“And yet, you’re nailing it. She’s not as impressed by this as much as she’s intimidated by it.” I swallow hard, thinking of how to phrase what I know deep down is true. “And probably a little repulsed by the excess of wealth. She’s planning to donate all that money Suggs left her for fuck’s sake.”
“How’s that relevant?” he asks.
“It’s who she is.”
I study the room and the views more carefully. I love spoiling my girl. And I can give Shelby a lot of material things. But this is way, way beyond my means.
“She’s just as, if not more, talented than Dawson,” I say, speaking from the heart.
Spending time on the road with both of them has made me keenly aware of this fact. All Shelby needs now is more exposure and a bit of luck. She already has the talent. “If this is what she wants, it’s possible for her to gain on her own.”
“I guess.” He shrugs. “But still—”
I’m coming dangerously close to punching Jiggy for suggesting what I think he’s suggesting. “If she’s so dazzled by Dawson’s money that she leaves me for him, then she’s not the woman I thought she was anyway.”
And it’s better we part now.
Chapter Forty
Shelby
“You ready for your first session?” Rooster asks the next morning over breakfast.
“I think so.” I set my fork down. “Honestly, I’m kind of nervous to work with Dawson. What if he thinks I’m a foolish newbie?”
He points a corner of toast at me. “The only thing foolish about you is those words coming out of your mouth. All he has on you is age, experience, and money.”
I snort into my orange juice. “You say that like they’re insignificant things.”
“Not insignificant. Just not all there is to the business.”
I munch on my bacon, considering his words. “You sure Jiggy isn’t mad at me?”
He sighs and sets down his coffee. “Not at all. This stuff makes him uncomfortable.” He waves his hand toward the fancy high-end kitchen, but I think Rooster’s referring to more than just the luxurious surroundings. “Plus, I think he wanted to give us alone time.”
“Will he be okay in Deadbranch by himself?”
He smirks. “If he doesn’t run his mouth too much.”
My phone beeps and I check it. A text from Trent.
“His mom’s still in the hospital,” I explain after reading it. “He’s gonna send me the stuff he has and we’ll try to work some of it out online together. Dammit.” I chew on my thumbnail. It’s not like Trent did this on purpose. It’s just as out of his control as it is mine.
“It might not be bad to try something new,” Rooster suggests.
“You don’t understand.”
“I know I don’t. But try not to stress about a situation you have no control over.”
My lips curve. “I was sort of thinking the same thing.”
“Good. Focus on your writing session with Dawson.”
“Honestly, I’m worried about that too.”
He opens his mouth, to give me some reassuring words, no doubt, but I hold up my hand.
I lower my voice—because Lord knows, Dawson could have this fancy-pants place wired and be listening to every word—” I’m worried our styles won’t…mesh. He’s the bigger artist. I’m still basically a nobody. What he writes is more commercial, mainstream stuff. Arena-style country rock.”
“I’m aware.” Rooster heaves a long-suffering sigh. “I was there for it.”
“I’m not dogging his style. Obviously, it’s successful.” I flap my hands around, indicating the house. “But my style isn’t as slick. I write folksier, from-the-heart stuff. I don’t hire songwriters, you know?” I tap my chest. “Everything comes from inside, as rough or unpolished as it may be.”
“I understand it’s intimidating to work with someone at his level. I really do. But he’s not doing it for charity. There’s a reason he wants to work with you, Shelby. Your strength is that rougher, unpolished vibe because it’s relatable.” He gestures toward the window overlooking the massive in-ground pool. “You think he can connect with people working a nine-to-five anymore? Think he knows what their struggles are?”
“Shoot. Probably not.”
“Your song about the waitress…when is the last time you think Dawson worked in food service?”
“Late Nineties?”
“Right. You know your audience cares about more than beer, parties, and girls shaking their asses. He may be bringing his connections and experience to the table, but you’re bringing your voice and talent.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Don’t thank me.” He reaches over and rubs his fingers over mine. “Kick ass. Don’t let the fear rule you.”
Before my afternoon session with Dawson, Rooster takes me to one of the big-box stores to grab any last minute necessities I might need. I don’t want to depend on Dawson’s drivers to take me anywhere.
“You can drive the truck if you need to,” Rooster assures me.
I glance out the back window. “I’ve never driven anything this big. In an unfamiliar place…honestly, after being on the road for the last few months, I just want to stay put for a while and focus on writing.”
“Fair enough. But you have your set of keys just in case. And you can always rent a car if you decide you want more freedom.”
A big, black shiny SUV is pulling up to Dawson’s house when we return.
“More bodyguards?” I joke.
Rooster slows the truck. “No, I think Chaser’s here.”
“Shoot. Dawson said two o’clock.”
“I’m sure they want to meet and go over stuff first.”
We empty the truck, dropping everything in the kitchen. “I don’t even know where to put all this stuff.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He nudges me toward the staircase. “Go get ready.”
Don’t let fear rule you.
Rooster’s words keep repeating in my head.
No lie, I’m intimidated as hell sittin’ in Dawson’s fancy basement studio with him and Chaser Adams.
Chaser’s relaxed, kicked back in his chair, and friendly as the three of us work. Maybe that’s because Rooster walked over with me to say hi to him and Dawson. The three of them chatted for a while before Rooster took off.
Chaser’s give-no-flocks attitude could also be due to him not actually having any fucks to give. From what I understand, songwriting isn’t his main focus anymore. He’s here because Dawson made him a sweet offer.
I’m here because my career depends on it.
“How about…um…for that last part.” I strum a few notes before singing, “And when I said I felt like a used T-shirt on your floor…you picked me up and put me on some more…”
Dawson’s cocked head and intense stare drowns out the rest of the lyrics on my tongue.
“Seems more comforting than passionate,” he says.