by Terri Osburn
“Chance Colburn,” he announced, well aware that the name wasn’t likely to garner positive responses. What Clay hadn’t expected was total silence. “I’ve never known any of you to keep your thoughts to yourself. Spit ’em out now or forever hold your peace.”
“He’s a risk,” Lenny muttered. “Foxfire dropped him for a reason.”
Daphne leaned back in her chair. “He’s a known womanizer. I can’t imagine we could clean up his image enough to make him viable.”
The person in charge of polishing images uncharacteristically held her tongue.
“Do you agree, Naomi?” Clay asked. “That’s your territory, after all.”
As the team awaited her response, the most senior member of the staff (not counting Clay) drove the tip of her pen so deep into her day planner, the cover developed a permanent divot. “Your call,” she replied, failing to make eye contact with anyone in the room.
Interesting.
“Colburn hasn’t caused a scandal in nearly two years. Foxfire only dropped him because his last album never hit the charts.” Clay swiveled in his chair but kept a side eye on his publicist. “By some miracle, his hard living hasn’t damaged his voice, and I think, with the right songs, he could make a comeback.”
“Is he clean?” Ralph queried.
Clay shared the only answer he could. “For now. But who knows what will happen once he leaves rehab. Which is why he’s still only a maybe.” Rising from his chair, he added, “Until then, let’s focus on the artist we have and make sure he generates enough revenue to keep us all employed.” As the crew rose from their seats, he added, “Ralph, keep me posted on the adds, and compare them to the stations on the tour we start next week. I want to know what we’re dealing with prior to hitting the road.”
“You’ve got it boss.”
Before she could make her escape, Clay said, “Naomi, I’ll let you know what I decide on Colburn. If we take the risk, I’ll need all your expertise to make it work.”
Through gritted teeth, she said, “Whatever you say, sir,” and left the room.
He couldn’t help but wonder if her dislike of Chance stemmed from his reputation alone or personal experience. Either way, she’d have to get on board, because Clay had already made his decision, and Chance Colburn would be a Shooting Stars artist whether his staff liked it or not.
Turned out, getting ready for a date when she had no idea of their destination proved quite difficult. Jeans might be too casual, but Charley doubted he’d take her someplace fancy without a hint of warning.
In the end, she settled for a dark-wash denim skirt that showed off her legs and a simple white top that buttoned down the front. Hoop earrings and a touch of gloss finished off the look. Not bad for a farm girl with no fashion sense.
Trotting down the stairs, Charley sent up a prayer of gratitude that Matty was still at work. They’d been a bit cold with each other since their disagreement over Dylan two days before, and the last thing she wanted was the glare of death looming disapprovingly when he arrived. Which he did, right on time, while she was slipping on her cowboy boots.
“Just a minute,” she yelled toward the door, nearly falling over in the effort.
She’d waited until Tuesday afternoon to text Dylan her address. Truth be told, Charley had spent the twenty-four hours prior debating whether or not to venture down this path. Nothing had changed in her estimation of Dylan Monroe. If anything, he’d grown even more dangerous now that she knew a little more about him.
Other than the one transgression of not telling her exactly what he did for a living, he scored high on every test. He’d admitted he was wrong, he’d shown a passion and talent for something she held dear, and in an interesting twist, he’d called Matty out for not protecting her friend. Even if Charley hadn’t been in need of protecting, a little display of concern would have been nice.
On the downside, Dylan made Charley laugh, turned her on, and adopted the role of protector without question or prompting. The epitome of everything she’d vowed to avoid.
“This ‘wildest dream’ stuff better be good,” she muttered, opening the door to find a casually dressed Dylan. “You’re wearing a ball cap.”
Straightening the Saints hat, Dylan said, “What’s wrong with it?”
Not a damn thing, she nearly said aloud. “Nothing. I expected the black cowboy hat, that’s all.”
“I don’t wear it everywhere,” he replied. “Especially not when it’s pushing a hundred out here.” Assessing her from head to toe, he said, “You look gorgeous.”
Charley clung to her purse strap. “I feel overdressed. Let me put jeans on.”
Full lips curved in a devilish grin. “No way in hell.” Before she could retreat upstairs, Dylan took her hand and dragged her out the door before reaching back to close it. “There should be a law against covering up those legs.”
“Calm your jets, Monroe. No need to come in guns blazing.” She allowed him to lead her to his truck, ignoring the heat sizzling up her arm. “I only agreed to this to find out what you think is my wildest dream. If it sucks, I’m catching a cab home.”
“Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?”
Since she was thinking how much she wanted to drag him up to her room and rip his clothes off, that would be a firm negative. “Only sometimes,” Charley replied. “So where are we going?”
“You’ll see when we get there,” he replied, opening her truck door.
“Is it far?” she asked, attempting to climb into the passenger seat. Not an easy feat in a denim miniskirt.
“Need some help there?” Dylan asked in his typical white-knight fashion.
Charley turned on the running board and hopped until her bottom landed on the seat. “Got it,” she quipped.
“Nice job,” he commended. “Not too far.”
Dylan closed the door and crossed around the front of the GMC. Charley was buckled before he joined her inside, and they were on their way seconds later, traveling in silence, which was fine with Charley.
The silence ended when they reached the exit for the interstate.
“Did you know Gallatin Pike runs almost directly from my place to yours?” he asked.
“I did not.” Charley turned her attention to the passing scenery. “Do you always make geographical small talk?”
“I’m sorry,” Dylan replied, passing a slow-moving Nissan. “Am I boring you, princess?”
Possibly deserved, but still an annoying quip. “And to think,” she said drolly, “I went to the trouble of telling Matty you weren’t a jerk. Guess I spoke too soon.”
Deep laughter filled the cab. “Matty thinks I’m a jerk, huh? That doesn’t surprise me.”
“She didn’t like you calling her out about Saturday night.”
He shrugged. “I only pointed out the truth.” Cutting his eyes to her, Dylan added, “You need better friends, Charley. People who actually care about you.”
Curious, she asked, “Do I seem like a damsel in distress to you?”
“Not in the least,” he replied.
“Then why are you always coming to my rescue?”
A deadly smile split his lips. “Lucky, I guess.”
Charley laughed. “Who’s lucky? Me or you?”
“Maybe we both are.”
A semi merged from an on-ramp, and Dylan eased over to give him space. As they cruised along, his fingertips brushed her thigh. If she had any sense at all, Charley would have pulled away with a firm warning to keep his hands to himself. Instead, she leaned into the armrest and settled her hand on his forearm, pretending the contact meant nothing.
Chapter 11
Though Dylan liked the spunky, take-no-shit version of Charley, he liked the quiet, lean into him version, too. He’d half expected her to smack him for the knee touch, but as she often did, the feisty DJ with the killer legs surprised him with an affectionate touch of her own. The unpredictability was nearly as enticing as the glossy lips and honeysuckle scent.
Leaning forward, she glanced up at the looming gray structure. “You brought me to a church?”
“Not exactly.”
Exiting the truck, Dylan hustled around to open her door. “You got it?” he asked as she refused his hand to climb out on her own.
“I should have put on jeans,” Charley muttered, skirt riding dangerously high by the time she scooted to the ground.
Dylan didn’t mind the free show, but the woman was too damn stubborn for her own good. “I’m about to introduce you to some friends of mine. Think you can pretend that you aren’t here against your will?”
A huff accompanied the violent tug on the skirt hem. “I told you I don’t like surprises. They make me cranky.”
“You know what? We don’t have to do this.”
Charley locked eyes with his. “Are you freaking kidding me? I’m here now. You can’t leave me hanging.”
He stood his ground. “Are you going to behave?”
Brown eyes narrowed, and he could almost see the steam exiting her ears. “Yes, Mr. Monroe. I’ll be a good little girl and play nice with your friends.”
If he hadn’t been one hundred percent certain that she might faint with excitement once inside, Dylan would have called the cab for her.
“Come on, then.”
Leading her to the glass doors, he let Charley enter first, urging her down the three steps inside to reach the studio lounge.
“What is this place?” she whispered. “It looks like 1994 threw up in here.”
She had a point. The artwork and furnishings were dated, along with the giant rear-projection television, but the kitchen in the back left corner had been updated since he’d last been there, and the giant pool table had been replaced only last year.
“Around here, money is spent in other areas.” Like state-of-the-art consoles and the latest in recording technology. Dylan had been fortunate to record his album here.
Before Charley could comment on the worn green carpet beneath their feet, a familiar face entered from the other side of the room.
“Hey there, buddy. What’s shaking?” Aiden D’Angelo grasped Dylan’s hand and offered a quick hug. “I heard you on the Eagle the other day, man. ’Bout time those radio shits took notice.”
Dylan cringed. “Aiden, I want you to meet Charley Layton, midday personality on Eagle 101.5.”
The engineer engulfed Charley’s hand in his smooth black ones and held it to his chest. “Present company excluded from my prior statement, of course.”
Seemingly cured of her crankiness, she met Aiden’s beaming smile with one of her own. “Of course. You aren’t a shit until you have your own office. Sadly, I’m still only a lowly radio turd.”
Dimples deepening, he said, “I like you already.”
Aiden possessed a legendary way with women, and based on the enamored look on Charley’s face, she was not immune to his charms.
“Well then,” he cut in, sliding an arm across her shoulders. “Are we ready for the surprise?”
“Yes, sir. Come right this way.” Aiden released Charley’s hand with a wink before leading them into the long hall toward the main recording space. The narrow passage forced them to progress single file.
At the second door on the right, Aiden turned the knob and stepped through, but Charley halted as soon as the music hit her ears. Spinning, she stared wide-eyed at Dylan.
“Is that . . . ,” she mouthed.
He nodded. “It sure is.”
Charley smacked him in the chest. “Get out.”
“No,” he corrected. “Get in. We need to close this door.”
She hustled inside to stare in shock through the window before the large console to see Jack Austin singing into a microphone. Her expression matched that of a four-year-old meeting Mickey Mouse for the first time.
Aiden motioned toward two high stools off to the side. Dylan had to help Charley find her seat, since she never took her eyes off the glass. The vocals continued for another minute before the music faded out.
“Sound good, boys?” asked Austin into his microphone.
Paul Story, a producer Dylan would give his left nut to work with, gave a thumbs-up. “I think we got it, Jack. Come in and listen.”
The award-winning artist locked his headphones over the music stand and headed out of the tracking booth.
“Oh my God,” Charley hissed, digging her nails into Dylan’s arm. “He’s coming over here. What should we do?”
“We shouldn’t do anything,” he replied.
“But what if he asks what we’re doing here? Are we allowed to be here? This feels wrong. We shouldn’t be intruding like this.”
“Relax,” he said, taking her hand. “Aiden cleared the visit. Just smile and get ready to say hello.”
“I can’t talk to Jack Austin,” she growled, her voice increasing from a harsh whisper to a loud outburst.
“Sure you can, darling,” said the man himself. “I don’t bite.”
For half a second, Dylan feared she might actually pass out as the color drained from her face. And if he ever questioned the sturdiness of his own ego, this encounter allayed his fears, because seeing the raw joy in her eyes made his night.
“I . . . Um . . . Hello,” she mumbled without blinking. “I’m Charley.”
“Layton, right?” Austin asked. “I’ve been listening to you on the radio. You’re good.”
Pale cheeks turned hot pink. “Really? You listen to me?”
Jack shared a crooked grin. “You’re on the biggest station in town for five hours a day. Would be hard to miss you.”
Charley’s nervous laugh devolved into a snort. “Sure. Right. Of course.”
“Hey, Monroe,” he said, offering a hand. “How are you, kid?”
They’d never met, so the instant recognition took Dylan by surprise. “Good, sir. Real good.”
“I like what you’re doing so far.” The shake was firm and friendly. “Keep it up. We need some young talent in this town willing to shoot for more than the drunken college crowds.”
Feeling as if he’d been blessed by the pope, he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Pointing to the partition window, Austin asked Charley, “Did you like what you heard?”
After a quick fish impersonation, she found her voice. “I . . . I loved it. I mean, I only heard the last bit, but that part was great.”
“Paul, let’s hear the whole thing.”
Pulling over another stool, he settled on the other side of Charley, who was doing her best to act natural. Dylan doubted she even realized her hand still rested in his, her thumbnail driving into his flesh.
“Relax,” he said again, loosening her grip to reveal a deep divot. “Remember to breathe, baby. You’re turning a little blue.”
As the music began, she took a deep breath, shoulders lifting and falling before she leaned his way.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “You were right. This is a dream come true.”
Talk about an out-of-body experience. The only thing that would make this crazy moment even better was if Grandpa were here with her. This would be the highlight of the year for him.
Charley had feared she was only dreaming, but after pinching herself twice already, Jack Austin remained on the stool beside her. As the song faded out, he turned her way.
“Still like it?”
“Yes,” she replied. “That opening verse sucks you right in.”
Tapping his chin, Jack narrowed his eyes. “The intro needs something.”
The older man Jack had called Paul said, “I don’t agree. The riff is great the way it is.”
“No,” the singer argued, shaking his head. “There’s an element missing. Play it from the top.”
The other guy sighed but did as asked, stopping the playback at the first line of the lyrics.
“Banjo,” Charley blurted, stunned she’d spoken aloud.
“
What?” the two men asked in stereo.
She cut her eyes to Dylan, desperate for a save.
“I agree,” he said. “Banjo would make the song stand out and add an unexpected edge to your sound.”
Jack left his stool to pace the small room. “She might be onto something.”
Paul didn’t appear as receptive to her input. “It’s been done.”
“Everything’s been done,” the singer countered.
Great. She’d started a fight. Why the heck had she opened her mouth?
“I like the banjo idea,” Aiden chimed. “Tater Beaumont is working over at Starstruck today. I bet he’d come by and cut something. Couldn’t hurt to ask.”
Thanks to her early days of running the Bluegrass hour back in Kentucky every Sunday, Charley recognized the name as a virtual icon in mountain music. A banjo legend.
“Call him,” Jack ordered over Paul’s protests. To Charley he said, “If this turns out as good as I think it will, you just might get a production credit.”
“What the fuck, Austin?” snarled the man Charley now assumed to be the producer.
The artist ignored his outburst. “Would you be willing to listen to the rest of the tracks before we lock them down? I could use a fresh take from someone sitting in the trenches all day.”
Full-on angry now, the man at the console stood fast enough to tip his chair backward. “This is bullshit. I’m the producer here.”
“You’ve been producing for twenty-five years,” Jack announced. “Your ideas are outdated, and your standards are subpar. In case you haven’t noticed, the average age of artists on the charts right now is twenty-eight fucking years old. I’ll be forty-two this year. This ancient shit isn’t going to compete anymore, Paul. Get on board or get out of the way.”
Silence loomed like a fart in church. Charley held her breath as Dylan tensed beside her, and a quick glance to Aiden revealed a satisfied smile on the man’s full lips. Apparently, this little blowup had been coming for a while, and Charley’s slip of the tongue had lit the fuse.
Without another word, Paul stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
“About fucking time,” Aiden drawled, high-fiving Jack.