is his assistant, if the two cell phones and clipped tone are any indication.
“What are you thinking, Tucker?” Daren asks hopefully.
“It’s nice,” I tell him, referring to the booth when he’s referring to the whole situation.
He claps me on the back. “Glad to hear it. How about we head back to my office to discuss some more details? We’ll get you signed on that dotted line in no time.”
As we head out of the room and back down the hall to elevators, Maura reaches over and wraps her pointer finger around my pinky in a small, simple act of encouragement.
“Scotch?” Daren asks when we enter his office.
“We’re fine,” Maura answers. “Those were nice studios you have. Do you produce a lot of albums here?”
“Dozens a year. Jackson and a band called Reckoning to name a few.”
Chart toppers. Both of them are chart toppers. Something I want but am also terrified of.
“Hmm,” is all she responds.
Daren takes a seat and places his amber-filled glass in front of him. He steeples his hands together and squints at me. I think he’s trying to look cool, but he’s failing miserably.
“You seem lost, Tucker. Not one hundred percent ready to commit yet? We can certainly take more time if you’d like. Of course, that time will create more and more musicians and raise the competition bar higher, but I’m sure that’s somethi
ng you’d be able to handle.”
And I guess this is his way of trying to scare me into a contract. Again, failing.
“I’m sure I could. For now, I’m weighing my options and approaching this career shift with much-warranted caution, taking in all the offers I’ve received over the years. But I’m sure you can handle that competition,” I respond smugly.
Daren sits back at the bite in my voice and gives me a tight nod. “Sure.” He suddenly leans forward and grabs an overly stuffed file, presenting it to me. “Take a look at these songs. I know we can pick something from these that would be recordable and suit your tastes.”
I grab the folder and start thumbing through it when his words settle on my heavily. Pick something? For me to sing? Am I not writing my own music?
Looking up from the folder with a raised brow, I ask, “Wait. You mean I won’t write my own music?”
Daren barks out a mocking laugh. “That’s what we have songwriters for. You’re the singer part of the singer-songwriter duo.”
I toss the heavy folder back onto his desk.
“I write my own music,” I say flatly.
Daren smirks at me, a look disbelief gracing his face. “Look, Tucker, we all sit around and pen the ‘next big thing’ in our dark, lonely bedrooms. But let’s face it, you either have a pretty voice and face and you can’t write, or you can write and you have no voice and are ugly as sin. It’s one or the other. I’ll bank on you being the first one.”
What in the actual fuck? Is this asshole for real? I was complimented and insulted and called a liar within a few sentences. And I’m pissed.
I’m pissed because I can sing and I do write. I write lyrics that I really fucking like, music I think is good.
And that stupid voice in my head starts spouting off long-buried insecurities.
But what if he’s right? What if I’m too partial to my lyrics because they’re my lyrics? What if it’s all shit? What if all I am is a pretty face or decent voice?
Fuck.
“I write my own music,” I say again.
Daren sighs. “We can discuss your songs when we sign the contracts, yeah? For now, why don’t you take time to think about this and go over those other options you have.”
He says all this like he doesn’t believe me about the songs or options.
What a dick.
We stand and shake hands, promises of calling exchanged on both ends. Maura and I make our exit, staying quiet the during elevator ride and out the front doors.
Not until we’re standing defeated at the bottom of the steps, watching as a parking officer sticks a ticket under my windshield, do we speak.
“That was kind of…”
“Bullshit,” I finish for her. “Yeah, I agree.”
Maura lets out a frustrated huff directed toward Daren Darren. “How’d it feel? Honestly?”
“That’s a hard one to answer. I immediately want to say wrong, but there was also a moment in the studio where it felt honest. But that was short lived.”
She moves closer to me and links her fingers with mine. “I’m sorry, Tuck. I know how badly you wanted it all to feel like this epic homecoming, and it didn’t, but maybe Daren’s not the guy for you. We can keep looking.”
I nod. “Yeah, maybe not.”
She tugs on my hand, pulling me toward the car. “Come on. Let’s go get a few greasy burgers and sulk together.”
“Who’s next on your list?”
I take a long, noise-filled pull of my practically empty chocolate shake. I peer down into my glass and suck up the last of it and then immediately pout because it’s all gone.
“I don’t know,” I answer Maura. “What about that Clover guy?”
She taps her chin with her pale blue nail a few times. “Hmm. Maybe. Think he’d let you write your own music?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. But what if Daren had a point? What if you can only be one or the other? A singer or a songwriter. What if my music is shit?”
Maura scrunches her brows and shakes her head, her smooth, pink-tipped blonde hair swinging with the movement. “You can’t believe that, Tuck. There’s no way that’s true. There are plenty of musicians out there who do both.”
I fold my arms across my chest in an aggravated gesture and stare out the window of the small diner she dragged me to.
“But,” she says, “what if that were the case—which I’m not saying it is at all. Which would you choose?”
Well, that’s a damn hard question to answer. Daren was correct about one thing: writing music and playing music are two different things. Writing is so personal. Playing is a bit more detached. I can, and do, play other people’s songs all day long because I have no real attachment to them. But what I can’t do is play my own stuff. There’s too much baggage attached to them, too many memories. Although I can’t perform my music yet, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to one day. A day when I’m a lot braver than I am currently.
I realize that I can’t decide between the two. They’re too different yet so essential to one another for me. Writing is my outlet for my emotions, and playing is how I survive them all.
“Both,” I admit in a low voice. “I’d pick both.”
Out of my peripheral, I can see Maura’s smile. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
I turn back to her. “Yeah? Why is that?”
“Because it means we need to keep looking. Daren obviously isn’t a good fit for you if you can’t live without writing. You need it. We need to find a company that lets you do both.”
She’s one hundred percent correct. I need to keep searching for someone who’s going to let me craft my own music from scratch. I’m not going to let this shitty experience sway or deter me from pursuing a label to sign with.
“I love it when you say ‘we.’ Gets me all warm and fuzzy inside.” I smirk at her.
She pins me with a glare. “Don’t tease me, Tucker Bentley. I will throw things at you.”
“Pfft. Like I’m scared of you. You’re tiny.”
“Just because I’m tiny doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you.”
Her words make my heart momentarily stop beating. Hurt me. I know she means physically, but I’m more worried about my heart in this situation, not my balls. I mean, I am kind of worried about my balls since that’s probably as high as her short legs can kick, but I’d be a fool not to be worried about my heart.
“Oh, I have no doubt you can, Maura,” I say a bit too seriously.
She gulps loudly enough for me to hear. “But I’ll do my best not to.”
I know she’s talking about the same thing I am, so I nod my head once, letting her know I’ll do my best too.
I go back to staring out the window as she goes back to sipping on her shake. We’re quiet and it’s nice. I don’t feel like we need to force conversation between us, that we can sit here and enjoy each other’s company for a while.
The waiter, who seems to have a permanent scowl, comes by and drops off our check without a word. Maura grabs her purse, and I race to pull out my wallet, tossing down enough to cover the bill and a decent tip.
She puffs out a breath. “I can pay for my half, Tuck. It’s not a date.”
I bring my hand to my chest. “Damn, girl. You sure do know how to bust a guy’s heart. I thought for sure this was and that I was wooing you with the excellent cheeseburgers and angry customer service.”
Maura lifts her hand and pinches her fingers together. “Close.”
“Obviously. Come on,” I say as we scoot out of the booth. “Want me to drop you off anywhere?”
Her shoulders fall as we head toward the door. “Oh. I, uh, I thought we were gonna hang out.”
“Geez, Maura. I didn’t know you were so attached to me.” I glance over to find her mouth hanging open and her beautiful ice-blue eyes wide. “Joke. It was a joke.” She swats me on the arm for it. “Of course I want you to come hang out with me. But there’s this thing I have to do first if that’s okay?”
<
br /> Something I’m very, very nervous to do with her. Something that only Hudson knows about. But I know that if I ever want to have a relationship with Maura, she needs to know everything about me. No matter how scared I am to share it with her.
She nods, slipping her hand into mine as we cross the parking lot. “Of course.”
“Why didn’t you say we were coming to Mic’s?” Maura asks as I park the car.
I don’t say anything as I exit the car and run around to her side to open the door.
(Dudes, if you’re reading this, do that shit every once in a while. Chicks dig it.)
She doesn’t press the issues as we walk across the parking lot and into the building. There’s still about an hour before it opens, and she either doesn’t notice or she doesn’t say anything. Either way, I appreciate it all the same.
I turn to Maura as the door slaps shut behind us. “This isn’t public knowledge, so what you’re about to witness stays between us. Okay?” My request is met with a nod. “No, I need you to promise me. Say it out loud.”
Her eyebrows slant instantly. “You’re starting to scare me, Tuck.”
“Trust me. Please? This is part two.”
She considers me for a moment, staring at me with a heavily confused expression on her face. It takes a moment or so for her to relax and agree. “Fine. I promise I won’t say anything. But if you’re a damn drug dealer or doing anything illegal, I’m out. Of all of this.”
I bristle instantly at her accusations and offensive words. Illegal? I mean, a small part of me gets where she’s coming from, because I’ve given her zero information and asked her to trust me. But still. She should trust me. We’ve been friends for too long and been…whatever long enough for us to build trust. Or at least that’s what I thought.
“Yes, Maura, please assume that the musician with two full sleeves of tattoos is into drugs because that’s what all rock stars do. Thank you for that stereotype. I’m glad you think so highly of me. Oh, wait. You don’t. You assume that because I ask you to keep quiet about something, it’s automatically illegal.” I shake my head in disgust. “Wow. I honestly thought you were better than them. You know, maybe you aren’t ready for this.”
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