“He’s still got it in for me because I stole his girlfriend back in high school,” Colin lets me know with a shrug, like getting punched just came with the lady killer territory.
The only thing that keeps me from feeling downright skeptical about the violin nerd I’d met stealing a football player’s girlfriend is the memory of how Colin’s kiss had affected me.
No, he’s probably telling the story straight, I think to myself, feeling my body heat up despite the fact that he’s telling me about how he came to be so in love with another girl, who is definitely not the one he doesn’t even remember kissing that long ago Alabama night. I shift on the stairs, just happy he’s too caught up in his story to see how it’s affecting me.
He continues on with another shrug. “But I’m all right with taking that punch because that’s what got her to break up with him. Now she’s free, but the last time I saw her, she told me she needed some time to go back to school and get her life figured out, before she could get involved in another relationship...”
So Colin gave her time. And now, she was just about to finish up her degree. Even more importantly, she’d be coming round to his concert in Alabama in two weeks, and he’d already gotten her a front row ticket.
This Josie is one lucky girl, I think with a dark flutter inside my stomach, to have one of the biggest country singers in the world nose wide open over her.
But out loud I say, “Congratulations. That sounds like a dream come true. But… um… what about your singing career? Do you think your fans are going to be okay with you getting with a black girl?”
I think of Mike who wouldn’t even let me come in through the front door of his house, and then I think of another country singer I once heard about… whose fans went ape-shit when he married his long time African-American girlfriend and started a family with her.
But Colin says, “This is perfect timing, actually. The well’s run dry as far as coming up with my own material goes. Haven’t written a thing in months. Probably will have to convince my label to take a greatest hits album if they want to keep on doing business with me.”
My brow wrinkles. “You haven’t written anything in months? Do you mean like since your mom had her first stroke?”
Colin just shakes his head, his face going a little hollow at my mention of his mom.
“The details don’t matter. Point is I’m okay with not performing any more if that’s what it comes down to. I’ve been doing this a while, you know. Signed my first recording contract before I was even legally allowed to drink. So if I’ve got to step out the spotlight to make marriage and a family happen with Josie, it’s no big deal. Truth is, I make most of my recording money off of songwriting anyway, and I’ve been thinking about starting an imprint of my own for a while now. Probably do me good to switch to the other side of the studio window. Got a list about ten miles long of acts who’d pay me an awful lot to produce songs for them.”
He gives me an easy grin like none of what he just told me matters much. “Maybe my first client could be you.”
“I’m not an act,” I remind him. “I just want to write. The singing’s just part of the songwriting job for me.”
“Even better. You help me out with Josie, I produce your demo and get it to the right people. I think we’ll both get what we want out of this deal.”
He leans in as he says that last part, letting me get a good whiff of his cologne, and God, he smells good. Like the woods and the forest got married and decided to fill their house up with expensive leather furniture. I find myself unconsciously leaning in, too, wanting to smell more of him, wanting to get closer…
But then I remember why he’s leaning in.
“Yeah, but what exactly is this deal?” I ask, voice crisp as I force myself to sit up straight and stop sniffing at him like a silly little dog in heat. “I still don’t understand why you need me to get Josie. It sounds like you have it all set up.”
Colin’s lips thin. “I do have it all set up. But I also have what my guys in marketing would call a perception problem—at least when it comes to Josie. So far, she’s had a little trouble seeing me as the kind of man a woman like her would date. The fact is, the first time she turned me down, it was because she said she didn’t want to date a white guy. And it doesn’t help that the only white guy she dated after her divorce turned out to be that asshole football player I told you about earlier. But if you come down to Alabama for the concert, let her see us together, then that’ll be just the image correction I need to make Josie see me the way I want her to see me.”
With all that marketing gibberish thrown in, it takes me a while to get what he’s asking. And when I finally do, I raise my hand in the air between us.
“Hold up. So what you’re really saying is this girl Josie’s got you all the way in the friend zone. And now you want me, another black woman, to come down to Alabama, act like we’re a couple, because…” I search for the right words to describe this crazy ass plan of his, “I guess you want to jealous her out of the friend zone? Let her know she’s got some competition?”
The easy-going smile falls off his face, and he asks, “Do you want the job or not?”
Or not would definitely be my preferred answer. Pretending to be with somebody so he can make somebody else jealous—that straight up sounds like something off of one my grandma’s soap operas. I almost tell him that.
But then I remember he’s one of the biggest country music stars in the world. And he might be planning to lie to this Josie about the nature of our relationship, but I already know he isn’t lying about what he could do for me. He was right. It would literally take me years to build the connections he already had. And Colin could just pass them on to me easy-peasy, with a snap of his long fingers.
All I’d have to do is go along with the most soap opera-y plan I’ve ever heard in order to him get the black girl of his dreams.
“How about if it doesn’t work?” I ask him, feeling weak to my bones.
“It’ll work,” he says, voice so confident, I wonder if he knows there’s a difference between a woman and the Country Top 40 chart.
“Okay, but what if it doesn’t?” I ask again. “Just for like, hypothetical. Say Josie is still not wanting to pick up what you’re putting down, even after she sees you got another black girl in the wings. Then what happens to this deal your proposing?”
Colin exhales through his nose, like the prospect of him failing at a thing is right up there with time travel in terms of impossibility.
“This is a long-range plan, Blondie,” he informs me. “It’s not like I’m going to propose to Josie while I’ve supposedly got another girl in the wings. My plan’s tight. I’m going to give it a few months until I finish up my tour at the end of the year. Then I’ll circle back around, tell her you and me broke up, and set to wooing her when I’ve got enough time off the road to get the job done right this time. So no, my long-range plans won’t affect your short-term goals.”
Yeah, but what if Josie does what I suspect a lot of black girls would do if someone who’d supposedly split up with his black ex-girlfriend came sniffing around? Decide Colin must have some kind of weird fetish for black women? What if his plan to make her jealous actually backfires and completely turns her off? Then would he still be willing to put my demo into the right hands?
I open my mouth to ask some more questions, but he cuts me off with another huff of air.
“Look, Blondie, what I’m offering you is a better deal than 99.9% of what unknown songwriters are going to get, especially just starting out the gate. You do a day’s acting work for me, and I’m guaranteeing you a demo produced by me at the very least. Let me ask you, how long do you think it would take for you to save up enough money, doing home health aide work, to cut your own demo? Less than a few months? Because that’s what I’m offering. So are you going to take this deal or not?”
I’m going to take the deal. Of course I am.
I have to, I realize. No matter what k
ind of weird, slightly jealousy-tinged distaste it leaves in my mouth, the fact is I’ve been saving for three years to cut a demo, and I’m not even a tenth of the way there.
But still, some insecure part of me has to ask, “Why me? Couldn’t you hire some back-up singer or somebody else to do this for you?”
His mouth quirks up. “Yeah, I could, but most of the women I know have a little too much gloss. I don’t want Josie to think I’m the kind of guy who wants one of those models, straight out of a music video. Like I said, it’s all about perception.”
His eyes come to my face, and I feel my scar heat under his blue gaze. But then he says, “I want somebody pretty and down home. An Alabama girl.”
He thinks I’m pretty. Even in my scrubs, with my hair pulled back, and a scarred face, only half-covered in make-up. It’s a stupid thought to have during a conversation about agreeing to be used as bait for another woman, but it’s the first thought I have nonetheless.
I feel my cheeks warm and I curse my light skin because I’m one of those unfortunate black girls you can actually see blush.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” I mumble. “Just give me the details.”
Colin grins at me. He doesn’t seem surprised that I’m suddenly agreeing to his stupid plan. He’s probably used to getting his way now that he’s famous. I can tell just by the cocky way he pulls his phone out of his back pocket.
“Okay, put all your details in here. I’ll pass them on to my assistant, Ginny, and she’ll take it from there.”
He starts to hand his phone to me, but then pulls it back at the last moment. “Just one question before you do, though. You think you can blush like that on
cue when we’re with Josie? It’s awfully cute.”
I feel my whole face go warm and Colin’s grin gets wider.
“Oh, I see,” he says. “It’s about me complimenting you. I’ll have to remember that. Put it in my arsenal for when you come down to Alabama.”
Chapter 4
“KiKi! KiKi!”
I look up from the big rock I’ve been sitting on with my guitar, trying to make a new song that doesn’t want to work come out of me like the one I wrote about Colin’s mother. My grandma’s rushing toward me down the creek’s rocky bank in a way the doctor who did her hip surgery two years ago definitely wouldn’t have prescribed. But tell that to my grandma. She’s eighty-six, five-foot-one, with a sharecropper’s daughter’s attitude—she’s basically the strongest fragile person I’ve ever met. One surgery and some Memphis doctor’s orders won’t keep her from doing exactly as she pleases.
Still, the sight of her barging down the slippery slope makes my heart hiccup. My grandma’s never had any heart problems like Colin’s mother, but eighty-six is eighty-six and my first client death is still weighing heavily on my mind.
I put my guitar on my back and run to meet her halfway up the pebbled hill. “Grandma! What are you doing coming all the way out here?” I ask as I take her by the elbow and escort her back to the level ground at the top of the bank. “Trying to break your neck?”
“Trying to give you this letter you got,” she answers, waving a white envelope at me. “You told me to stop opening your mail, so I brought it out here so you could open it.”
So I could open it in front of her—that’s what she really means. My grandma takes poking her nose into my business as her rightful due, since as she’s always telling me, “I was the one who had to give you all your common sense learning after that wild mother of yours up and left out for California.”
Normally I don’t begrudge her, but my heart hiccups again when I see the return address stamped onto the envelope’s upper left corner. No name, just a post office box, city and state. Nashville, TN. But who would be writing me from Nashville, except…
I open the letter and find what looks like a non-disclosure form inside, along with a check. My eyes widen when I see the number on it.
“What is it?” my grandma demands.
“It’s a check. From the son of my Nashville client. I… um… guess he wanted me to have some kind of severance.”
I feel terrible about lying to my grandma—worse than terrible. I feel like my mother. But I know it’s better to let her think this than to try and introduce the complicated story of the soap opera I’ve let myself get dragged into.
“Oh! That’s mighty thoughtful of him,” my grandma says.
“Mmm,” I answer vaguely, flipping the check over so she won’t see the number on the front. Even the most generous client wouldn’t have given me more than a couple weeks pay, and this check is large enough to get my grandma and me through for a couple of months.
I’m surprised to find a post-it stuck to the back-side of the check. It’s covered in a longish chicken scratch I hope belongs to Colin, because I really need to believe he wouldn’t ask his assistant to write, “Looking forward to making you blush in Alabama” on a post-it.
“Why you blushing?” my grandma asks me, craning her head to try to read the note.
I press it to my chest before she can.
“Just embarrassed I can’t send it back and tell him he doesn’t have to do this. But we could really use the money.”
This is only a partial lie. We really could use the money. But there are other feelings going on inside of me at that moment that I’m not at all prepared to discuss with my grandma or even my favorite cousin, Bernice.
Colin and me never discussed him paying me actual money for the job. This check out the blue makes me feel weird. I don’t know whether to be grateful or insulted. Like a cupid or like a prostitute.
Also, there’s all these birds fluttering around my chest because Colin Fairgood wrote me something on a post-it. Colin Fairgood. And I don’t know if the birds are flapping around there because of the angry teenager who kissed me all those years ago, or because of the smooth talking country singer who promised to make all my dreams come true in exchange for helping him get the girl he really wants.
In either case, he’s got me out here, accepting his check without any kind of good protest, lying to my grandma, preparing to go back to a state I swore I’d never step foot in again.
Even though I’m supposedly getting the best end of this bargain, I can’t help but feel like I’m in real deep trouble. The truth is, I don’t think my hands are big enough to wrap around Colin Fairgood’s horns.
Chapter 5
Colin Fairgood grew up dirt poor but is now rich. Colin Fairgood is also, according to the montage currently showing on three different screens at Alabama’s Oakridge Mountain Amphitheatre, all sorts of accomplished with a ton of number one singles on both country and pop charts, one of which includes his duet with the international singing sensation, Roxxy RoxX.
“Basically made her what she is,” he says to an unseen interviewer, casually joking about the single that scored him matching number one spots on both the pop and country charts, as well as several music awards.
At one point the camera freeze frames on Colin holding up a shooting star shaped statue and shouting, “Thank you kindly for this, B.E.T!” As if to say, Man, this guy has won every award out there!
Colin Fairgood is seriously charming. He practically oozes easygoing Southern affability through clip after clip in the montage, which includes a guest stint on Saturday Night Live and several guest appearances on other singer’s stages—not just country, but rock, R&B, and rap, too.
“Who’s your favorite singer?” a reporter asks him over the many photos and clips of him hanging out with other music acts.
“I can’t ever pick just one. I listen to all sorts of music. My mixtapes got Bach, Beyoncé, Bluegrass, Big Sean, Brooks, Brazilian—if it’s good music, I’m listening to it.”
Colin Fairgood is a smoking hot swan story, according to the montage, a former orchestra nerd who transformed into one of the hottest men in country music. Something to look at, as my grandma might say, with perfectly tousled blond hair, and eyes so blue, they almost seem to glow with
their own ethereal light. Both lady killer qualities, on top of a tall, lean body, chiseled to perfection—if the montage is to be believed—from him doing all sorts of true country boy things like cannon balling into lakes, regularly using beer cans for shotgun shooting practice, and lending a hand to help with repairs after his tour bus breaks down in Arkansas.
Colin Fairgood is all of these things and more.
But Josie Witherspoon, I realize within five minutes of spotting her at the other end of the front row, is not in love with Colin Fairgood.
I watch her not watch the montage, the stage lights bouncing off the top of her eyeglass frames as she texts with someone on her phone. And it’s not texting like a teenager, who’s so busy telling all of her friends on social media that she’s doing something interesting and fun that she doesn’t look up from her phone long enough to enjoy it. No, Colin’s Jo-Jo is texting with intent. Like whoever is on the other side of her phone is way more important than Colin.
Has she already found someone else? I wonder. Maybe she’s only come here to let Colin down easily? And if so, what does that mean for my demo deal?
My panicked thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a classical violin playing. I look away from Josie just in time to see a spotlight come down on a blond man in a tuxedo. He’s playing a rather stuffy version of Colin’s unofficial state country rock anthem, “This Is How We Alabam,” in front of the heavy red stage curtain.
His to Own: 50 Loving States, Arkansas Page 24