Run, Rose, Run(38)
He rolled his eyes. “You’re infuriating.”
“Thank you. Now wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it,” Ethan said. “But good luck, anyway.”
Chapter
35
Inside WATC, the air-conditioning had been turned to an antarctic setting and there was no one at the front desk. AnnieLee twiddled her thumbs in the frigid reception area for only a few seconds before taking a deep breath, pushing through a pair of glass doors, and waltzing down the hallway as if it were her own. She was determined to make her case. She was also ready to get this meeting over with. As Ethan had reminded her, it was one thing to play a song, and an entirely different thing to try to market it. Though AnnieLee was proud of her single and wanted to share it with the world, she really just wanted to run back to her crappy motel room—or the café downtown, or anywhere she could be alone—and write more songs.
A moment later, she’d walked straight into the actual broadcast room. It was dimly lit, with concert posters on all the walls and a huge audio console. A man in headphones was leaning toward a microphone, speaking into it in a rich, drawling bass.
“…and that’s how you do a blue yodel, y’all, practically a century after Jimmie Rodgers first recorded his versions. There’s been many an imitator, but no one can compare to the Singing Brakeman. And that concludes today’s lesson in country music history. Now we return to our regularly scheduled programming, with a hot new song from Maren Morris.”
AnnieLee watched as the man poked a series of mysterious buttons and then turned to her with a furious look, one that softened so quickly she almost didn’t catch it. “Did you not see the on-air light?” he asked.
She shrank back, mortified. “No.”
“Well, it’s a good thing my mama told me to always be kind to strangers,” he said. He was middle-aged and dressed head to toe in denim, with a silver belt buckle the size of a tea saucer.
“I’m here to see Aaron Price,” AnnieLee said. “You’re not—”
“No, I’m not,” he interrupted, “and you must live under a rock somewhere, or else you’d damn well know who I am. I’m the talent; Aaron’s the suit. His office is two doors up on your left.”
Well, I was living under a tree, AnnieLee thought. But she could hardly say that, or admit that she didn’t even own a radio she could listen to. So she thanked him, apologized, and skedaddled.
When she got to the right door—she knocked this time—a deep voice said, “Yep,” which she took to mean, “Come in.”
Aaron Price was a big man, with a full head of silver hair and a goatee. He rose to his feet as AnnieLee entered, coming over to hold out a red, meaty hand for her to shake. AnnieLee felt her cheeks get hot, the way they often did when she was nervous.
“Hello, sir,” she said. “Thanks for letting me come in today.”
“So you’re the sweet-voiced young thing everybody’s been talking about,” he said. His teeth looked tobacco-stained, and he was still holding on to her hand.
AnnieLee smoothly removed her fingers from his grip. “Maybe I am,” she said lightly. “Though I’m not a thing so much as a person.”
He rumbled out a laugh. “Just a figure of speech, doll.”
She opened her mouth to tell him that she wasn’t a doll, either, but he was already talking, telling her about how many people tuned in to WATC every day, and how the station had been key in launching the careers of countless singers over the years.
“Of course,” he said, “most of these guys and gals had full promotion campaigns and major labels backing them up. That certainly helps a song get good airtime.” He sat down on a large black leather couch and patted the cushion beside him. “You’re just trying to put your tune out independently, aren’t you? That’s…well, maybe I’d call it quaint.” He gave a deep-throated chuckle. “Anyway, have a seat.”
AnnieLee perched delicately on the edge of the couch. She didn’t really know what a promotion campaign would look like, though she suspected that Mikey Shumer did. She still hadn’t called him back because Ruthanna had told her to stay away from him—but was AnnieLee dumb to have come here alone? Would Mikey Shumer have swaggered into WATC and made this pitch for her? Surely he wouldn’t flush with fear sweat the way she did.
“But let me get to the point,” Aaron Price said. “The thing is, you can be God’s gift to the radio waves and it’s still rare that you get something for nothing.”
“Pardon?” AnnieLee said.
“When I was coming up in the business,” said Aaron Price, “label promoters came rolling in with piles of cash, AnnieLee. And they’d make sure you knew that there were girls and white powder to be had, too—or maybe a nice trip somewhere, if your tastes were more wholesome. All you had to do was spin their record when and how often they wanted you to.” He laughed again. “Those were some crazy times.”
“It isn’t like that now, though,” AnnieLee said. She didn’t phrase it as a question, but it was one.
“No, no, that’s all illegal now. And heck, you don’t have a label yet anyway. But there are always ways to buy spins.” He held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong—if you walk in here with a briefcase full of bills, I’ll be the first man to show you the door. But artists still need help getting their songs on the air. And the people who help them do it don’t mind…expressions of gratitude, let’s call it.”