Rising Star (A Shooting Stars Novel Book 1)

by Terri Osburn

  “You ready for your guest?” asked John Willoughby as he breezed into the booth. The program manager never simply walked into a room. He blew in like a tornado, without warning and moving fast. “He’ll be playing acoustic, so we’ll put vocals on mic B and the guitar on mic C.”

  “No one told me I had a guest today,” she replied. Charley didn’t like surprises, especially not live on the air.

  “I put a note on the log,” he said, shifting stools around and twisting the movable metal arms that held the microphones. “Dylan Monroe on air between eleven and noon.”

  Her heart dropped to her knees. “What did you say?”

  “Dylan Monroe,” John repeated. “He’s the first artist launching on the Shooting Stars label. The single’s been out for a while, but we’re only adding it now. He’s here to play it live today.”

  A nervous laugh escaped her lips. “I didn’t get any note,” she repeated, as if John would throw his hands in the air and cancel the appearance because Charley hadn’t been warned ahead of time that her one-night stand would be walking into her booth.

  Her boss merely shrugged. “Life is full of surprises, I guess.”

  The man had no freaking idea.

  “Don’t you usually do these things on the morning show?” Ruby was syndicated, which meant exposure nationwide instead of solely in Middle Tennessee.

  “Not debut artists. If he makes it, he’ll get a slot with Ruby, but for right now, he’s a nobody.”

  Insulting both to Dylan and to Charley. The nobody singer only gets to hang with the nobody DJ. And then a meaningless exchange from Saturday night played back in her head.

  Your voice is incredible, Dylan. You should be performing somewhere.

  Maybe I’ll do that.

  What a jerk. He must have gotten a good laugh out of that one. She’d been totally honest with him, and he’d let her believe he was some shy, struggling songwriter too chickenshit to let anyone hear his work.

  “That asshole,” she mumbled as John whipped open the door and three men strolled into the tiny room.

  Immediately, Dylan locked eyes with her, but his features were unreadable. He didn’t greet her by name or act as if they knew each other. Charley glanced to her computer screen to see her last commercial was about to end.

  “I’m on air in five seconds, so you all need to be quiet.” Sliding on her headphones, she pulled her microphone into place and cleared her throat. Flipping a switch, she reeled off the forecast and then promo’d her surprise guest. “Stay tuned to the Eagle to hear a brand-new artist play his debut single live on the air, but first up, as promised, it’s Keith Urban.”

  Headphones around her neck, she leaned back on her stool. As much as she wanted to call Dylan on his deception, she remained professional. “Let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll cut in between songs. Do you have any sort of bio? I need something to work with.”

  “My publicist sent that over first thing this morning,” said the slightly older man in the expensive-looking suit.

  “I’ve got it,” Willoughby assured, tapping the stool across from Charley. “Dylan, have a seat right here and put the microphones wherever you need them. I’ll run down to my office and get the bio.”

  As John dashed from the room, the suit reached a hand across the console. “Clay Benedict,” he offered. “I get the impression you didn’t know we were coming.”

  “No,” she said, accepting the handshake. “I found out less than a minute before you walked in.”

  Charley made a point of ignoring Dylan. Being professional only went so far, and at that moment, she wanted to swing the mic stand hard enough to knock the black Stetson off his head.

  “Morning, Charley,” greeted Casey, who leaned against the wall, ankles crossed and wearing a smile that didn’t reach his green eyes. Two fingers tapped in rapid time beneath his armpit.

  Dylan remained silent, giving his full attention to removing a guitar from its case and finding a comfortable position on his stool. The same guitar that had rested on her lap two nights ago.

  As if concerned that his artist was making a poor first impression, Clay Benedict stepped in. “We’re grateful for this chance to play for your audience, Miss Layton. Aren’t we, Dylan?”

  Eyes that had haunted Charley’s recent dreams remained in shadow beneath the black hat. “I’m much obliged for the air time,” he muttered, his tone impersonal and aloof.

  So that’s how this would go? Fine by her.

  “What’s the name of your song, Mr. Monroe?” she asked, wondering whether he’d name the song from Saturday night.

  “‘Down Here Down Home,’” he replied with a strum of the guitar. “Will this pick up okay?”

  Charley pressed a button on the board and said, “Play it again.” Dylan did as asked, and the LEDs on the channel for microphone C lit up. “You’re good.”

  She couldn’t believe they were sitting four feet apart, acting for all the world as if they hadn’t seen each other naked less than forty-eight hours ago. A memory that had also invaded her dreams and kept her awake half the night. If he felt any guilt at all for duping her, Dylan hid it well.

  John buzzed back into the room and slapped a sheet of paper down in front of Charley. “This will get you started to let the listeners know a bit about our guest here, and then you can transition into the live performance.” Turning to Clay Benedict, he said, “You and Casey can come listen in my office.”

  She hadn’t expected to be alone with Dylan and nearly argued that they should all stay.

  Casey patted Dylan on the back. “You got this, man.”

  Dylan nodded, expression stoic and focused.

  Following the two older men, the drummer stopped at the door and turned back to Charley. “Make him sound good, okay?”

  Charley gave a silent nod. One lie by omission didn’t mean she’d ruin Dylan Monroe’s budding career. While they were live, he’d receive the same treatment she’d give any other artist. But once the interview was over, all bets were off.

  Once they were alone, Dylan took his first step into the minefield.

  “Hi,” he said with a friendly smile.

  Charley ignored the greeting. “This song has two minutes left. We’ll introduce you and give a little background to the listeners, and then you can play the single.” Indicating a set of headphones on the console in front of him, she added, “You’ll need to put those on.”

  He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the ice queen act took him by surprise considering the fiery passion displayed during their first meeting.

  Removing his hat, Dylan tried again. “I’m sorry they sprang this on you. I’d be irritated, too.”

  She leveled him with a glare. “That’s why you think I’m annoyed? Guess again.”

  Fearing she might trash him on air, Dylan kept his temper in check, but barely. “Can we discuss this after the interview?”

  Ignoring his request, she reviewed his bio. Five seconds into the silent treatment, she snorted. “The album is called Pickup Artist. How appropriate.”

  “That song is about a guy who keeps getting dumped and becomes an expert at picking himself back up,” he explained, not sure why he was defending himself. “A sentiment I’m familiar with in more ways than one.”

  Her emerald-green top slid off one smooth shoulder, revealing a tiny red mark he knew was his doing. “Leaving you to wake up alone after a one-night stand does not qualify as dumping you,” she argued.

  Her blunt summation of their night together hit a nerve. “So that’s all it was? A one-night stand?”

  “We had sex less than four hours after we met,” Charley hissed in a low voice. “What did you think? A late-night meal followed by two orgasms and I’d be madly in love with you?”

  “Wow,” he said, strumming the guitar strings. “Thanks for the honesty.”

  Charley leaned forward, and his view went from bare shoulder to tempting cleavage. By his dick’s reaction, her icy attitude didn’t
make him want her any less.

  “You’ve got some nerve talking about honesty,” she snapped. “You walked in here acting like we’d never even met.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to explain how we know each other,” he said, teetering between walking out and kissing some sense into her. “Apologies for considering your feelings.”

  “Right,” she snapped. “Because I’m the one who likes to keep secrets.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She waved her hands in the air. “This, Dylan. Why didn’t you tell me that you’re a professional singer? You knew everything about me. Where I work. What I do. Even where I’m from. And you told me virtually nothing. Was that ‘I’m a shy little songwriter too scared to share my work’ just a line? Something you toss out there so gullible females like me will be all ‘take me home and sing me a song, Dylan.’”

  The guitar pick dug into his palm as his grip tightened. “I told you once that I’m not that guy. Would knowing I had a record deal have changed anything? If you thought you’d bagged a guy on the verge of money and fame, would you have stuck around until morning?”

  Brown eyes snapped with fire as the last notes of the Keith Urban song faded out. Without missing a beat, Charley lifted her headphones into place and pulled the microphone forward.

  “That was Keith Urban here on Eagle 101.5, fresh off a couple shows in Canada this month. I bet it’s cooler up there than is it down here right now. Charley Layton getting you through another workday, and as promised, I have a special guest in the studio with me. Without further ado,” she said, motioning for him to put on the headphones, “I give you Dylan Monroe. Nice to have you with us today, Dylan.”

  Dazed by the sudden one-eighty, he took an extra second to answer. The panic in her eyes was almost worth the brain freeze. “Thanks for having me, Charley. It’s good to be here.”

  “So not only are we going to hear your first single today, but you’re the first artist signed to the new Shooting Stars label. Does that add extra pressure for this release to be a success?”

  Nothing like going for the jugular. “There’s always pressure for a new artist starting out, but yeah, a little extra in this case. My label has put a lot faith in me, and I’d like to make them proud.”

  “Tell the listeners where you’re from and how long you’ve been at this.”

  “Sure,” he replied, amazed that she could sound so sweet and friendly without the hint of a smile on her face. “I hail from Louisiana, not too far from Shreveport, and I’ve been knocking around Nashville fighting for a break for five years.”

  Tapping a finger on the console, she tilted her head, looking interested for the first time. “That’s a long time to fight for a dream. Have you gotten close in the past?”

  “Once,” he said, shifting on his stool. “But none of that matters now. I was born to do this, and thanks to Shooting Stars, I’m finally getting my chance.”

  Expression finally matching her tone, Charley said, “Good. I hope it works out.” Staring as if seeing him for the first time, she fell silent.

  Dylan raised his brows and nodded toward her microphone.

  “The album,” she blurted. “Tell us about the album.”

  “Love to,” he replied. “Pickup Artist is a collection of eleven songs from some of the best writers in Nashville. The title track is about a guy who trusts a little too much and has to pick his heart up off the floor on a regular basis. Then there’s ‘Flowers Down,’ about a guy who sends his girl flowers only to find them in the trash.”

  Charley frowned. “I’m sensing a theme here. Do women play the villain in all your songs?”

  “Not all,” he said. “‘Working at Home’ tells the tale of a guy who’s landed the girl of his dreams and has the family life he’s always wanted. And there’s plenty of upbeat songs, like the new single, ‘Down Here Down Home,’ about being happy in a small town.”

  “Did you write that one?” she asked.

  His voice faltered. “No, I don’t have any cuts on the album. The talent in this town is so good, I gave them all the spotlight.”

  Fist propping up her chin, Charley said, “Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” Dylan replied, worried she might bring up the song he’d played for her.

  Clay didn’t know that he’d been writing songs. If she outed him on the air, he’d have some major explaining to do.

  “But the single is so close to my life,” he continued, “I related to it as if I’d written the song. Young kids running down back roads, having bonfires, and enjoying total freedom is pretty much the story of my teen years. I’m hoping lots of country music fans will relate as well.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Charley said with conviction. “And that sounds like the perfect segue to me. Are you ready to play for us?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dylan responded, strumming the guitar.

  Reaching for the board, Charley said, “One more tidbit for our listeners before you start. Ladies, in case you’re wondering, he’s as pretty as he sounds.”

  Maybe there was a chance for them yet.

  “Not sure I’ve ever been called pretty,” he said, “But I’ll take it. And if anyone out there likes this song enough to want to see us live, we’re playing a celebration show this Friday night at the Marathon Music Works here in town. Maybe you can join us, Ms. Layton.”

  Brown eyes narrowed, and the ice queen returned. “I’ll have to check my schedule. Here now, singing his debut single, ‘Down Here Down Home,’ Eagle brings you Shooting Stars artist Dylan Monroe.”

  Chapter 9

  Just because he’d made Charley like him again, and sounded amazing on the radio, did not mean she and Dylan had resolved anything. Why did he have to be such a hard-luck case? Charley was a sucker for an underdog story. Not that Dylan should have been an underdog in anything.

  He had the looks, the voice, and the songwriting chops to stand with any artist on the charts, past or present. In fact, she’d have bet that next to the term the whole package in the dictionary would be Dylan’s picture. Was the term the whole package even in the dictionary? Maybe not, but if it was, his face would be there.

  The moment he’d finished the song, which was upbeat and catchy as all get-out, Charley thanked him for coming into the studio, encouraged listeners to request and download the song, and then fired off the Alabama tune up next in the computer.

  Before she and Dylan had removed their headphones, the door flew open and the three men returned, along with Sharita from the PR team, who’d been snapping pictures through the window to the hall while Dylan played.

  “Good job, everybody,” praised John. “That’s the way to debut a song, Dylan. The listeners will light up the phones in no time.”

  No comment was made about Charley’s interviewing skills.

  “Charley deserves the credit,” Dylan replied. “Pretty sure she could tell that I was nervous, and she put me right at ease.”

  The boy could spin a yarn with the best of them. Four seconds before she’d cracked her microphone, she’d nearly cracked him in the jaw.

  “Of course,” John agreed. “Charley made you look good.”

  “Doing my job,” she muttered, setting her headphones on the console.

  Fluttering like a hummingbird on steroids, the schmoozing manager shook the record exec’s hand as if he were pumping a well. “Once Dylan packs up his guitar, we’ll head to the conference room to meet some of our staff and snap pictures with our newest star.”

  Charley was happy to avoid the photo shoot—and any further conversation with her guest, in public or in private. They’d established their positions, formed a tolerable truce, and could now retreat to their respective corners, never to cross paths again.

  With three songs scheduled back-to-back, she took the opportunity to visit the ladies’ room, certain that Dylan would be long gone by the time she returned. Stepping into the hall, she pivoted toward the restroom.

  “Hey,
” Dylan called from behind her. “Can I talk to you a second?”

  Charley sighed as she turned around. “There isn’t much left to say at this point. You think I’m a heartless floozy, and I think you’re a gifted actor who manipulates the truth to suit his needs. We’re both a little wrong, but got some awesome sex out of it, so let’s call it even.”

  His laughter took her by surprise. “You really are the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Glad I could show you a new side to half the population. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Go out with me,” he said.

  Sweet bread and butter, the man didn’t know when to quit.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you like me,” Dylan declared with unwavering confidence and a tell me you don’t grin. “And because I should have been up-front about my singing, and you shouldn’t have cut out while I was sleeping. So let’s start over. I promise to have you home and in bed by midnight. Alone,” he clarified.

  A big fat no teetered on the tip of Charley’s tongue. She’d fled Dylan’s bed for a reason. A very good reason. Only she couldn’t quite remember that reason with him hovering all hot and sexy and smelling like an apple crisp closed in a cedar chest.

  A combination that made her think of home, and then feel guilty for thinking of sex and Grandpa’s farm at the same time.

  “I’m not sure you can call a do-over once two people have slept together.”

  With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “But we haven’t slept together, remember?”

  Now he had her on a technicality.

  “This is pointless.”

  “What if I said I plan to make one of your wildest dreams come true?” he asked.

  Charley rolled her eyes. “You think a date with you is one of my wildest dreams?”

  The self-deprecating grin chipped away at her resistance. “My ego isn’t that big. Just trust me. You don’t want to pass this up.”

  “Fine,” she sighed. “Where are you taking me?”

  Tipping up the black hat, Dylan said, “I’ll pick you up at four on Wednesday.”

  This told her nothing. “You didn’t answer my question.”