Page 5 of Hero on the Road
There was no one else in the conference room.
We stopped and stared around, neither of us saying anything for long moments, and I didn’t know about Taylor but I was thinking one thing: They’d stood us up. They’d called us in here and gotten my hopes up for nothing, and now they were going to no-show on me again. I was going to have to go back to playing in the tiniest bars in town hoping someone paid attention. Making my already-perfect songs even more perfect as I played them again and again for the tiniest crowds known to man.
I was going to cry.
Taylor, of course, had no intention of giving up that easily. Because she was a witch.
“Sit down,” she said, dropping my hand. “I’m going to go find out what the hell is going on and where the hell they are.”
She whirled around and left the room, all clicking heels and furious glares, and I dropped into a chair, glad that it was her job to go out there and cast the curses rather than me. I hoped she had some good magic on hand.
I looked around the space, taking in the large table and the walls covered in tour posters. Every poster featured a bigger artist than the last, and it didn’t take me long to realize that this wasn’t just a conference room. It was a bragging room. The place they brought all the outsiders so those outsiders could appreciate how many artists this studio had brought to fame. And not only in country music, either. Sure, the company was mostly country. But there were a lot of rock bands up there, too, and I guessed that made sense. At the end of the day, rock and roll and country had started in the same place. They’d just traveled different roads from there. I was guessing producing them took mostly the same process, though, and as long as the company itself was split into divisions that understood how to market a certain type of music, it would all work out.
The array of success on the walls was dizzying. Most of those artists and bands had won awards and appeared in big tours. And this was the company that wanted to sign me.
Me.The girl who’d stumbled through high school spending most of her time trying to protect her best friend from the father that beat her and the boy who’d decided to do the same. The girl who’d had to work weekends at the hardware shop her parents owned and share a room with her snotty little sister.
The girl who’d always felt like she’d been born into a world that didn’t quite appreciate her.
I smiled at the thought, and then allowed that smile to become a full grin. Atomic wantedme. They’d seen me up on that stage at Christmas and had liked it enough to offer me a contract, and that was no small thing. Sure, I’d been up there with Connor Wheating.
But that song had been half mine.
The grin died at the thought, though, as I remembered that I was here to discuss a contract that would pair me up with someone else. The record label evidently thought I’d been better with a guy at my side, and though I did like singing with someone else the idea that they wanted to put me with a partner was like a pin in the balloon of my self-confidence. They didn’t think I could do it on my own—probably because that was what Dean had told everyone when he decided to steal my record contract. He’d gone around telling anyone who would listen that he’d written all the music we performed and that he was the real talent in the duo.
Almost all of the music we’d performed wasmine. But no one had wanted to listen to me when I told them so. Dean had already done so much damage to my reputation that I hadn’t been able to repair it.
I wondered suddenly if that was what this all came down to. Did Atomic believe that I didn’t have any value on my own? Were they regretting the decision to give me a contract at all? Or had they given me the contract already knowing that they were going to force me into a partnership?
Suddenly the door behind me opened and I turned to see Taylor coming in, all red hair and flushed cheeks. A couple of execs followed her—men in suits who looked exactly like all the other men in suits I’d met over the months—and in their hands, folders.
Folders with papers in them.
Taylor took a seat next to me, squeezed my hand again in what I was sure was supposed to be a gesture of confidence, and started talking. She told the execs across the table how much I’d been doing since I got back to town and how many songs I’d written. She listed all the places I’d performed and the crowds I’d sung in front of. She told them how long it had been since I was offered a contract and how Atomic had done exactly nothing to make good on that promise.
“This girl left her family and her home town, her best friends and plans, to come back to Nashville on the word of your reps that there would be a contract waiting, and for what?” she finally said. “For you to push her around and act like you’re not actually going to give her one? We’re tired of waiting, gentlemen. Today’s your day. It’s time to get something down on paper, or we’re walking.”
I almost choked. Had she actually just threatened Atomic Records with us walking out of here if we didn’t get a contract?
Was she insane?
It turned out she wasn’t.
“No need for anything like that,” Suit #1 said, leaning forward and giving us what he must have thought was a charming smile. “We know how hard you’ve been working, and we absolutely intend to honor our promises. We want you with the label, Olivia, and we’re going to do whatever it takes to make that happen.”
Suit #2 leaned forward now. “Of course we are. The thing is, we’ve listened to your stuff and we all agree that we love you with a partner. Your voice is so good when it’s blended with a guy’s voice. We want to see you succeed, and we think that’s the way to go. You and a singing partner, not just a band standing around behind you. Someone to really play off. Someone to vibe with. What do you think?”
I didn’t think any sane person used the phrase ‘someone to vibe with.’ But I also didn’t think they actually wanted my opinion. Sounded to me like they’d already made up their minds, regardless of what I thought.
“What are you saying?” Taylor asked sharply.
Suit #3 slid a contract forward. “We’re saying,” he said quietly, “that your contract is right here. We’re ready to sign it. But it’s contingent on her doing a one-month tour with a partner. We want to see how it goes. See whether that’s the direction we want to take her in.”
I stared at the contract in front of me, feeling the world falling down around my ears. This couldn’t be happening. That was my contract right there, just waiting to be signed, and yet it wasn’t my contract. It belonged to an ‘us.’ Me and someone else. Me and some guy who might insist that the whole show be about him, and who might tell everyone that he was the real talent.
I wanted to stand on my own. I wanted to prove that I could do all of this without any help, and that I was good enough to carry the whole thing on my shoulders. And instead my entire contract was riding on me agreeing to be part of a partnership.
With someone I probably didn’t even know.
