“Bernie,” Elle said. “My hair doesn’t sing. Or play guitar.”
Elle tried not to inhale the smell of Bernie’s mouthwash. He was a close talker, always inside her personal space. That was bad enough, but Bernie qualified for senior-citizen discounts and looked like the creepy kind of guy who hung out in the lingerie section of Walmart. The smell of that mouthwash was laced with the whiff of booze. Ten thirty in the morning and Bernie had already had a little more than cream in his coffee. Apparently it was more important to know the lingo than to wait until the end of the workday to have a few shots of whiskey.
“Huh?” Bernie said.
Elle knew it would be juvenile to snap out a snarky comment about how at least she had hair that the wind could move around. Bernie’s thinning hair was greased down and combed sideways, probably capable of withstanding a hurricane. Yet somehow he managed to have flakes of dandruff on his black shirt with the oversize collar, a shirt from a time when cell phones were the size of toasters.
Yeah. Juvenile. And far too easy. Much better to focus her snark on his lack of intelligence. How this guy could possibly be one of the best country music managers in the business was a mystery to Elle. She hoped she’d learn the answer at her first real meeting with the label execs.
“You heard me,” Elle said. “Hair can’t sing. Or play guitar. So I’ll sing and play and let my hair take a break from all that work.”
Bernie blinked a few times, absorbing her words, then lifted his arm. His shiny, cheap suit crinkled as he reached into a pocket, pulled out an envelope and handed it to Elle.
She opened it and recognized her father’s handwriting on the letter inside.
Trust him and follow every order, the note said. Bernie’s been in the biz for years, and word has it he’s got the connections to make things happen. For what he’s costing us on retainer, I don’t need you to second-guess what he does.
“Daddy told me you had an attitude,” Bernie said, “which is why he gave me the note. Daddy also signs the checks. And I’ve already been paid enough that I can walk right now and it won’t bother me. Want to do it his way, which is also my way? Or want to go into that meeting alone while I go spend Daddy’s money?”
It was Elle’s turn to blink. Her first label had folded early in the year, and in the weeks since then, she’d been in Nashville, looking for a new deal. And she was beginning to learn that talent alone wasn’t enough. Also, if she walked, she’d have to explain that to her father, and that wouldn’t be pretty.
On the other hand, if she did it Bernie’s way, she’d essentially become his puppet. Elle wasn’t about to let that happen. Not a chance.
“Go ahead, Bernie,” Elle said. “I’ll do this meeting myself and tell them that you stopped along the way to drink more whiskey. While you’re enjoying my daddy’s money, think about how much more you could have made by hanging around.”
Elle headed down the hallway, holding her breath. She hated that she needed Bernie, but it felt good, leaving him there.
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