I was wrong.
And now I was feeling worse than usual. That was twice now that I’d slipped up and fallen under his spell. Twice I’d given into the wild need he seemed to bring to life in me. Twice I’d had dirty sex with him like some star-struck groupie. It was becoming a habit, and it had to stop.
“Hey, did you see this?”
Becca came charging into my tiny bedroom waving the new Nashville Scene. “There’s going to be a contest for singer-songwriters. The winner gets a development deal with Big Dream records.”
I pulled the pillow off my head and sat up. “Really? Let me see that.”
I scanned the page and read the notice. It looked legit.
“All you have to do is send in your demo tape,” Beccca encouraged. “Then they’ll narrow it down to twenty-five semi-finalists.”
The demo tape. “Shit. I think I left my last one in Dex’s dressing room.” Along with my panties and my self-respect. I had a feeling I wasn’t getting those back either.
“Uh-huh,” Becca said, sitting on the side of my bed. “And how did that go?”
I re-read the contest notice. “I’m not a 900 number, Becca. You’ll have to get your jollies somewhere else.” Becca hadn’t been home much recently. She had some new boyfriend and he had gotten her a gig singing demos for a group of songwriter friends he had.
She stood up. “You’re no fun at all. Girls are supposed to share this stuff.”
I looked up at her and grinned. She had pointed out the contest to me. “All I will say is that handcuffs were involved.”
“Oh. My. God.”
I smiled and turned my attention back to the contest ad.
“The entry deadline is coming up,” I said. “I’ll have to ask one of the guys if I can buy one of their tapes. Surely one of them has one lying around.”
“You could call Dex and see if he can return the one you lost.” She grinned. “And then maybe you two could…”
“Not a chance. There won’t be a repeat performance.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me he’s lost his touch.”
“It’s not that.” It was that if I saw him a third time, I’d want there to be a fourth. And a fifth. And where could a relationship based solely on sex with the playboy of the country music world really go, even if I did want a relationship at all? Nowhere. That’s where. And I didn’t have the time or energy to chase a bad boy, or any boy, around. I now had a contest to win.
Becca shrugged. “I think you’re crazy. Every female under the age of eighty would give her left tit for ten minutes alone with that guy. And you won’t even give him your number.” She shook her head. “Just think what he could do for your career. No more seedy bars and smoky clubs. I’ll bet he could hook you up with his people.”
“When I get hooked up with ‘people,’ I want it to be because of my voice and my music, not because I’ve slept my way into a record deal.”
Becca tightened the belt on her robe. “Look. You’ve got talent. That’s obvious. But so do half the newbies in Nashville. What’s wrong with using your other charms to get a little attention?”
She had a point. “I don’t know. I’m just not comfortable with it. It just seems so mercenary.”
“It is. But that’s business.” Becca headed to the door of my bedroom. “Use the advantages you’ve got. Everyone else is.”
Becca left and I lay back in bed, thinking. My mother would be thrilled beyond belief if I managed to snag some rich record executive and brought him home for Thanksgiving dinner. But what if he wasn’t a record exec? What if he was a struggling musician just as broke as I was? Maybe from some small little Southern town with nothing but the dust on his boots.
A melody and a few tinkling lyrics began to bloom inside my head and I grabbed the notebook I always kept beside my bed.
I closed my eyes and let the silent music roll as I envisioned the set-up. A boy. From the wrong side of the tracks. A girl. In a big white house with the picket fence. He loves her, but he knows he’s not good enough for her. Her family will object. He doesn’t have anything to offer her but his heart. The image turned into a chorus and I scribbled it down before it was gone:
I know I’m no good for you
I know you’re too good for me
I know we both know it’s true
Baby, I know.
I closed my eyes and envisioned the guy. Not surprisingly, he looked like Dex. Or like Dex might have looked ten years ago. But I didn’t fight it. I just let the words and the music come. I didn’t have all the lyrics yet, but I scribbled down what was there:
I saw you at the (something rhyming with Mama)
Standin’ by your Mama
Baby, you took the breath from me
You stopped me in my tracks, girl
Put me on my back, girl
Made a total fool outta me
(Chorus)
I grabbed a small tape recorder and sang what I had with the melody playing in my head. I would work it out better later on the piano or guitar, but I wanted to get the basic tune down before I forgot.
I sang it through a couple times, making small changes, trying a few different variations in the tune as well. When I played back the recording, I smiled. It was a long way from a finished song, but it was a start. The thrill of creative energy flowing through me head was a kind of high, and I jumped out of bed and headed for the shower, still whistling my new tune.
Dex? Dex who? I was a force in my own right and didn’t need his star power to make it in the business.
At least not today.
* * * *
“I think you need to sex it up a little more, Syd,” said Bobby, Road Kill’s bass guitarist.
“Yeah, maybe if you wear a real short skirt and get one of those bras that, you know,” Ted held his hands up to his chest like he was cupping a pair of double Ds. “Boost ’em a little.”
“I am not wearing a push-up bra just to get a bunch of drunk frat guys in here on Thursday nights,” I said, wrapping up the mic wires. “And I’m not going to ‘sex it up.’ We want people who will come for the music, not come to look at my short skirts.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Dillon, the lead guitarist, said with a grin. Dillon was the sweet one of the bunch and I was pretty sure he had a crush on me.
I’d hooked up with Road Kill right after arriving in Nashville. They’d posted fliers around town looking for a lead singer. I had answered it. They, being guys, hired me before I could even sing a note for them. I made them sit though an audition anyway. They had been on the scene a little longer than me and had the contacts I didn’t at the time. It had seemed like a good arrangement, but it really wasn’t getting me where I wanted to go. I had considered leaving the group a few times, but really, as long as I was getting out there and booking shows, it seemed like a bad idea to just quit.
“Hey, do you guys have any of the demo tapes we made last year? There’s a singer songwriter contest I want to enter and I…lost my last one before I could make copies.”
“Sorry. Gave mine to a cute redhead last week to try to get her to go out with me,” Bobby said, setting his guitar reverently in its case.
“Sorry, Syd. Sent all mine out,” Dillon said, frowning.
“That’s okay. Thanks anyway. Ted? Surely you’ve got one left.” There was no way Ted had taken a break from partying long enough to do any actual work towards trying to get us a deal.
“I have whole box in the trunk of my car.”
“Cool. Can I get one? I’ll buy the first round.” Beer was always a good form of currency with this group.
“I sold the car last week.”
“With the tapes still in the trunk?”
He shrugged. “I was kind of hammered. Still. Sorry, Syd.”
Great. I was working with idiots. And I still had no tape.
“Maybe you can get some studio time over at Big Fish and make a new one,” Dillon suggested. “I heard they’re pretty cheap.”
I mentall
y calculated how much I had available on my Visa card. It might just work. It would be nice to have a new one, anyway, since the first one hadn’t gotten me anywhere and I could record my new song.
“I’ll check. Thanks, Dillon.”
He smiled at me. “Any time.”
“Hey guys, great set.”
We all looked up at the same time. The bar had mostly cleared out. It was near closing time and last call had already gone out.
The man was on the short side, balding, and wore khakis with a button-down shirt. It was a label guy, or maybe an agent. Hope surged in my chest and I smiled at him.
His dark eyes narrowed on me and he smiled back. “You got a minute, doll?”
I glanced back at the guys. They were looking at each other and didn’t appear too happy.
“Okay,” I hesitated, not wanting to piss of the rest of the band. It could be nothing. Heck, it probably was nothing.
He reached a hand out to help me hop down from the stage and I took it. He didn’t let go once I was on solid ground again, but rather led me to a table near the bar. He held out a chair for me and the way he looked at me made my skin crawl. Of course, if he was a record exec, that made sense.
He sat down across from me and smiled again, showing his too-white teeth. “Want a drink?”
“No,” I said. “Thank you.” I cocked my head. “What is this about?” I softened my question by smiling at him.
He sat back in his chair and looked at me with the confidence of a man who always got whatever he wanted. Just the attitude alone was a turn off, but I could deal with a lot if it meant Road Kill had gotten the attention of a producer or scout or whatever this guy was.
“I heard your set. You’ve got a great look.” His gaze wandered from my face to my boobs. I crossed my arms over my chest and stopped smiling.
“And?”
“The voice is okay. The band is…mediocre. But I think I can help you.”
“Oh, really?” I was getting a bad vibe from this guy already.
He leaned forward and brushed a tendril of hair behind my ear. I cringed and wanted to pull away, but I forced myself to stay still, staring at him. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Ron Lennart. With Milton Records.”
That was supposed to impress me, apparently.
“What kind of help did you have in mind?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. The guy was a toad and it wasn’t the first time I’d been propositioned.
“I thought maybe some voice lessons, maybe some time in the studio. Who knows, I might even be able to get your demo in front of Mr. Milton himself.”
Milton was famous for taking nobodies and making them into somebodies. But I wasn’t going to pimp myself out for a tape. Especially when it meant alienating the rest of my band.
I pulled back, away from his slimy touch, and stood up.
“I’m not going to sleep my way to the top for a record deal,” I said loud enough for the bartender and a few waitresses left cleaning up to hear. “And if that’s the only way you can get a woman in bed” – I looked down my nose at him and narrowed my eyes – “that’s just sad.”
I heard the waitresses snicker and Ron’s face turned bright red. His bald head shone with sweat as he glared back at me.
“Stupid cunt,” he hissed. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.” He shoved back from the table, knocking his chair over and strode calmly out of the bar as if he was too good for it. For any of us.
Dillon rushed over. “Are you okay, Sydney?” Concern furrowed his brow. He really was a handsome, kind guy and had more talent than our other two bandmates combined.
“I’m fine. Just another dickhead executive looking for an easy piece of ass.” I smiled at Dillon to let him know I was fine. “Occupational hazard.”
“’Cause I could go after him, if you want.”
“No, I’m fine. It’s not worth your time. Come on, let’s finish packing up. I’m really tired.”
When all the equipment was packed up and stowed in the back of Bobby’s van, I flipped open my cell phone and checked the messages. I always left my phone on vibrate in my pocket during the show because in the places we played, you never knew when a bar fight was going to break out and a call to 911 would become necessary.
There was one new message, but I didn’t recognize the number. If it was that lawyer from Knoxville my mom was trying to hook me up with, so help me, I was going to kill someone.
It wasn’t the lawyer.
“Hey Sydney. It’s Dex Wilder. You left before I got back the other night and I just wanted to let you know I…had a great time.”
I could hear the smile in his voice and the party in the background. Had he called me from a show or was it from his infamous party bus? Feminine squeals punctuated the general noise.
Party bus, definitely. Probably full of bimbos and Budweiser. It was surprising he gave me a thought at all, let alone bothered to call.
“I wish you would have hung around a little longer.”
His voice had gone husky and, if I closed my eyes, I could imagine he was right next to me, whispering all the things he would have done to me had I stayed. It wasn’t fair for a guy with a voice as rich and deep and sexy as his to use it for such nefarious purposes. It was like a secret weapon that found its mark every time.
“I found your tape, too, and gave it a listen. Not bad. So. Call me sometime, Sydney. You’ve got the number.”
The message ended and I snapped my phone closed.
“Anybody I know?” Bobby asked, closing the doors to his beat-up van we used to carry our stuff.
“No,” I said. Which was true. I was sure none of them was hanging out at Dex’s house on the weekends. They would all flip a lid if they knew Dex Wilder had just called my cell phone, and they’d ask a bunch of questions I just didn’t want to answer. “Just a guy.”
“Uh-huh. Holding out on us, huh?” Ted asked with a grin. “Thought you wasn’t into the whole dating thing.”
“I’m not. It’s just a friend. I don’t even know how he got this number.”
“Right. None of my ‘friends’ makes me turn red as a tomato when they call,” Bobby said. “Hey, that reminds me, what’s Becca doing these days?”
All the guys grinned then, and I suspected they all had a little bit of a thing for her. She came to our shows sometimes and always “sexed it up.”
“She’s busy,” I said. “And she has a new boyfriend.”
“Crap,” Ted grumbled. “Missed my chance again.”
I smiled. “Gotta be quick with that one.”
“Oh, I can be quick.”
“Yeah that’s what Sarah Jean said,” Bobby teased, ribbing his brother. “Quick.”
“Shut up, man.” Ted pushed Bobby on the shoulder. Bobby pushed back and a semi-playful wrestling match broke out.
“You ever get the feeling we’re dealing with children here?” Dillon asked.
“Yeah. Daily.”
“It wasn’t that asshole guy who was just in here, was it?”
I thought of Dex’s deep sexy voice saying my name and felt myself blushing all over again. “No.”
Dillon gave me a small smile. “Well, whoever he is, he’s a lucky guy.”
Chapter Four
I slammed the phone down and marked the name of another studio off my list. “Well, it’s official. I’m screwed.”
Becca stopped applying her third coat of mascara and looked at me. “Really? Two Toad was booked, too? That place is a dump.”
I stood up and got a glass of water from the tap. “Apparently this contest is big news and everybody and their brother has booked studio time to get a tape together. Nobody has any space until after the contest deadline. Nobody I can afford, anyway.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah.” I picked up the contest flier and frowned at it. It was no wonder everyone in town was so jazzed about this thing. Half the battle was getting your stuff past the administrative assistants and
into the tape players of someone who could actually do something if they liked your music. Getting to the semi-finals guaranteed you’d at least be heard by someone looking for talent. And if you made it to the top ten, there was a television special, a sort of on-air talent contest. Even the losers of that gig would come out winners. The exposure was gold, and just standing out from the crowd of other country music hopefuls was half the battle.
Of course not having a demo to submit to the open call wasn’t going to get me anywhere.
“The guys don’t have the old ones?”
“Already checked,” I said wadding up my list and tossing it in the garbage. The flier I put on the beat-up old fridge with the guitar-shaped magnet I’d bought at the first gas station I’d stopped at when I crossed the Tennessee border. I thought it would be my good luck charm. What an idiot.
Becca put down the makeup. “You could call Dex Wilder.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Why?” She came out of the bathroom and put a tube of lipstick in her purse. “He called you first. And he has your tape. Maybe he’ll mail it to you.” She grinned. “Or maybe he’s got a studio in his house. He could give you a little one-on-one time.”
I gave her the look. “No way.” Even though it was an idea I had briefly entertained, I had banished it almost immediately. I knew Dex would probably help me out. And it wasn’t that I thought he’d be another Ron Lennart, wanting to trade studio time for bedroom time. It wasn’t Dex I didn’t trust. It was me.
Plus, I hadn’t returned his message from the other night. What did you say to a guy you’d let chain you to his shower and do all sorts of delicious things to you, then skip out on when he turns his back? Emily Post didn’t cover that situation. I’d looked.
“I can’t call him.”
Becca shrugged. “If you want a shot at the recording contract, I don’t think you have another option.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I hate it when you’re right.”
She blew me a kiss and a wink before heading to the door. She had a date and, from the care she’d taken in getting ready and the handful of condoms she’d stuffed into her purse, I knew I wouldn’t see her before morning.
Nashville Heat Page 5