A Very Merry Bromance (Bromance Book Club #5) (7)
“I need to talk to you about something important.”
“Is everyone all right?” The entire family flashed before her eyes. Uncle Jack. Their parents. Her nieces and nephews. She didn’t get along with Evan, but she loved his kids.
“Everyone’s fine. Can you make it in the next hour or so?”
No. She had a shit-ton of work to do and an aversion to being summoned like a naughty kid to the principal’s office. But when she opened her mouth, all that came out was “Sure.”
She quickly answered some pending emails, stuffed several folders into her bag to work on later, and told Addison to call her cell if anything came up. Then she ducked out before Addison could pepper her with questions. Or, worse, offer more amateur psychoanalysis about why, even now, when her family whistled, she came running like a starving puppy in search of scraps.
Because that would be pathetic.
* * *
? ? ?
The first time Colton had walked through the doors of the Nerve Music Group Nashville twelve years ago, he’d felt a twinge of This is it? This unremarkable office building in the most boring part of the city was home to some of the hottest acts in country music, the place where stars were made?
But unlike the neon-glowing party of Music Row, the offices of the industry’s major record labels weren’t meant to inspire. They were designed to intimidate, to remind starry-eyed artists that music was a business, first and foremost.
If Nashville was a party, these buildings were the chaperones.
And today, Colton had the sinking feeling he was about to be dragged off the dance floor by his shirt collar.
The staff in the lobby greeted Colton as they always did—with warm deference. He was, even still, one of their top-selling artists, after all. Photos of him and his album covers decorated the walls of the lobby, the hallways, even the goddamned bathrooms. An escort—maybe an intern from the nearby Belmont School of Music or, more likely, some executive’s nephew—met him at the door and offered him a bottle of water before showing him to the elevators that would take him to the top-floor suites where the label’s executive offices were located. The young man bade him goodbye as Colton entered the elevator, and another one was waiting for him as he got out—a young woman this time, who smiled and called him “Mr. Wheeler” in a way that made him want to duck into the restroom to check for gray hair.
She led him to the large conference room where his dreams had come true all those years ago. Back then, he’d walked in to find everyone already there, waiting for him with smiles and congratulations.
Today, the room was empty. “Am I the first one here?”
“You are,” the girl said, still smiling.
That was a first. Rock star time, and all that. But anxiety had a way of violating the speed limit. Colton declined the young woman’s offer of a beverage from the well-stocked mini-fridge and instead strode to the bank of windows overlooking the city. The first time he’d looked at this view, he’d seen nothing but opportunity, fame, fortune. It was different this time, filtered through the lens of age and experience. Now, he saw all the cracks in the pavement, the roofs in need of repair, the tired cab drivers in need of a break. He still saw the city’s shine. But he also saw its dirt.
“I thought you superstars were always late.”
Colton turned around. His A&R guy, Archie Lovett, walked in with a cocky grin and a Starbucks cup. A&R stood for artist and repertoire, and it was the division at every record label that handled the artists and their music. Archie had been his A&R guy from the start, and it was his job to act as a liaison between Colton’s team and the label.
“Good to see you, brother,” Archie said. They shared a backslapping half hug. “I just about forgot how ugly you are.”
Colton flipped him off, and Archie laughed as Colton knew he would. Their relationship had always been like this—as much a friendship as a professional one. It was one of the things Colton had always loved about this label. It felt like a family. The downside of that kind of relationship was that Colton felt like he was disappointing a friend when he didn’t live up to their expectations.
His manager, Buck Bragg, walked in next, with a smile that conveyed calm confidence but a grip on a bottle of antacids that said he’d had a rough day so far. He quickly greeted Archie before joining Colton at the windows. “I don’t think you’ve ever beaten me here since that first contract.”
Colton shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I haven’t been this nervous since then.”
“We’re going to get things worked out,” Buck said. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry? What the hell does that mean?”
Buck shrugged. “It means Don’t worry.”
“Except you’ve never told me not to worry before, so now I’m officially shitting my pants.”
The drumbeat of footsteps behind them brought them both around to stare at the door as label executives walked in single file, each carrying leather folios, cellphones, and iPads. The last to walk in was the most important, Vice President Saul Shepard. A former college wrestler, Saul had stumbled into the music industry after a brief career as an entertainment attorney. He was intimidating without trying, gave nothing away with his expressions, and shook hands with more force than was necessary. The man was three inches shorter than Colton, but Colton always felt like he had to look up when speaking to him. Today, he seemed like a giant.