A Very Merry Bromance (Bromance Book Club #5) (9)

The only solution Colton could think of was to take these songs and go indie. But, of course, he couldn’t do that. Because going indie meant breaking his contract, which meant returning millions in advances. Indie meant financing his own tours, his own recordings, his own distribution. It meant negotiating his own terms with streaming services. It meant money. Colton was rich, but there were a lot of people who depended on him now. Too many to risk it.

“Colton, what do you think about that?”

He blinked out of his thoughts. “About what?”

“We have some new songwriters we want you to work with.”

Colton ran his hands over his hair and bowed his head. It had finally come to this, then.

“We think you’re going to like them,” Archie was saying. “You know I wouldn’t suggest anyone to you that I hadn’t personally vetted. They’re excellent at taking raw material and crafting it into something better without losing the originality of the demos.”

“I thought you didn’t like the originality of the demos.”

Archie ignored the petty remark. “We’re going to give them the songs today, with your permission, and we can set up studio time after the New Year to start recording.”

“What if I say no?”

Saul answered, “Then you’ll be in violation of the terms of your contract.”

“Just like that? Write the same old shit, or I’m out of the family?”

“This isn’t a family,” Saul said. “This is a business.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Buck snapped. “Was that necessary?”

“Just making it clear that this is a business. A business that has invested millions of dollars into a product, and we expect that product to be delivered.” Saul stood up, signaling an end to the meeting.

It felt like the end of something else to Colton. His career.

“Take some time to think about it,” Saul said.

“How long?” Buck asked.

“We need an answer by January first.”

“What?” Colton shouted. “You’re giving me less than a month to figure out the future of my entire career?”

“You’ve had two years.”

Colton stormed out. Behind him, he heard Buck trying to settle nerves and reassure Archie. Colton didn’t wait for him. He bypassed the elevators and took the stairs. Buck caught up with him anyway in the parking garage.

“Colton, wait.”

Colton set his hands on his hips. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That they didn’t like the new songs?”

“No.” Buck sighed. “But I had an inkling. When Archie didn’t respond, I wondered if maybe there were some conversations happening behind the scenes.”

“And you never thought to warn me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.”

“Instead, you let me be ambushed.”

“I’m sorry. I was hoping I was wrong.”

Colton turned away and stared at nothing.

“Do you remember what I told you after that first meeting when we signed your first contract?” Buck asked. “I said there would come a time when the realities of this industry would start to steal the shine from the promises of it. So I need you to be honest with me. Do you still want to do this?”

Colton whipped his gaze so quickly to his manager that he swore a bone cracked in his neck. “Still do what?”

“This,” Buck said, gesturing vaguely at nothing and everything. “Make music. Tour. Be a rock star.”

“Are you high? Of course I still want to do this!”

“Then give me something to take to them. Anything.”

“I gave them something. They threw it back.”

“Then work with the songwriters.”

“What’s the alternative?” The question was dry and sour on his tongue.

“You tell them you want out.”

“Break my contract?”

Buck’s answer was a blank stare.

“I don’t want out.” His mouth was dry as he dug the keys from his pocket. “Tell them I’ll do it. I’ll give them exactly what they want.”

He stormed away.

“Where are you going?” Buck yelled.

“To find my fucking muse.”





CHAPTER THREE


The road to Homestead was long and winding, lined with farm fields, stone fences, and bad memories.

Everywhere Gretchen looked was Winthrop land, where generations of her family had lived and built an empire. As she pulled into the mile-long driveway that would take her to the corporate building, she passed the original house, the place where it all began when an Irish immigrant named Cornelius Donley sold his first batch of whiskey in a roadside stand. The farmhouse was now a tourist spot on the whiskey trail and had been expanded over the years into a tasting room. She imagined Uncle Jack inside, charming the ladies as he pushed the whiskey. On a whim, she whipped into the lot. She had fifteen minutes before her meeting with Evan, and a dose of Jack’s humor was just what she needed to prepare.

Gretchen’s high-heeled boots crunched on the white gravel of the parking lot until she reached the original cobblestone sidewalk to the porch. The tasting room was technically in the big red barn next to the farmhouse, but visitors had to enter through the front door of the house itself. In warmer months, tourists could sit in one of the many rocking chairs on the wide wraparound porch to wait for room at the bar, but in December, most people chose to wait inside.