Run, Rose, Run(50)

AnnieLee put her hand on her guitar case. “You got a lot of girl singers?” she repeated. “Well, shoot, I sure hope you do, considering women make up fifty percent of the population and most of the country music audience.”

The redhead’s eyes widened a little, and she gave AnnieLee a barely perceptible shake of the head. AnnieLee knew she wasn’t being properly deferential, but she didn’t care.

Tony’s hands unsteepled as he leaned forward. “You think you can rise above the crowd, AnnieLee? Do you know how many songs get uploaded to DSPs every day? Try forty thousand—to Spotify alone. There’s so much noise out there. There’s more music than ever before in history. What makes little ol’ you think you’ve got what it takes to be heard? And not just to be heard, but to be loved?”

AnnieLee looked around the room at the people who, she now understood, were only here because Ruthanna Ryder had called in a favor. Tony Graham had made up his mind about AnnieLee before she even walked in the door.

It was the kind of thing that really got under her skin. That—and being called little.

“I won’t pretend to be a city sophisticate, Mr. Graham,” she said, “but you can stop talking to me like I’m as dumb as a turnip. I’m a straight talker, too, and I’m here to tell you that you’ve got a damn gold mine right here sitting across from you.”

Tony Graham laughed. “A girl singer with an outsized sense of confidence.”

“I believe in myself, and if you heard me play, you’d believe in me, too,” she said. Fearless, shameless: she was playing the part well. And it felt good.

But AnnieLee was angry, too, thinking about the times she’d been underestimated or kicked around by someone bigger and more powerful than she was, someone who thought he had a right to tell her how things were going to be.

So without waiting for Tony Graham’s invitation, she got out her guitar and began to play. She sang with hope and she sang with fury, and the ACD people sat so still they could have been statues. She blazed through three songs without stopping for breath. She wasn’t going to give them a chance to show her the door until she’d shown them her talent, in all its gorgeous rawness.

When the last notes of “Firecracker” faded, AnnieLee put her guitar back in its case and folded her hands in her lap. “Well?” she said calmly.

Tony Graham wiped imaginary sweat from his brow and turned to the pale, red-lipped woman sitting next to him. His entire demeanor had changed. “She’s fire,” he said. “We want her, don’t we?”

Everyone in the room nodded, and the assistant standing in the corner met AnnieLee’s eyes and gave her a tiny thumbs-up. “You did it,” she mouthed.

Tony Graham was already talking about the deal they would sign, and AnnieLee heard a bunch of numbers and big promises and terms like synergy and omnidirectional marketing.

AnnieLee listened, nodding, and when Tony paused for a breath, she said, “I want to keep my publishing.” She saw a shadow pass over his face, and she went on before she lost her nerve. She was asking for the kinds of things a star like Ruthanna would ask for. “I want approval on the producer, and I want to coproduce, because I know my songs better than anyone else.”

The room went dead quiet. Then Tony Graham started laughing. “I’m afraid that’s just not possible,” he said.

AnnieLee picked up her guitar. “Then I thank you for your time, sir,” she said. “It was real nice to meet you all.” She stopped in front of the assistant as she headed out. “What’s your name, hon?”

“Samantha,” she said. “Sam.”

“Sam,” AnnieLee repeated. “Thanks for being here today. I’m rooting for you, too.”





Chapter

43



AnnieLee spun through the revolving doors and stumbled forward into the noise and the crowds of a midtown sidewalk.

“Hey, watch it!” a man shouted as her guitar careened off his briefcase.

“Sorry,” she gasped as the street blurred and wavered in front of her. She staggered up the block, crying not so much out of sorrow but out of frustration and fear. She’d stormed out of the ACD offices without thinking, and now the weight of what she’d done felt as though it would crush the breath out of her. In less than fifteen minutes, she’d managed to ruin the incredible opportunity that Ruthanna had put together for her. What if it was her only one?

And would Ruthanna be able to forgive her?

She’d asked for too much—that was obvious. She should have been nicer and more grateful. Why was she still thinking about the advice of an aging barfly whose name she’d never even asked? What did that woman know about being fearless?

She swiped angrily at her tearstained cheeks. She cared so much about her words, her creative expression, when what mattered to everyone else was the bottom line. Everything was a business—even art. She’d written the songs, but she wouldn’t be able to truly own them. Not if she wanted the rest of the world to hear them.

AnnieLee felt like kicking herself. She’d made so many sacrifices in her life—why hadn’t she been prepared to make just a few more? Wasn’t a bad deal better than no deal at all?

She was dimly aware of shouting behind her, but she didn’t turn around. She wanted to lose herself in the sea of people. She wanted to walk until she was too exhausted to cry.