wouldn’t be a good plan? She’s the one that’s driving this whole thing to get me back where I want to be. When I floated the concert idea to her, she was encouraging, even going so far as to say that it might land me a better contract because other labels might become interested if they see what I can do on my own. Or at least with Colt helping me out. Because as much as he stalled out on being able to pick songs for himself, he has an ear for what sounds good, even if he does tend to pick the safe choices.
But in that regard we sort of balance each other. I experiment, push at the edges, and he anchors me to safety so that I don’t go flying over the edge into chaos. Chaos isn’t marketable, but too safe isn’t either. And I drag him a little closer to the edge so he can get a hit of the excitement he needs to make him a stronger performer.
He picks up his phone and keys and heads for the door. “I’ll be back in a while. Don’t have too much fun without me.”
“I won’t,” I tell him, giving him a smile before he goes out the door. I’ll have just the right amount of fun that I can’t have with him home.
“Are you ready for this?” Colt’s voice crows in my ear a little over an hour after he left. He called as soon as he got out of his meeting, not wanting to wait to get back home to tell me the news. “We have a date and a venue. They’ll be sending over a contract later today, and we just have to sign it and send it back.”
I let out a little squeal and sit up to do a happy dance in my bed. Though I should probably get up and take a shower if Colt is on his way home. And clean up my toys and safely store them back in their hiding place. No need for him to know what I’ve been up to while he’s gone.
“When?” I ask, breathless with excitement.
“Three weeks. They had a cancelation and needed to fill the spot.”
My heart stops. “Three weeks?” I squeak. “That’s … soon.”
“Yeah. It is.” He sounds more serious, like he knows that this is a lot when I’m still writing the songs I’m supposed to perform. I thought I’d have a few months at the least. I know how venues fill up around here. “But we can do it.” He sounds so upbeat he belongs on an inspirational poster. “We’ve got a good start, and we have time to polish still.”
I snort. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one writing the songs.”
“True.” That inspirational poster vibe is gone from his voice again. Thank god. “You’re right. But you’ve been cranking out songs lightning fast, so I thought it would be okay. We can back out if you don’t think you can pull it off, but …”
He trails off, letting me fill in the blanks. “But it’ll be a long time before they have an opening again. And he’s the only one who got back to you, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.” That statement is funeral levels of solemn.
“Because I’m practically radioactive. And the only one backing me and vouching for me is you.”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to. We both know it’s true. No one wants to book me when they have other acts that’ll reliably fill the house and bring in money. A no-name up and comer is a better bet than me. It’s been months since anyone’s heard from me except for crazy tabloid stories about the car accident and then my subsequent whirlwind romance ending with a beach wedding and not a peep since. At least not through official media outlets.
And while the old adage that all publicity is good publicity might be true in some ways, when you look like a loose cannon whose judgment can’t be trusted, no one wants to do business with you, even if you might have some fans who’ll still want to come see you.
Those fans are the only thing still giving me hope right now, honestly. Them and Colt. Because with his help I’ve posted videos of my writing process and us performing together, and it’s gotten an overwhelmingly positive response.
“Did you show them the videos?” I ask after a moment.