by Leah Braemel
He’d not slept that late in...forever. Maybe when he was away at college? “I’m surprised Ben hasn’t come pounding on the door wondering where the hell I am.”
“He did,” Paige murmured. “Well, not the pounding on the door thing, but he dropped in a couple of hours ago to see how you were doing.”
“He did?” As much as he wanted to stay right where he was for the rest of the day, Jake shifted and attempted to roll to sit at the side of the bed. Holy crap, his ribs were sore. Maybe he did need to get them x-rayed. “I bet he was pissed.”
“No.” Paige plumped the pillows against the headboard and burrowed into them. “He was worried about you. Thought maybe you were hurt worse than you let on yesterday. Told me to let you sleep as long as you needed and to take the day off.”
Huh. Go figure. Cam’s ringtone rang yet again. Jake waited until he’d taken care of nature then stumbled into the living room and retrieved his phone.
“This better be important. I’ve got a beautiful woman I’d rather be paying attention to than your sorry ass.” He winked through the doorway at Paige who stretched, causing the sheet to drop and reveal her breasts, yet it was her sleepy, contented smile that immediately got him hard.
“Where the fuck you been, dude? I’ve been trying to reach you since last night.” Cam’s voice boomed through the phone so loud Jake held it an inch away from his ear. “I need you to meet me at Tabby’s Diner right the fuck now.”
Damn it. He scooted off the bed and into the bathroom, shutting the door so he wouldn’t disturb Paige more than he had to. “What’s the fucking hurry? Can’t it wait until lunch?”
“No, it can’t wait. There’s a dude from Southern Gents Records here. He was at Slick’s the other night—he’s offering us a recording contract. Hunter and Drew are here already, but you’re our lead singer. He’s not going to sign us without you. So you’d better haul ass down here now, you hear me?”
After realizing that Cam had cut the connection, Jake hit End. He stared at the phone as if it might bite him. Or laugh at him for being stupid enough to believe Cam’s claim.
A real live record producer wanted to give them a contract? Holy shit. If this was some lame-ass prank, he was going to strangle him.
He had to go. Opportunity wasn’t just knockin’ on the door, it was downright pounding. He couldn’t have ignored it if he wanted.
“He sounded excited. What’s up?” Paige stood in the bedroom doorway, her hair adorably tousled, one of the spaghetti straps of the camisole she’d pulled on drooping over a bare shoulder, the lacy fabric giving him a hint of the creamy nipple with its ring beneath. If Cam weren’t waiting for him, and his ribs didn’t hurt like a sumbitch, he’d have hustled her back to bed for a little morning action.
“He said...” Holy shit, was this really true? Or was he dreaming? No, his body wouldn’t hurt like this in a dream. Would it? “He said there’s a record producer wanting to sign us.”
“That’s fantastic. What company?”
“Southern Gents. They represent a lot of big names, so they’re reputable.” He sat with a thud on the kitchen chair, immediately regretting it when his ass reminded him of its misuse the day before as well. Holy fuck. They wanted him? Well, the band. “They’re meeting now. They’re waiting for me.”
“Right now?”
He grabbed his keys and his wallet. “Yeah. Listen, d’you want to go into town with me? You know about financial stuff, right? You could look at the percentages, the clauses and stuff, see if anything sets off any warning bells?”
“I’m an accountant, not a lawyer. I’d not be much good on contract advice.”
“True, but you’ll probably hear things I’ll miss, and I trust your judgment.”
“All right. I’ll sit with you, but if it makes the other guys uncomfortable I’m perfectly fine sitting at the bar, okay?” Her lips pressed together as if she was trying not to laugh, she trailed a finger down his chest. “But I think you should put on some clothes first. I don’t think you want to meet them buck nekkid.”
Crap. “Uh, yeah, I guess that would help.”
Turned out he needed her help pulling a T-shirt over his head. While he could get one side down, his shoulder wasn’t co-operating properly to pull the other side down. The laughter in her eyes dimmed. “Are you sure you’re okay? Your shoulder obviously isn’t working properly and those bruises on your ribs looks nasty.”
Felt nasty too. Not that he’d admit it. Last thing he needed was for her to mention it to Ben who already thought he was a total wuss. “I’m fine.”
She smoothed her hand over his shoulders, frowning when he winced. “How about we stop off at the clinic after the meeting? Just to make sure. If I have to, I’ll call your momma and sic her on you.”
“You play dirty, you know that?” At her nod, he sighed. “Okay. But you don’t have to come if you don’t want to, especially since they’ll probably make me sit in a waiting room for hours on end.”
Her snort was muffled as she pulled her T-shirt over her head. “If I don’t go with you, I suspect you will conveniently forget to stop off for x-rays. Besides, I want to hear all about this offer and I don’t want to have to wait until you come home.”
She grabbed her brush and quickly pulled her hair into a ponytail. “So how did Cam say when or how this record producer heard you?”
“He heard us at Slick’s apparently.” What were the odds that all those gigs they’d played in Fort Worth, Arlington and the Metroplex that they’d get discovered at a rib place on a road-to-nowhere town like Joshua Falls. A fucking recording contract. With Southern Gents yet. Not just a small company either. They had connections. They’d get them air time on the radio, maybe even CMT.
He practically levitated to the truck, his mind bouncing around like one of those rubber balls he had as a kid.
“Uh, do you want me to drive?” Paige eyed him quizzically.
“No. I’m good.”
“So why are you getting in the passenger side?”
He blinked. Holy fuck, she was right. Snorting at himself in disgust, he handed over his keys. “Do you know how to get to Carter Valley from here?”
“Yup, hang a left at the main gate, then a right at the county road, and straight on ’til morning.”
He cupped her face in his palms and kissed her lightly. “Smart ass.”
“Hey, you like my ass.”
“Damn straight.” Unable to resist, he cupped her denim-clad ass. “Or curvy, as the case may be.”
“Horn dog.” She cupped his groin and squeezed lightly. “And I know my way around. I’ve been to Carter Valley before—it’s not like I’ve been living on the moon.” She rounded the truck and got in behind the wheel. “Besides, you’re going to be right here to give me directions. If you’re still in this universe.”
Considering he didn’t remember her turning onto the main road, or her driving through town, he decided it was a good thing she’d driven by the time she stopped in front of Tabby’s Diner beside Cam’s truck. Probably because she’d been keeping his mind occupied answering her questions about what a record contract meant, and what an agent did, who did the tour bookings and arranged merchandise.
She stopped him before he could open his door. “Remember, don’t sign anything without getting an agent or a lawyer to look over it. You have no idea what you might be signing away.”
Holy crap. This was real. He grabbed her hand.
Man, she was everything a guy could ask for. He helped her out of the driver’s seat. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Yeah.” Her expression softened and she stroke his jaw. “But thanks for asking. Now come on, let’s see what this Southern Gent guy has to say.”
The scent of sausage and bacon combined with coffee and something sweet—cinnamon, or maybe that was Pai
ge’s latest scent—assaulted him as he walked across the white plank porch, with its fresh coat of white paint and hanging baskets of lobelia flanking the front door.
Once inside, he stopped by the wooden butler holding a sign with the morning’s special and scanned the redone 50s diner, complete with red vinyl booths and chrome-trimmed tables. Cam spotted him first and jumped to his feet at a booth halfway down. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Fight with a bison. Ignore it.” Maybe he should have it printed on a business card and hand it to everyone who asked.
Another man slid out from the booth. Middle aged, tall, skinny. Balding. “Mr. Larson, so glad you could make it down on such short notice. I’m Stan Coleman of Southern Gents Records.”
“It’s Grady. Jake Grady. JT Larson’s my stage name.” He glanced at Hunter who was grinning. Drew, however, looked rather glassy eyed. Or shell shocked. “This is my girlfriend, Paige. Is it okay if she sits in with us?”
“Of course.” Coleman shook Paige’s hand, staying standing while she slid into the booth beside Cam, scooting over to leave room for him. He gingerly eased himself onto the seat without groaning.
An air of anticipation buzzing around them, the group was quiet while the waitress came around and took their orders.
Once she left, Jake folded his hands on the table. “So, Mr. Coleman, what can we do for you?”
“As I was telling your friends while we were waiting, I heard your performance at Slick’s the other night. I sure liked what I heard. I think you have a great career ahead of you in the music industry. Enough that we’d like to offer your band a contract.” He pulled up a black briefcase from where it rested by his feet and set it on the table.
Jake swallowed as he removed a pile of papers and handed a set to each of them. Please let it be a real contract and not some prank Cam’s dreamed up.
“Take your time, look it over or if you have an agent have them look it over and contact me. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”
Unlike the others who flipped through the contract, Jake left his on the table unread. “Why should we sign with you over someone else?” Like there was anyone else banging on their door.
“I—we—at Southern Gents think you have a lot of talent. We’re betting that with the right backing and the right marketing you could go far. We’d like to get you into the recording studio and make up some demos—do you have four songs ready to record? Of your own music preferably but if you don’t write your own, we’d need you to tell us which songs you’d want to use.”
Cam, Drew and Hunter all focused on Jake. “Yeah, I’ve at least that many.” He had a trunkful in his room if they needed them. Narrowing it down to four would be the toughest part.
“One other thing. We’ll expect you to actively promote any recordings by being out on tour. You need to aim higher than Slick’s. I’d recommend you find a better tour manager to set you up in bigger venues, maybe find someone who is better at promotion. If you don’t have one right now, I know several I can recommend who would work with Southern Gents’ vision for your band.”
“Is there a price tag attached?” Paige asked. So she’d picked up on it too. “Or will you take a fee out of their advance?”
“The tour manager would take their fee out of any moneys earned, that’s the way of the business, but no, we wouldn’t charge a fee for making a recommendation. I’d recommend they start you off at smaller events, so we can test the waters so to speak. See how the crowds react. They may be able to hook you up as an opening act for a bigger name artist.”
“Yeah, like who?” Drew asked, perking up.
“Oh I’ve got some ideas but I don’t want to mention any names at the moment. Not until things are finalized, but if you look on our website, you can see some of our other talent to get an idea.”
Drew’s jaw dropped. “I checked. You represent big names like CJ McGarray.”
“Well, son, I won’t say that we’ll hook you up with CJ just yet, but maybe one of our other established bands.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Cam slapped his hands. “So where do we sign?”
“It’s right here. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line, gentlemen.” Stan flipped to the back page.
“Hang on. Let’s read through this first, okay?” Jake flipped through his copy. Holy crap, royalties, artistic control, merchandising rights, world rights, this was way over his head. Would Randy or Allie be able to tell him what it said? He’d heard that some lawyers specialized in entertainment law—maybe they knew someone in the business. “When do you need these signed by?”
“What are you talkin’ about, Jake?” Drew snapped. “The man’s offering us a chance at the big leagues here and you’re blowin’ him off?”
“It’s never a good idea to sign a contract without having a specialist go over it.” Paige said quietly, though her tone left no room for Drew to argue. “There are all sorts of terms and conditions to consider.” She met Coleman’s gaze. “I’m assuming the contract is negotiable?”
“You’re quite correct, Miss Paige. Mr. Grady’s a smart man to have brought you with him.” Stan folded his hands on the table, no trace of tension in him, which made Jake breathe easier. “As I said, you’re welcome to take that copy of the contract and look it over. In fact, we encourage our artists to seek legal advice. Now while I’m here, why don’t I explain some of the wording to you, to ease some of your concerns. No pressure. Everything we do is above board, right?”
By the time Coleman left, Jake’s head was swirling.
“You’re gonna sign, right, dude?” Drew asked. “Because before you got here, Coleman said we signed as a package deal or not at all.”
Shit. “I want to take it, guys, but I’m not signing it unread.” He flipped through the pages. “We could be signing the rights to all our songs—” his songs, “—away here. Or end up being backup singers for some dive act under this additional personal services clause.”
Not to mention being on tour meant having to leave Bull’s Hollow. Or at least leaving Ben on the hook for picking up his slack while he was out on the road. Shit, they were already shorthanded.
Drew squirmed in his seat, tapping the pen on the tabletop like it was a drumstick. “Come on, a different hotel room every night, meeting all the big country music stars. Who in their right mind would turn that shit down?”
“A different town every night. Away from your family” Away from Paige. “Eating fast food most of the time, sleeping in the truck because I doubt we’d be able to afford hotel rooms. As for meeting big stars, there’s no guarantee you’ll meet anyone, and who knows how much actual money you’ll make if we don’t hit big.”
“There’ll be groupies who’ll fuck us just because we’re musicians, with a reputable band at reputable places,” Drew shot back.
Cam slapped Drew up the side of the head. “Dude, language. Not in front of Jake’s woman.”
Drew ducked his head. “Sorry, Paige. But come on, Jake. This is what we’ve been dreamin’ about, right? Getting a contract. Goin’ on tour?”
Three pairs of eyes turned on him. Aware of Paige sitting beside him, hearing her advice echo in his head, he flipped through the contract once more. It wasn’t just the language of the contract. He couldn’t think only about his own career. He had responsibilities to more than them. He shook his head. “I can’t. Not yet.”
Three groans poked at his conscience. Had he been leading them on? No. He just figured that getting a contract was a pipe dream.
“Look, Gramps drilled it into both Ben and me that we never sign a contract unread.”
“The guy went over it point by point,” Cam said slowly. “It made a lot of sense to me.”
“Didn’t you notice he skipped over a lot of clauses?” He flipped through the sheets. “I don�
��t like the wording about them owning all the rights. If I sign it the way it is, does that mean they can sell one of my songs to someone else and I don’t get a cut? And this merchandising clause—is that a standard percentage they’re taking, or is it negotiable? I can’t remember seeing a mention of merchandise in any of the sample contracts I’ve seen. Maybe it’s all there, but it’s hidden in all this legalese.” He flipped to a clause Coleman had totally skipped over. “And he sure as hell glossed over this morality clause.”
“So he glossed over the dull stuff.” Drew sat back and folded his arms, frustration filling his voice. “I’m working part time at the Walmart, Grady. If we don’t take this, I ain’t never getting out of this bumfuck town. I’m tired of living from paycheck to paycheck. Of scrounging for enough change to buy a lousy cup of coffee the day before payday. I’ve got nothing to lose by signing it.”
Maybe that was the issue. He’d been thinking of his singing as a hobby for too long. To Drew and Hunter, and even Cam, getting a contract—and a way out of their dead-end jobs—was their life’s mission. “How about this. I’ll see if an agent will talk to us now we’ve got an offer in hand. If I can’t find one then I’ll take it to our lawyer and see what he says. If it’s okay, then I’ll...” Would he sign it? Turn his back on Ben and Bull’s Hollow? Walk away from Paige just as he was getting to know her. It wasn’t like he could ask her to come on the road with him.
Yet how could he turn it down, especially if it meant he’d be killing the other guys’ dreams? “If I get an agent who says it’s okay to sign, or can get us better terms, then yeah, I’ll sign it. And I’ll ask about getting a tour manager. I know it’s going to come out of our royalties, but we need someone who can get us into bigger venues.”
“But if they can get us into bigger venues that means we’ll be making bigger bucks, right?” Drew asked, his voice rising in hope.
Jake shook his head. “It depends upon the agreement the tour manager signs with the venue, and how many tickets they sell. We could be booked into a five thousand seat venue but if they only sell three hundred tickets...” He let that sink in before continuing, “Plus being on the road doesn’t mean we’ll be making the big bucks. We’ll have to pay for gas, and food and hotels. And for roadies to do our soundchecks and setups.”