letting loose that chuckle that makes me feel like a damned fool. “You’re just not what I’m used to. Most guys come out here and expect to be wined and dined like they’re special when they’re not. You actually are special, and you don’t give a shit about the bells and whistles. It’s refreshing.”
“Okay.” I don’t know what to say to that. I am who I am, what I am, a farmer who can sing a bit and write songs, which wasn’t good enough for him in the first place.
“So, the contract?” Jeremy opens a drawer in his desk, flipping through folders just like I thought he’d have. Each one contains someone’s dream, and he keeps them filed away like paper airplanes that’ll never fly, never feel the rush of air, never come crashing back down to Earth painfully crunched and broken.
Dramatic much, asshole?
He finds the one with my name on it, pulling it out. “Here we go. Are you ready to sign? NCR Records is ready to be your new home, Bobby. I think we can make some beautiful music together.”
Cheese spillage, aisle three. How many people has he said that to? How many of them actually bought it?
I stare at the contact, the black dots of the words marching around like ants on the white paper. Signing it feels so final, like the end of something instead of the beginning. Putting my John Hancock on that page is the nail in the coffin for me and Willow, an acknowledgement that it’s over, and the end of Bobby Tannen, farmer. Once I sign, I’ll be Bobby Tannen, country singer.
It’s what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve dreamed of. So why does it feel so empty?
Jeremy holds out a pen that I don’t take. “Can I read it over again? You told me to have a lawyer look at it, and I’m afraid to say I never did. Once you said that stuff about Willow, I never thought I’d be sitting here. So, I should probably do some due diligence so we both know what we’re getting into.”
A look of disappointment flashes through Jeremy’s eyes, so quick it’s gone in an instant. He leans forward, elbows on his desk. “Sure, good thinking. I like that you’re not just another pretty face.”
I have never been called pretty. Handsome, attractive, fuckable . . . sure. Pretty? No.
“Let’s do this. We’ll get you a room so you can rest and get cleaned up. I’ll send a car by and we’ll hit the Bar again tonight. You can listen to other folks, or I can arrange for you to sing if you’d like? You have any new songs? I can set you up with Miller again. I know you liked working with him.”
I agree woodenly, the contrast to his excitement obvious. It should be the other way around. He’s the pro who should be no-big-deal about another contract, and I’m the newbie who should be jumping for joy at his dream coming true. But I don’t have it in me.
I watch a kid play guitar like a demon has possessed his fingers on the stage at the Bar. His voice is good, but his playing is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Kid can’t be more than nineteen, blond and sweet-looking, but you can tell the music infects him like it does me. He’s exciting to watch.
“He’s good,” I murmur to myself. Jeremy hears me loud and clear.
“You like him? We could see if he’s interested in a guitarist position for your band. I don’t usually pull guys who want to be solo acts, but his vocals would be a good contrast to yours. I’ll get his name and see if he has representation yet.”
All that because I said the kid’s good.
After that, I keep my mouth shut.
I don’t get on stage at the Bar that night. The demon in my gut is screaming loudly, wanting the outlet desperately, but I’m afraid I’ll slit myself open too wide and let everything I’m feeling leak out. Vulnerable is one thing, completely and utterly defenseless quite another.
Miller is already booked, so I have the whole day to myself. Jeremy tried to fill the time with sightseeing tours, as if a trip to the Country Music Hall of Fame is going to keep me in town. He even mentioned getting me a personal tour guide if I wanted. I felt like that was a roundabout way of asking if I needed any company.