Falling Star (A Shooting Stars Novel Book 2)

by Terri Osburn

  Ulyss raised a brow. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got Chance Colburn in your pocket, and from what I hear, Dylan Monroe is no songwriting slouch, either. As of now, you don’t need to tap the vein of songwriters in this town.”

  “But he will,” Tony defended. “We all do at some point. Clay is right. There’s an integrity issue here, and any asshole willing to do something so petty should face the consequences.”

  C. W. and Ulyss exchanged a look. Their reservations were weakening.

  “We aren’t the only labels in town,” C. W. pointed out. “How do we know the others won’t use him?”

  Music Row was littered with small houses releasing hundreds of songs a year, but the four labels represented at this table were the largest in the country genre. Only two others hovered around their level, and Clay had already discussed this strategy with their leaders.

  “I can’t guarantee the smaller labels won’t take his work, but Sundown and Aftershock are on board. I talked to both Jack and Delilah yesterday. They couldn’t get out of their obligations for this morning, but agreed that this is a necessary move.”

  “Then I’m good with it,” Ulyss said, sitting back with his coffee.

  Clay rubbed his hands together. “Okay, then. I’ll bring him in.” He signaled Belinda with a curt nod and she left the room.

  Less than a minute later, Michael Swanson stepped into the Shooting Stars conference room wearing a wide grin. The grin disappeared before the door clicked shut behind him. “What’s going on, gentlemen?” he asked, nerves evident in his voice.

  “Sit down, Swanson,” Clay said. “We have a matter to discuss.”

  Tony pointed to a chair centered along the empty side. “We saved you a seat.”

  Michael rolled the chair away from the table and lowered slowly into it, eyes darting between the four moguls before him.

  “I assume you’ve read the article that came out last week,” Clay began. “The one that chronicles Chance Colburn’s early life.”

  Swanson’s eye twitched. “Yeah. I’ve seen it.”

  “We know you instigated it,” Ulyss continued. “That was a fucked-up thing to do, Mikey.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The sweat dotting his brow said differently.

  Tony picked up the baton. “Chance Colburn isn’t perfect, but he’s paid his dues. Owned up to his mistakes and turned things around. I respect him for that.”

  “We all do,” C. W. added. “What we don’t respect is a coward who kicks a man when he’s down and hides behind a little old lady while he does it.”

  “That’s you,” Tony clarified.

  The songwriter doubled down. “I don’t know who you guys have been talking to, but I don’t know anything about that article. Or any old lady.”

  “Then why would Eugenia Parker so adamantly want to thank you for sending that reporter to her door?” Clay asked. “And for calling her up in the first place, offering condolences on her dead son and an opportunity for her to expose the person responsible?”

  Swanson nearly crawled out of his skin. “That old lady’s crazy. I’m telling you. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Ulyss leaned forward. “Here’s how this is going to work. Your songs are no longer wanted. By us or our artists.”

  “We suggest you take up a new line of work,” C. W. said. “Head out to LA and try your hand at jingles.”

  “Or stay here and rot,” Tony suggested. “Your choice. But don’t expect anyone in this town to record a Michael Swanson original ever again.”

  Their prey did not go quietly. “Bullshit. I have friends here. Six of my tunes are being recorded as we speak.”

  “Those aren’t going to happen.” Clay rose, and the other men followed suit. “We’ve made those calls already. You’re done in country music, Swanson. And if I see one paragraph of bad press about Chance Colburn after today, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  Panic sent him backing toward the exit. “That’s an open threat. If I so much as get a bug bite, I’ll have a lawyer at your door.”

  Clay took a menacing step forward. “Bring it.”

  “This isn’t over,” Swanson whined. “You can’t blackball me.”

  C. W. smiled. “Oh, but we can.”

  “Do yourself a favor,” Tony said. “Disappear.”

  Eyes wild, Michael Swanson fled the conference room. Satisfied with the outcome, Clay rebuttoned his jacket. “We ought to get together more often, boys. That was fun.”

  Ulyss slapped C. W. on the back. “Almost as fun as my brawling days back in Athens.”

  “Explains that crooked nose of yours.” C. W. shook hands with Clay. “Good luck with Colburn. The boy’s got real talent. I hope he keeps his ass out of the fire for good this time.”

  “I’ve got faith in him.”

  The two executives departed, leaving Clay alone with Tony.

  “We still make a good team,” his former partner said. “Felt just like old times.”

  Clay couldn’t reminisce without the guilt of sleeping with his best friend’s wife. “Thanks for coming today, Tony. I know your artists had three of those songs Swanson mentioned. Pulling them couldn’t have been easy.”

  “The artists balked a bit, but the songs weren’t that great anyway.” The tension that had simmered between them since Clay had unceremoniously left Foxfire Records with no explanation sucked the oxygen out of the room. The easy camaraderie of the meeting was replaced by an awkward silence until Tony cleared his throat. “Maybe you can come to dinner some time. Joanna and I would love to have you.”

  Joanna would love to have him, but not in the way Tony imagined. “Maybe,” Clay replied. “We’ll see.”

  “Great. See you around, then.”

  “I’m sure.”

  After Tony left, Clay wandered back to his office, regret heavy on his mind, but satisfied with the morning’s outcome.

  Chapter 29

  Watching Charley and Dylan together made Naomi miss Chance even more. The anger that had sustained her through the first few days without him had waned by the time her alarm had blared on Wednesday morning, signaling a return to work. Work that required dealing with the person she longed to forget. With the anger gone, she’d progressed to the bargaining phase, during which time Naomi had made several offers to whatever higher power might be listening that if only the hole in her heart could be magically healed, she would gladly donate all of her free time to any charity in the city.

  And yet, the wound remained.

  A week later, she’d rolled full tilt into depression. Not the clinical type, but the kind that resulted in crying at greeting-card commercials and turning down dinner invitations because she didn’t want to ruin a meal for everyone else at the table. But tonight, two weeks since her world had crashed and burned, Naomi didn’t have the option of hiding at home. Dylan was making his first appearance at the Grand Ole Opry, and the entire Shooting Stars staff would be in the front row cheering him on. Since he was their first artist to grace the historic stage, this was a milestone night for everyone.

  Though Naomi had, in the past, taken the backstage tour available to tourists, she’d never been behind the scenes during a performance. The majority of any given Opry lineup, which changed from show to show, was made up of older stars. Those who’d seen their heyday decades before, but who were still highly respected and did a wonderful job of keeping the classics alive for thousands of country fans every year. This meant Naomi had encountered enough legends in the last hour to leave her more than a little awestruck. Even for those in the business, these pillars of the genre were a big deal.

  Minutes before showtime, Clay, Naomi, Dylan’s parents, Charley, and Charley’s grandfather, Maynard Layton, were all escorted through one of the heavy red curtains that hung on either side of the stage to join the rest of the label staff in the audience. Taking her place in the pew, Naomi tucked in her long skirt tight around her legs and settled in for the show. The n
ight would play out in three acts, with Dylan appearing as the final performer of act one. Twenty-five minutes in, Dylan was introduced.

  The moment he walked out on stage, Charley clasped Naomi’s hand. “That’s my honey,” she said, hardly able to keep her seat. “He looks so good up there.”

  Naomi laughed for the first time in fourteen days. “Yes, he does.”

  Wearing his trademark black hat, Dylan sang the biggest hit off his debut album, a tune titled “Better Than Before.” The song had risen in popularity with the help of a fan-captured video recorded during a live performance at a local Nashville venue. Dylan had performed the song directly to Charley and, at the end, they’d shared a passionate kiss. The video went viral in a day and garnered the Shooting Stars’ launching artist the kind of attention that could not be bought. As far as Naomi was concerned, punctuating a performance with a public display of affection would always be a plus in her book.

  Many in the crowd sang along with every word, which was always a good sign. One loyal fan even had a sign that read, COUNTRY MUSIC IS BETTER THAN BEFORE THANKS TO DYLAN MONROE. When the song ended and Dylan thanked the young girl waving the flimsy poster board over her head, Charley applauded along with the crowd, even when her husband leaned forward and read the small print.

  “‘Please marry me,’” he shared over the microphone, and the audience burst out laughing. “I’d love to, darling, but I don’t think my wife would be too happy.”

  “I would not!” Charley yelled, gaining more laughter from those around them.

  Each performer was given enough time for two songs, and Naomi assumed Dylan would be performing his other hit from the album, “Down Here Down Home.”

  “I thank you all very much for coming out tonight. This is my first time being here, and you’ve all made it really special, so thanks again.” More applause rained down, and Dylan glanced to the side of the stage. After a quick nod, he turned back to the microphone. “I was told that I get to do two songs tonight, and that’s what we had planned, but a new friend of mine asked for a favor. When I heard what he wanted to do, I couldn’t turn him down. Ladies and gentlemen, help me give a warm Opry welcome to my buddy, Chance Colburn.”

  The crowd went wild as Chance walked out on stage, looking like every good girl’s wicked dream.

  “What’s he doing?” Naomi asked, turning to Clay. Her boss kept his attention on the stage, applauding along with the rest of the spectators. “I don’t understand,” she said to Charley, who took her hand once more.

  Misty brown eyes twinkled in the stage lights. “Just watch, Naomi. You’ll see.”

  Heart pounding in her chest, she fought back tears as Chance shook Dylan’s hand and then reached for the microphone. What he said next left no doubt as to why he was there.

  “Thank y’all very much,” Chance said. “And thanks to Dylan, for letting me do this. I know this is a big opportunity for him, but I also know he’ll be coming back here for years to come. Don’t y’all think so?”

  Applause filled the large hall, and Dylan took a seat on the stool next to Chance, Gibson Dove guitar strapped to his chest. With a wave, he acknowledged the enthusiasm and support of the crowd.

  Chance used the pause to catch his breath. He knew exactly where Naomi was sitting. He’d been watching her from the side of the stage since she’d arrived in the front pew, looking as gorgeous as ever with her hair swept up off her neck. He might never get to hold her again, but after tonight, she would know how he felt about her. And how sorry he was for how things had ended.

  “I’m much better at singing than talking, but there’s something important I need to say tonight, so I hope you all will bear with me.”

  “I love you, Chance!” screamed a fan from the balcony.

  “I love you, too, darling, but you’ve got to let me get through this.” He rubbed the sweat from his palms as the crowd laughed. “Two weeks ago now,” he began, “I broke a pretty girl’s heart. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, and y’all know that’s saying something.”

  The mood remained light, until he made his next statement.

  “You see, I’m an alcoholic.” This declaration was met with silence. “I’ve said that twice a week at special meetings for the last several months, so you’d think it would get easier to admit. It doesn’t.” Taking a breath, he forged on. “The thing about being an alcoholic, especially one with a record like mine, is that even when you haven’t done anything wrong, people think the worst. They just expect you to do whatever it is you aren’t supposed to. I’ve been tolerating assumptions like that all my life, so I know how much it tears at a person. To be doubted all the time. And yet, I did that exact thing to someone who didn’t deserve it like I do.

  “Because I know she’s here tonight, I wanted to use this opportunity to tell her that I’m sorry.” His voice caught and he turned from the mic to clear his throat. No number of years onstage could have prepared him for this moment. Chance had never felt so vulnerable in his life, but he wouldn’t back out now. “She’s the only person I couldn’t push away. No matter what I did, she stuck it out. She held her ground and put me back in my place, and I needed that. I still need it, and I know this little speech of mine isn’t enough to make up for what I did. Still. She deserves an apology, so that’s what this is. A musical apology.”

  He looked to Dylan, who strummed his guitar as if to say, Ready when you are. With his heart in his throat, he wrapped his good hand around the mic. “This song is for Naomi. It’s called ‘Say It Anyway.’ I hope you like it.”

  Chance had never witnessed four thousand people be utterly still, but that was the case in this sacred room as Dylan began to play. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Naomi, so he closed his eyes and sang.

  A man can only go on for so long

  Chasing down the devil

  Trying to be a rebel

  Pouring out his heart in a country song.

  He can claim to be a loner

  A deep thinker and a stoner

  Burn in hell before admitting when he’s wrong.

  But a woman, she knows the real man

  What he’s hiding

  When he’s lying

  And loves him as hard as she can

  Despite the fighting

  And the crying

  Through it all she’s still his biggest fan

  Until the day she says I won’t do this again.

  Putting Naomi’s parting words in the song had been a reminder. Of the pain he’d caused, and the reality he faced. He’d lost her for good, but she deserved an honest-to-God apology, and this was the only way he knew to give her one. While Dylan drew a mournful sound from the seasoned guitar, Chance raised the microphone.

  It’s too late once she’s walking out the door

  And regret becomes a four-letter word

  “Baby, please” doesn’t cut it

  You missed your chance

  She doesn’t want it

  You know damn well that you’ve both been right here before

  Won the battle, boy, but now you’ve lost the war

  Well, I can tell you, son, ’cause I’ve been where you are

  Sayin’ you’re sorry doesn’t get you very far

  Don’t be like me

  Give her what she needs

  And say it anyway

  Dylan strummed out the final chords and Chance stepped to the edge of the stage. He had to see her one more time. But when he caught sight of the first pew, Naomi was gone.

  How dare he do this to her?

  His entire life, the man kept every damn thought and feeling to himself, and now he chooses to bare his soul to the world? To admit his mistakes in front of four thousand people, and who knows how many more watching at home? How was she supposed to deal with that?

  Naomi rushed through the Opry House courtyard, navigating between the strolling tourists excited to be in the presence of the historic building, many snapping pictures in front of the giant guitars de
corating the landscape. A mere hour before, she’d played the same role, forcing her best smile as Charley had taken a picture of the Shooting Stars crew posing proudly before an enormous Gibson.

  Too furious to cry, she glanced both ways before crossing the busy lane.

  Because the Opry was located next to the large and always busy Opry Mills Mall, the two venues shared a parking lot, and Naomi had found a spot several aisles over. Groups of young teens and families pushing strollers wound their way toward the movie theater entrance. By the time she reached her car, Naomi had heard at least three unrecognizable languages. A sign that tourist season was upon them.

  Minutes later, she maneuvered her way onto Briley Parkway with a white-knuckle grip on the wheel and Chance’s words replaying in her mind.

  I know this little speech of mine isn’t enough to make up for what I did.

  Damn straight it wasn’t. So he’d admitted his mistake. Even recognized that he’d done the same thing to her that others had done to him his whole life. The irony alone was laughable. If Naomi had been capable of laughter. Which she wasn’t.

  Because Chance had let her love him—again—and then ripped her heart right out of her chest. Why would she ever, in a million years, set herself up for that one more time? The level of stupidity that would take was mind-blowing. Even Naomi, for all her faults, couldn’t possibly be that much of an idiot.

  Not that being a forgiving person was a fault. She liked seeing the good in people, and Chance would not take that away from her. Just because she’d been wrong about him. Wrong about so many things. Most of all, about thinking she could ever live without him.

  “Dammit,” she said, glancing over her shoulder before shifting two lanes to the left. “He was right when he said he doesn’t deserve me. Absolutely right.”

  The Luke Bryan song on the radio faded as the DJ came on. “Good news for Chance Colburn fans, and especially those with a ticket to the Opry tonight. According to sources on Twitter, he made a surprise appearance with Dylan Monroe a little while ago and debuted a new song. Not sure when we’ll get our hands on it, but as soon as we do, you’ll be the first to know. Now let’s keep the music rolling with some Miranda Lambert.”