alcohol like water even when they’re one hundred percent sober. It’s all about creating Bobby Tannen.”
My name doesn’t sound like my name when he says it like that.
“Okay,” I drawl out. “So you want me to write an ode to Jack Daniels?”
Everyone laughs. I don’t get the joke.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Glasses Guy pipes up. He writes that down on a sticky note and puts it in the folder.
“You don’t need me to tell you that you’re an attractive man,” Jeremy says, pointing at the television screen that still has my pictures up.
“Uh, what?”
“You have a certain look . . . rough, country, an asshole bad boy.” The first of those are true, and honestly, the last one is too, to a certain extent, so I don’t argue. I’m hoping we’re not discussing my arrest record again, though. “That was the biggest feedback we got at the Bar too. When you came out, people were ready for something harder, edgier from you. I think you have that in you, so we want to play that up. Find you some songs that pull that direction, maybe even have you work with some of our proven writers if you’d like to create some. The plan is to really make you seem Bad Ass—that’s with a capital B and A.” He winks at me like that was funny.
“So, some new songs? I can do that.”
That’s totally doable. I can channel into some darker experiences—the anger I felt when Mom died, the confusing blend of relief and fury I felt when Dad died, the heartbreak of losing the farm. And they don’t have to be about my life. I can write from someone else’s point of view to share their experience too.
Pain, sharp and sweet, like whiskey through my veins. Makes me feel alive, only to make me numb.
I can do that.
“Songs, but there’s more. We’ll need to put together a band. You can have a hand in selecting from a small group of vetted musicians so that the vibe feels right. We’re leaning toward something like this for promo shots—”
He looks to Blue Blouse and she clicks on her phone again. The television screen changes. The picture of me without my shirt on comes to the center, but it’s been edited. The shadows are enhanced, the contrast bumped up and some sort of dark, splotchy frame overlaid on it. With my thick arms crossed over my bare chest, featuring the tattoo on my bicep prominently, and my eyes near black and piercing, I look like a man who would beat the shit out you and fuck you at the same time. The text across the bottom proclaims, To Hell and Back. Underneath that is my name.
“This is a mock-up of the cover album art,” Blue Blouse tells me.
“I look like a mean son of a bitch,” I growl out, not sure about this. Blue Blouse shrinks a tiny bit.
“Aren’t you?” Jeremy asks.
He’s got a point. I guess I’m just not used to seeing myself that way. Nobody’s taking pictures when my brothers and me are throwing down. But in this room, I’m definitely the anomaly. Hell, maybe my whole family is the anomaly and most people are softer, sweeter, and kinder than we are. Willow certainly is.
But it’s not all that I am. I’m the guy who likes to rub a baby goat’s soft belly just because it feels good. I’m a guy who lets my nephew sometimes win at cornhole when he’s having a bad day. I’m the uncle who airplanes Cindy Lou around the fields, lifting her to touch the fruit she wants to grab.
I tilt my head instead of agreeing with him.
“Last but not least, I think you’re well aware that your primary audience is female. I saw a woman asking for your autograph at Hank’s. The crowd there was largely female, and the feedback from the Bar is that the women mostly wanted to sleep with you, whether you could sing or not.” He laughs, shooting me a good ol’ boy grin that I don’t return.
“Yeah, I don’t really care about any of that. I’ve got my girl back home. Willow.”
I sense the eyes at the table turning to Jeremy and watch his smile melt into a frown.
“About that, we’ll need you to lose the girl.”
“What?” I hiss.
Anger boils in my gut. My teeth clamp down and my hands fist as I glare across the table. I measure the distance, deciding whether I need to go around