by Tracy Wolff
“Beth” from KISS.
“Lady” from Styx.
“You’re My Best Friend” from Queen.
“If I Fell” from The Beatles.
That was the song that did it, that took her from tearing up to ugly sobbing. For long seconds, she just stood there, shoulders shaking, with the playlist in one hand and The Beatles album in the other.
Wyatt had done this for her. Wyatt, who thought he was a loser. Who thought he didn’t have anything to give. Who thought all of them would be better off without him. Wyatt had done this. Just to make her happy.
No one had ever done something this elaborate for her before…and until she’d opened the box, it had never even occurred to her what she was missing. She’d spent so much of her life chasing her father’s approval, trying to placate journalists and band management and label execs and temperamental musicians, that the idea of someone doing something for her, just because it made her happy—just because she mattered—was foreign to her.
This and a song written exclusively for her? How could she help but fall for Wyatt? Wounded as he was, messed up as he’d been when he’d left her apartment that morning…and still he’d done this.
She picked up her phone to call him, but decided against it when she saw the time. He was probably still in rehearsals with the band. After firing off a quick text instead—one that expressed her intense pleasure with the gift and her desire to show her appreciation with sexual favors—she crossed to the state-of-the-art stereo in the corner of the room and was thrilled to see it still had the turntable she’d added to it a couple of years ago when she’d been in town for South by Southwest.
As she put on Something New, she noticed the jewel case from Smoke and Mirrors’ latest CD laying next to the CD player. As she stared at it, an idea came to her. It was insane, ludicrous even, and yet…and yet, she couldn’t get it out of her head.
It would be perfect. Absolutely perfect. If her father didn’t have an actual stroke. And have her committed to an insane asylum. And that was only if Caleb was willing to step up and ask him…
Knowing there was no way she’d be able to relax until she at least tried, Poppy pulled out her cell phone and dialed her brother. The second he came on the line, she blurted out, “I need you to do me a favor.”
Caleb’s long-suffering sigh came through the phone loud and clear. “Aren’t I already doing you a favor keeping Dad off your ass while you’re in Austin? After what happened during the conference call yesterday—and the way Shaken Dirty have sicced their lawyers on us—that has to count for something.”
“And here I thought I was doing you a favor, since you’re the one who sent me down here to babysit a rock star when you didn’t want the job.”
“I already told you. It’s not that I didn’t want the job. It’s that I knew you’d be better at it than I would be.”
She made sure her tone conveyed just how hard she was rolling her eyes. “Kissing up will get you nowhere.”
“I’m not kissing up!” he answered with mock indignation. “Besides, if anyone should be kissing up, it’s you. You’re the one who called me for a favor, after all.”
“Yes, well, it’s a favor that will benefit all of us, so you just need to do it and not think too hard about it.”
“What exactly do I need to do?” Suddenly he sounded a lot more wary. Then again, no one had ever accused her brother of being an idiot.
With that thought in mind, she decided to just rip the Band-Aid off and tell him what had to be done. “You need to get Drew Fitzpatrick on a plane to Austin no later than tomorrow morning.”
When he didn’t immediately explode, she told herself maybe this was going to go better than she’d originally thought it would. But then several long seconds passed with no response from her brother, and she knew that was wishful thinking.
“Caleb?” she finally prompted when they were coming up on a minute of full radio silence. “You still there?”
His only response was a fairly alarming gasping sound.
“Are you actually dying or are you just being dramatic?”
“I’m imitating the sound Dad is going to make choking on his scotch if I even suggest putting Drew on a plane to Austin. Have you lost your freaking mind?”
“He’s perfect. You know he is.”
“He is perfect, absolutely. He is the perfect bass player for Smoke and Mirrors. You know how I know? They’ve got four Grammy nods and three CMA awards. That’s CMA as in Country Music Awards. Not rock. Country. And again, because it can’t be overstated, Drew already has a job. Playing bass for Smoke and Mirrors.”
“Okay, first of all, they walk the line between rock and country. And secondly, you know he’s not happy there. I’ll be shocked if the band manages to hang together another six months. Not with all the shit that’s gone down with them in the last year.”
“Oh, you mean like all the shit that’s gone down in Shaken Dirty?” Caleb asked snidely. “Because even if Drew randomly decided to leave Smoke and Mirrors, do you really think he’d choose to jump from the frying pan into the fire?”
“You let me worry about that. You just get Drew on a plane.”
“That’s not going to happen, Poppy.”
“Come on, Caleb. Trust me on this.”
“It’s not about trusting you. It’s about the fact that Dad’s planning another tour for Smoke and Mirrors in six months. If I take their bass player—who we both know is the most talented member of that band—he’s going to lose his shit completely.”
“Big deal—let him lose it.”
“Are you kidding? Who are you and where’s my sister? You’ve spent your whole adult life trying to make sure Dad doesn’t lose it.”
“Yeah, well, maybe that was a mistake.” The words poured out of her as if they’d been there all along only she’d been too stubborn—too dead-set on winning her father’s approval—to realize it. “Besides, if Drew leaves Smoke and Mirrors, there are other options. They can pick up Li—”
“Li’s not good enough and you know it.”
“Seriously? Now you agree with me about him not being talented, but yesterday you were all ready to follow Dad’s lead and push him on Shaken Dirty? That’s awesome.”
Caleb huffed in annoyance. “I didn’t say he wasn’t talented. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re putting them there yourself. I’m just repeating them.”
“You know as well as I do that Shaken Dirty has an embarrassment of talent. Most bands are lucky to have one really talented musician. They’ve got four. If the fifth one isn’t quite as good as the others, who’s going to notice?”
“Everybody is going to notice because it will be glaringly obvious. Plus, one okay musician in a band of greats is the difference between being The Quarrymen and being The Beatles.”
“Who the fuck are The Quarrymen?” Caleb demanded.
“Exactly what I’m saying. I want Drew.”
“Well, you can’t have him. Replacing him with a substandard bassist will be the final death knell of that band.”
“That band needs a death knell. They’re done and you know it.”
“I don’t know that—”
“Well, that’s a problem because you should. It’s obvious. Their last album flopped because it was all over the place. It had no clear direction because none of them could agree on anything. I tried to tell you guys that before the album dropped, but no one would listen to me. Add in the fact that they’ve gotten into numerous public fights recently and just last month they refused to perform at a scheduled charity event—fifteen minutes before they were set to go on.”
“I’m not saying they’re perfect. I’m saying I’m not ready to give up on them yet.”
“So don’t. But that doesn’t mean you have to keep Drew trapped there with the sinking ship.”
“Jesus. How many metaphors are you planning on using today? Dramatic much?”
She ignored him, too bus
y wracking her brain trying to come up with a bassist she could substitute in for Drew with Smoke and Mirrors. “What about Micah?” she finally asked. “He’s still under contract to us, even if he’s not with Shaken Dirty anymore. He’s good enough—”
“You did not actually just suggest replacing Drew with the most problematic bassist working in rock today. You did not.”
“It’s a solution.”
“It’s a bad solution.”
“Come on, Caleb. Neither of us have time for this argument. Just get Drew on a plane.”
“I will not.”
She sighed, ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “You know I’m right. You know he’d fit in perfectly with these guys.”
“Whether he’d fit in perfectly or not doesn’t matter. I’m not going to cannibalize one of our top performing acts just to help out a band that recently cost us millions.”
“We’ve already discussed that they aren’t going to be one of your top performing acts for long—”
“Not if I give you Drew they won’t. Seriously, Poppy, think about it. Dad would kill us both if I even suggested it. Plus, it would totally impact the label’s bottom line.”
“For a year, maybe. But if he works with Shaken Dirty as well as I think he will, he’ll take them to the next level. And then the money will come pouring in.”
“It’s already pouring in.”
“Yes, but it will pour in for decades if we do this. Trust me, Caleb. For once, just fucking trust me to know what I’m talking about.”
“I do trust you, Soda Pop. You’re the one who isn’t trusting me. I’m telling you there is no way this is going to happen—no way that Drew or Dad is going to go for it. So you need to get the fuck over it.”
“You’re being shortsighted!”
“And you’re being stubborn just for the sake of being stubborn. So stop thinking about Drew Fitzpatrick and start trying to convince Shaken Dirty to give Li another shot.”
“That’s not going to happen, Caleb,” she said, grimly repeating his words back to him. “So you should probably get the fuck over it.”
“Poppy—” She clicked off without bothering to hear any more of his excuses or ultimatums.
Tossing her phone on the table, she got up and started to pace back and forth across her living room in an effort to work off the fury coursing through her. Why the hell were the men in her family so shortsighted? Why the hell were they so unwilling to listen to reason? Her plan made sense. She knew it did. And yes, maybe the argument could be made that she was so anxious to make Shaken Dirty work because she was wrapped up in Wyatt and wanted things to work for him.
But it was more than that. This band had so much talent and so much potential—if they did this right, they would own rock and roll. They deserved that chance.
Of course, they also deserved a label that believed in them, that wouldn’t force them into something that everyone knew was musically wrong for them. Why couldn’t Caleb see that? Why couldn’t her father?
Or maybe Caleb did see it. He was just too chicken to stand up to her father. Too afraid of losing everything he’d worked for. Hadn’t that been her problem all along? Wasn’t that why she’d gone along with her father’s idea of her role in the company? Sure, she’d done stuff behind his back like scouting talent and then letting Caleb be the one to bring them to her father’s attention, but the truth was, she’d spent her whole career cowed by her father, doing what he wanted her to do because she was afraid to stand up to him. Afraid to trust that things would be okay. Afraid that he’d never love her or believe in her.
So how could she condemn her brother for doing the exact same thing?
She couldn’t. She might be a coward, but she wasn’t a hypocrite—which meant she was going to have to do something here. She was going to have to be the one to step up and find a way to do what needed to be done to make this right. Because Shaken Dirty was their band and it was the label’s job to take care of them and not just the immediate bottom line. At least, that was the kind of label she wanted to work for. The kind of label she wanted to build.
Flopping back down on the couch, she opened her laptop and pulled up the directory of artists’ phone numbers and addresses. She scrolled through until she found the number she was looking for, then dialed it on her phone with fingers that were shaking just a little.
She was so freaked out by the thought of her father’s reaction that she nearly hung up three times as she waited for Drew to answer, but the second his slow, Tennessee drawl came over the line, she knew she’d made the right choice. No matter what happened after this, Wyatt—and Shaken Dirty—were worth the risk.
“Hello, Drew? This is Poppy Germaine from Six Strings. I’m Bill Germaine’s daughter. How are you?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Are you sure we shouldn’t cancel?” Ryder asked, glancing down at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.
“We’re not canceling. We’ll go on without a bass player if we have to, but canceling isn’t an option, not now.” Quinn held up his own phone. “Someone spotted Jared arriving and put a photo of him out on Twitter more than an hour ago. The fans know we’re here—it’s why the place is so packed. We are not canceling another gig on them.”
Though he knew Quinn wasn’t leveling a dig at him, Wyatt still felt the sting of his words. He tried not to dwell on it, though. Not when they had other issues to deal with. Like the fact that they should have been on stage ten minutes ago, but were stuck in the dressing room hoping Poppy delivered the bass player she’d promised them.
“So why are we waiting?” Jared demanded. He was pacing the room like a wolf trying to catch the scent of prey, doing his best—Wyatt knew—to work off the nerves he got before every performance, no matter how big or small. “Let’s just get out there and give them a show—”
“We’re waiting,” Wyatt told him, “because Poppy asked us to. Let’s give her another few minutes, see if she shows up with whatever mystery bass player she’s got on tap.”
“Who could she get? She’s a marketing person, not a music person. Besides, we’ve checked out all the top guys looking for bands right now.” Quinn got up, grabbed a Twinkie from his bag. “Unless she’s going with some undiscovered guy, and in that case, don’t you think we should have had a chance to vet him first?” He ate the Twinkie in two quick bites. “Besides, how much pull could a social media director have, anyway?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know who she got. I don’t know how she found him.” He pulled out his phone to text her and ask, but saw that she’d beat him to it. He swiped on to her text then groaned out loud as he read it.
Poppy: Sorry, flight delayed. We’ll be there in fifteen
The text had come in close to ten minutes ago.
“What?” Jared asked, pacing toward him.
“The good news is, they should be here in five,” Wyatt said, holding up his phone.
“Who?” Ryder demanded. “Who should be here in five?”
“Whoever the hell Poppy’s got on tap. His flight was late but they’re on their way now.” He held up his phone to show the rest of them her text. “Now you know as much as I do, so can we all just stop freaking out? Everything’s going to be fine.”
At his words, Jared stopped pacing and just stared at him. “Who are you and where the fuck is Wyatt Jennings?”
Wyatt flipped him off and rolled his eyes.
“No, really,” Ryder chimed in. “Usually you’re the doom and gloom guy we have to keep settled. So what’s up with this whole everything will work out persona of yours?”
“Seriously? I’m trying to be reasonable here, and you make it sound like I’m pulling rainbow colored unicorns out of my ass or something. I’m just saying, why freak out if I’ve got a text from Poppy that says she’s going to be here in less than five minutes?”
“You’re right,” Quinn said, hands raised placatingly. “You totally are. It’s just we’re not used to the new, en
lightened Wyatt. It’ll take some adjusting.”
He started to flip them all off again, but in the end he just shrugged. Because they were right. Resolving to cut out the drugs had changed him. Meeting Poppy and listening to what she had to say about him—and about his relationship with the rest of the band—had changed him. Chilled him out. Made him more ready to trust that everything wasn’t always about to go to hell.
If he were honest, he’d have to admit he kind of liked his new outlook. Almost as much as he cared about Poppy.
Not that he was going to tell Quinn and the others that. During the last few days, they’d done enough of the Kumbaya sharing shit to last a lifetime. But before he could think up a suitably smart-ass remark, Poppy came rushing into the room, dragging a tall guy in worn jeans and cowboy boots hot on her heels. He was carrying a plain black bass case. “I’m sorry we’re late, guys! So, so sorry! But I want you to meet Drew Fitzpatrick. It turns out he’s a big Shaken Dirty fan.”
“Drew… Holy shit,” Quinn said, dropping his bag—and his second Twinkie—as he all but leaped over the couch to shake Drew’s hand. “I’m Quinn Bradford. I’m a big Drew Fitzpatrick fan.”
Drew grinned as they shook. “I notice you didn’t say you were a big Smoke and Mirrors fan.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the best part of that band. And, to be honest, country isn’t really my thing.”
“A lot of people feel that way,” Drew said with a shrug. “Guess it’s a good thing I don’t feel the same way about rock, huh?”
“Let me get this straight?” Ryder said, climbing off the arm of the couch to stand with the rest of them. “You want Drew Fitzpatrick to play with us tonight?” He looked at Drew. “Don’t you already have a band?”
Drew grimaced. “Yeah, well, let’s just say Quinn isn’t the only person in the room who’s not a Smoke and Mirrors fan at the moment.”
There was a story there, Wyatt thought, even as he tried to wrap his head around the fact that Poppy had just brought Shaken Dirty one of the best bassists in the business. How had she landed him? How the hell did a social media director have the connections to get a star like Drew Fitzpatrick to a club in Austin for a public audition? Just the idea of it was crazy.