Falling Star

by Terri Osburn

  Shelly put the fan into motion again. “There’s no sense in pretending it didn’t happen. He knows that.”

  “True. I tried to declare that topic off-limits before the interview started, but Chance overruled me, and I see now that he was right. He deserves the opportunity to tell his side of the story.” Naomi scooted to the edge of her chair. “The trouble started the moment Ruby brought up his new music, and what the fans can expect on the upcoming album.”

  Shelly visibly tensed. “Yes, I noticed that.”

  Time to reveal her suspicions. “He doesn’t have any songs, does he, Shelly?”

  Boldly lined eyes dropped to the desktop. “Of course he does. Chance is a songwriter, first and foremost.”

  “But he’s struggling, isn’t he?” Naomi asked. “It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about the music, it was that he couldn’t. Because there’s nothing yet to talk about, is there?”

  The fanning increased in speed. “If Shooting Stars is trying to find grounds to release my client—”

  “Shelly, please.” Naomi flattened both hands on the edge of the desk. “We don’t want to release Chance. We want to help him.”

  Without confirming or denying, the manager asked, “How do you propose to do that?”

  Encouraged, Naomi made her case. “I know that Chance has never written with a collaborator, but we’re prepared to recruit the best songwriters in this town to work with him. Think of it as creative assistance. They meet, bounce around some ideas, and see what happens. No pressure. No obligation. Just an open mind.”

  Shelly didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she stared at Naomi, eyes narrowed and fan swaying. As if reaching a conclusion, she propped her elbows on the desk. “Who do you have in mind?”

  Naomi struggled to hide her relief. “Clay has chosen Ash Shepherd, Lena Walton, and Jason Cheval to start. If Chance rejects any or all of those, we have a substantial list from which to pull more candidates.”

  A manicured brow arched. “That’s an impressive starting lineup. But I have to be honest with you, Naomi. I doubt he’ll agree to any name you put in front of him. Chance is a challenging combination of proud and stubborn, and though he’d kill me for saying so, he’s also fragile at the moment. If you confront him with your suspicions, I’m not sure what he’ll do.”

  Identifying the solution was often the easier part of dealing with a problem. The implementation is where things fell apart. “That’s why I came to you first. You know him better than anyone. The intention here is to create the best album of his career. We’re ready to do our part to help make that happen, but Chance has to be willing to do his. How do we make him willing?”

  Delicate laughter filled the air. “Oh, Naomi. You have a lot to learn about my client. Making Chance do anything is damn near impossible.”

  Naomi knew her client in ways she would not be discussing in a business meeting.

  “Chance is a natural-born rebel. Which means he’s almost guaranteed to do the opposite of any order given, right?”

  Shelly agreed. “That’s right.”

  “Then someone needs to plant the idea that he couldn’t make a collaboration work. Play to his ego and make it a challenge.” She nearly applauded her own ingenuity. “Force him to prove the accusation wrong, and Chance will be co-writing songs within a week.”

  With newfound respect in her eyes, Shelly let out a low whistle. “I can’t decide if you’re an evil genius or a just a master tactician, but I’m glad we’re on the same side.” The fan settled on the desk as she crossed her arms. “I assume you’re prepared to put this niggling bug in Chance’s ear?”

  “His next interview is Friday with Country Today magazine. Considering how this morning went, I’d be remiss not to call an emergency meeting to discuss publicity interactions going forward. The topic of songs for the album would, of course, be included on the agenda. Since that is the area Chance seems least willing to talk about.”

  Shelly stood and extended a hand. “My money is on you, Naomi. I’ll let Chance know we have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow. Say, ten o’clock?”

  Happy finally to be allies instead of enemies, Naomi grasped the slender hand. “Ten o’clock will work.”

  Chapter 11

  Clay was a gambling man, or else he wouldn’t be in this business. He’d also handled an ego with kid gloves before, and knew from experience that some artists simply couldn’t be handled. Chance Colburn struck him as one of those artists.

  “You’re certain you can make this happen?” he asked Naomi, as they waited for Chance and his manager to arrive.

  His publicist dotted an i on the paper in front of her. “I’m not certain of anything when it comes to Chance, but it’s the best plan we have. And Shelly is on board, which puts us in an even better position.”

  How she’d pulled that one off, Clay would never know. All Naomi had said upon returning from her meeting with Chance’s manager was that the two women were on the same page. But she’d also confessed that Shelly hadn’t outright confirmed their suspicions. To Clay, that meant floating this collaboration idea could backfire if Chance pulled out fifteen songs ready to go.

  “We don’t have the upper hand here. I’m still not positive your assumption is correct.”

  Looking up from her list, she said, “Shelly all but confirmed it yesterday.”

  “Did she say, ‘You’re right, Chance doesn’t have any songs’?”

  The publicist hedged. “Not in those exact words, no. It was more an unspoken affirmation.”

  Not good enough. “I say we take a different approach. Suggesting we move up the session date will add more pressure. He’ll either agree because the songs are there, buckle down and write more, or admit there’s nothing to record.”

  “Or wait until the night before the new date and throw himself down a bottle of whiskey.” Naomi tucked the pen behind her ear. “Chance didn’t have the flu, Clay. You don’t take a round of rehab and walk out cured. As Shelly reminded us, we agreed that his recovery would take top priority. I’m no expert, but it seems to me the best thing we can do is help him be successful with music again. If that happens, we all win.”

  In moments like these, Clay imagined Naomi one day taking his job.

  “Look at this a different way.” Naomi put the cap on her pen. “The last album was so poorly received he could release something mediocre and it would still be an improvement. So we make sure this new album is the best thing he’s ever done. Country fans love a comeback story, and if we play our cards right, we’ll give them one.”

  Clay felt himself weakening. Naomi’s plan covered all the bases. Chance would be supported, in both his recovery and his music. The fans would get the record they deserved. And Shooting Stars would relaunch a career most considered beyond repair.

  They’d look like geniuses and quite possibly have two of the highest-selling artists in the genre. Dylan was already on his way. The right album from Chance would take them all to the next level. A level Clay had achieved before, only to lose it because of his own stupid mistakes.

  “All right,” he conceded. “We’ll stick with your plan.”

  How was Chance supposed to get any writing done if they kept insisting on these damn meetings? He knew he’d messed up the day before, but this bullshit of getting called into the principal’s office didn’t work for him. Wasn’t this what he paid Shelly for? To take meetings and placate higher-ups when her client screwed the pooch?

  Which he’d done often enough over the years that she could likely manage this meeting with her eyes closed.

  “Why are we here again?” he asked Shelly, who pulled another cracker from her purse as they waited in the Shooting Stars lobby.

  “You know why we’re here.” She shoved the entire cracker into her mouth, presumably to avoid coating herself with crumbs.

  “This isn’t anything you couldn’t have handled on your own.”

  Shelly turned a disbelieving glare his way. “Reawwy?” she
mumbled around the cracker. Holding up a hand, she silenced him long enough to finish chewing. Once she swallowed, the hand returned to her lap. “Do you think Clay Benedict is stupid? You won’t take your producer’s calls, let alone discuss with him the album you’re supposed to be making together in a matter of weeks. Then you become a toddler when Ruby Barnett pushes you about the new songs. I hope you’re prepared to either lie through your teeth or admit the truth, because I’d bet my best Coach purse that they’re on to you.”

  “I don’t need to lie about anything. I’m writing songs.”

  “One song, Chance. One doesn’t make an album.”

  “I have more than one,” he said, which was technically true after yesterday.

  “Since when?”

  Before Chance could a reply, Belinda rose to her feet. “They’re ready for you now. Follow me, please.”

  Shelly stood and swayed on her heels.

  Chance steadied her. “You okay?”

  With a quick shake of her head, she waved him off. “I’m fine. It’s the morning sickness.”

  “If you’re sick, we can put this off until later.” Whatever Clay wanted to discuss wasn’t more important than his sister’s health. Especially now.

  “A delay won’t help. Calling it morning sickness is a cruel joke. I’ll be as sick in four hours as I am now. Let’s get this over with.”

  Shelly took the lead, catching up to Belinda three steps before they reached the now-familiar conference room. Chance followed her in, taking the seat he’d occupied earlier in the week. Seconds later, Clay entered the room with Naomi close behind.

  “Good morning, Shelly. Chance.” Handshakes were exchanged before Clay said, “We all know why we’re here, so I’ll get right to the point.”

  The big man settled at the head of the table, while Naomi took the seat across from Shelly. She didn’t speak or offer a greeting, and Chance wondered if she was on his side. If she’d dealt with her boss, as she’d assured him the day before she would do, they wouldn’t be having this little get-together at all.

  “First off, Ralph Sampson, our radio liaison, has mitigated the fallout with the radio station. John Willoughby had banned Chance from future interviews or events with their station. That stance has now been reversed, but I don’t doubt they’ll follow through with the threat should there be a repeat of yesterday’s performance.”

  While relaying this information, Clay kept his steely gaze on Chance, communicating more than a casual report of recent events. He was pissed.

  Not one to be intimidated, Chance returned the gaze without flinching.

  “As you know,” the exec continued, “another interview is scheduled for tomorrow, this time with Country Today magazine. Since the purpose of these interviews is to portray Chance in a positive light, I’m sure you understand our concern going forward.”

  Though still pale, Shelly betrayed no weakness. “First of all, John Willoughby is known for pointless dramatics. To ban my client from his airwaves would be his loss, not ours. Secondly, after twenty-four hours, I’ve seen no negative press as a result of the Ruby Barnett interview. She asked my client a question, which he answered. When she pressed, he answered again. Therefore, if anyone is to blame for the abrupt end to the interview, it is the interviewer, not the interviewee.”

  Clay looked to Naomi for a response.

  “She’s right. Of the five remaining scheduled interviews, not one has expressed concern or attempted to cancel. But we also don’t want to make an enemy of Ruby Barnett or John Willoughby.” Naomi nodded toward Shelly. “As you point out, Mr. Willoughby is a reactionary, and he has been dealt with. But Ruby Barnett controls her own show, so there remains the likelihood that Chance will not be welcomed back. As the number-one nationally syndicated morning show, at least on country radio, that would mean losing a chance to reach a high number of fans once the album is released.”

  Shelly shrugged off the possibility. “A personal apology from Chance, plus the option to debut his first new single in two years should appease the morning show hostess. She’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity.”

  Watching the exchange, Chance once again wondered why he was here. His manager clearly had the situation under control. After working well into the night, the song he’d titled “Same Old Thing” was still a work in progress. He should have been polishing it right now, not sitting in this conference room dicking around with publicity crap.

  “Will there be a new single?” Clay asked, eyes once again on his new artist.

  Chance’s jaw locked as he ground a layer off his back teeth. This meeting was never about publicity.

  “You deliver the studio time, and I’ll deliver the songs. Unless you know something I don’t, there’ll be a new single ready for radio by the end of the year.”

  Expensive wool stretched over broad shoulders as the label head crossed his arms. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know anything regarding this album. We need to know the music in order to know what additional musicians to book for the sessions. What tone should be set with the cover, which will determine what photographer we retain for the shoot? Who should we use to direct the first video? What should the concept be?” Gray eyes narrowed. “These are decisions that need to be made now. So if there’s a better reason for keeping us in the dark than your delicate artistic sensibilities, I suggest you tell us now.”

  Anger simmered behind Chance’s eyelids as he summoned the strength not to tell Clay Benedict to shove his questions up his ass. Harmon’s constant reminder echoed in his ears.

  You can’t control other people, but you can control yourself.

  Control had always been Chance’s problem. The lack of it. The loss of it. The need for it. Today had to be different, if not for himself, then for the woman fighting beside him.

  “You want answers?” he said, leaning his elbows on the table. “Fine. I’ve written two songs so far. That’s it.”

  Chance uttered these words without expression. A simple, matter-of-fact statement. No emotion. No concern. Stunned into silence, they all stared, mouths agape.

  “They’re pretty good songs, though,” he said.

  Naomi couldn’t believe her ears. She was right. He’d just admitted that she was right.

  “Do you mean you’ve written others you don’t think are good enough,” Naomi asked, finding her voice before the others, “or you’ve only written two, period?”

  “Just the two.”

  The color drained from Shelly’s face, though she’d been pale before the confession. Clay rubbed his chin, appearing unsure where to go from here. They’d assumed Chance would deny any issues, whether they existed or not, and then her boss would suggest collaborating with other writers to bring a freshness to the album. A suggestion Naomi would later dismiss to Chance, with the simple but certain explanation that he could never work with another writer.

  Because Chance couldn’t possibly play well with others. A declaration that would ignite a determination to prove her wrong.

  Since she seemed to be the only one of the three capable of speaking, Naomi asked, “Is that normal? Do you usually have so few options this close to the start of recording?”

  Again, he gave an un-Chance-like response. “Hell no. But I’m not worried.”

  “I am.” Clay rose from the table to hover behind Naomi’s chair. “We’re investing thousands in recording time. Time that is finite. If we need to start looking for potential songs, we need to do so immediately.”

  What was he doing? This was not the plan. Chance would never record someone else’s song, and Clay knew that as well as she did.

  “Let’s not—” she began, only to be cut off.

  “You’re paying for a Chance Colburn album, and that’s what I’ll give you. I don’t cut songs that I don’t write.”

  “Fine.” Her boss braced himself on the back of her chair. “Then we’ll line up songwriters for you to work with. Two heads are better than one, right? With more input come
s more songs.”

  Not how they’d discussed approaching this, but the same general idea. Naomi held her breath in anticipation of Chance’s response. He’d thrown them enough curveballs today, she half expected him to accept without argument.

  Chance shook his head. “No thanks.”

  And the old Chance was back.

  “You owe us an album. An album requires songs.” The harder Clay leaned on her chair, the more Naomi feared he might flip her out of it. “We’ll book the songwriting sessions immediately.”

  “You must not have heard me the first time. I write my own songs. Alone. So you can take your songwriting sessions and shove them—”

  “My client has assured you he’ll have plenty of songs when the time comes to record them.” Shelly cut Naomi a quick abort mission look before continuing. “As a show of good faith, we’ll provide demos of the two songs already written.”

  “No, we won’t,” Chance countered.

  Shelly ignored the outburst. “The purpose of this meeting was to discuss the current publicity plan. Since we’ve established that no real harm was done yesterday, I’m sure a brief refresher with Ms. Mallard before tomorrow’s interview is all that’s necessary at this time.” The pale woman bolted to her feet. “Ms. Mallard, he’s all yours.”

  Without another word, even to her client, the manager rushed from the room.

  This time, Clay recovered first. “I’ll expect those demos before Monday. If you haven’t produced an adequate number of additional songs by the end of next week, we will be bringing in other writers.” With a stern nod, he said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a conference call.”

  Once they were alone, Chance pinned Naomi to her seat with a glare. “You told him I don’t have the songs.”

  Since he phrased it as a statement rather than a question, Naomi opted not to incriminate herself.

  “I don’t collaborate,” he said.

  She corrected the statement. “You mean you can’t collaborate.”

  Dark brows met above his nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”