Page 17
Chapter 17
Texas Sucks
Damien
I’ve decided that a state that I used to love—played minors in—officially sucks. We lost two of the three games to the Tornadoes, and it’s keeping me from celebrating the good with Delilah, who is already heading to a studio … that cost a fuck of a lot more than I expected and takes a bite out of her profit. I may be a dumb jock on the outside, but inside, as much as it annoys Ty at times, I’m all business. Profit is king to a kid whose parents busted their asses to scrape by. Good people deserve more, and Delilah is good people.
How do I know the dollar amounts? I asked Ty to find out and had to explain that, yes, I have an assistant, but I have a girl with pride who would probably not take kindly to me asking such things. I asked him to price one out for me. I decided it would be a birthday gift … on my property, since I have a home office inside the home and an entire gym.
The contractors are working on numbers and have shifted their workers to finish the guest house. I have not admitted to myself or anyone else why that’s now the priority.
With all the bones, plumbing, and electric done, now it’s drywall, kitchen … and a fireplace, because: why not? One week, and it will be done.
“Why the hell do you look pissed off we just won,” Gunner McNeer asks, smiling like a fool, happy we just beat his old team.
“Gonna guess it has something to do with Country Star back home,” Evan says like he knows.
He does.
“Mind your business,” I grumble as I drop my packed duffle and grab my phone from my pocket.
No message from Delilah, but I know she’s busy. They have some big shot producer coming in … on our first day off without travel that we have had so far this season, on the night I bought tickets to a concert at Music Park, to take her on a date that is all about her.
My buying tickets to a concert is a bigger deal than my admitting, or hell, even not admitting. I also want to offer up the guest house to Rae and her. Yes, I know that means when Harlan’s on break, too, and there are only two bedrooms, so she’ll just naturally wind up in mine.
Yep, this is what I think about when watching reels … off schedule, damn-near out of my mind about a girl who I’ve picked a song that is ours.
It feels obsessive and chaotic, but not like I will lose everything if I don’t focus. It’s more like I’m gaining more than I ever imagined by leaning—nah, diving—into this.
I hit the app for my camera to check in on TT. Not shockingly, he’s sleeping. Doc said he would after she gave him his first round of shots today.
Laughter roars from behind me, and I whirl around.
“You have a fucking racoon?” Wiseman’s voice is like a fucking cannon. “Guys, Diesel’s got a pet racoon!”
The whole damn team surrounds me.
I hold the screen to my chest. “Back the fuck off! Its mama got flattened outside my gate, decided to scream for help outside my door. Went out with a bat, and the fucker ran inside. Wasn’t a choice.”
They all roar in laughter at my fucking expense.
“It’s not a pet!” I yell over them. “It’s a … rehab.”
“Diesel’s running a wildlife sanctuary out at his compound!” Chase laughs.
“Oh my God, what a great photo op.” Cheyenne pushes past them all. “Let me see.”
I arch a brow. She pouts out her lip.
Fuck.
“You can see, but his story won’t be exploited for public consumption.”
She nods and gives me grabby hands.
“My girlfriend—hell, my family—doesn’t know.” I shoot them all glares as she takes the phone. “And if any of you even think about breathing a word until I have a chance to tell them, remember I know your fucking secrets.”
“Why haven’t you told them? You don’t want Delilah Monroe to know she’s not taming a player but dating a golden retriever?” The voice comes from someone in the back, and they all make barking sounds … puppy ones.
I flip them off. “She knows who she’s got.”
“Name?” Cheyenne whispers.
“TT—Tiny Terror,” I whisper back.
“Ohmygod, how precious.”
“He’s all right.”
***
Walking across the airport parking lot to my SUV, I hit the unlock on my key fob when my phone rings.
I pull it out of my pocket, see Delilah’s name, and hit accept . “Hey, Songbird.”
“You’re back in Nashville?” she asks.
“Just getting in the SUV.”
“We’re still at the studio,” she whispers.
“Yeah? How’s it going?”
“Um, guess who showed up to produce?”
Fear like I’ve never felt before creeps in—no, panic?
“I don’t have an answer for you, but I promise, if it’s important, I’ll learn every damn one of?—”
“No, no, no, don’t do that.”
I clear my throat. “Tell me?”
“Xavier Steel himself is here. He and Patrick—his son—are producing. We’ve been here since nine this morning and, well, he’s got a lot of energy and thinks we should keep at it so we don’t kill the vibe we have going.”
“You up to that?” I ask.
“I’d rather play with you than the band, but if we get this done, I could have the whole day with you.”
“Night, too?” I ask quietly. “I mean, after the date I have planned.”
“Um …”
“We can grab Rae after, bring her some good takeout? I do have a couple empty rooms.”
“Are you being serious?”
I begin to question myself. Am I?
“You planned a date?”
I laugh. “Yeah, I, uh … didn’t tell you because it was a surprise for when you finished recording.”
“How do I miss you so freaking much when you’ve been gone a week, when we just started?” She whispers her question.
***
I should’ve gone home, dropped my bag, checked on TT, showered, slept. But instead of taking a left at the freeway, I message Ty for Patrick’s number.
Patrick meets me by the back door with a smirk and two cups of coffee.
“She doesn’t know you’re coming?” he asks.
“Me being selfish, wanting to see her. But I don’t want her to see me and change the vibe.”
“Perfect.”
Stepping inside the studio, I find it’s much nicer inside than out, or the rest of the surroundings. But none of that worry carries inside with me. Why? The sound hits me before the door even shuts—her voice, stretched out in harmony over acoustic guitar and the pulse of a live drum track. She’s not singing like she’s performing. It’s her truth she’s trying to shake loose from her bones.
Patrick slips me through the hallway and into the control booth. Xavier doesn’t even look up, just waves a hand toward the side couch and mutters something about keeping the bleed low.
I sit. And I don’t move. Not for the first take. Not for the fourth. Not when they isolate vocals and she sings bare into the mic like she doesn’t care who’s listening.
She doesn’t see me, and I want to keep it that way. Because watching her like this on the monitor—headphones on, eyes closed, one hand curled over the mic stand like it’s holding her together—feels too holy to interrupt.
This isn’t just a song. It’s her story. And fuck if it isn’t gutting .
I’m not too far removed from music to not know talent when I hear it. But this? This is something else. This is grief, and grace, and every moment she survived and kept going, anyway.
She finishes a take, voice cracking at the end, and I watch as she tilts her head and laughs like she’s embarrassed by how much she meant it.
Xavier nods like a general commanding a symphony. “Keep it. That one stays.”
They don’t stop. Not until four a.m. when Xavier finally sits back, exhales, and says, “We got it. That’s a fucking wrap.”
They all hug—hell, they cry—and that’s when Rae pops up from wherever it was that I couldn’t see in the monitor, holding a phone.
I hear Harlan crying, “She would be so proud of you!”
Yep, a fucking tear falls—mine.
What the fuck?
Xaviers hollers, “All right, crew, bring it in here.”
Rae’s the first one in, and she’s carrying … a puppy?
“Oh my God, it’s bae-ball bossman.”
I laugh. “You feeling better?”
“Are you crying?” she asks.
“No,” I huff.
“That’s not crying; that’s proof you killed it in there.” Xavier winks at me, and that’s when my girl steps in, face blotchy, looking exhausted.
We hug, her body shaking in my arms. She’s laughing through tears when she finally says, “You’re here.”
“Didn’t want to miss even a minute if it could be helped.”
She holds my face, tipping it down, looking me straight in the eye. “Did you really cry?”
“Apparently.”
“Dolly and I are going to head home.”
“Rae got a puppy.”
“I didn’t get a damn puppy; the puppy got me. The rest … is what it is.” Rae yawns.
Laughing, I kiss Delilah’s forehead. “Do what you need to. I’ll get Rae and Dolly in the vehicle, and we’ll wait for you.”
“Your vehicle got a bed?” Rae asks.
“No, but my house does, and Dolly’s welcome, too.”
“Oh, hell yes,” Rae says, heading out the door. “We’ll wait.”
I follow Rae out of the studio, toward the vehicle, and hit the fob, unlocking it.
“Hey, man, got a minute?”
I turn and see it’s Patrick.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Ty told me you wanted him to price studio equipment.”
“Of course he did.” I chuckle.
He shakes his head. “You don’t go to a gas station for good steak, do you?”
“Fair point,” I admit.
“Anyone he asks is gonna try to upsell him. We have some used equipment in storage, and some stuff you want new, like your interface, your monitors, maybe a mic or two.” Patrick continues, “But we’ve got a vintage tube preamp collecting dust and a Neumann from before they went commercial. It’ll make her voice sound like silk on smoke.”
I nod, even though I don’t have a fucking clue—not really—all of what he’s talking about, but I damn sure will know every bit of what’s important to her one day.
“That studio, the band, normally the producing and mixing—we know she’s worth it, which is why Dad took it on—that eats up a fuck ton of what she could bank.”
I nod., “Exactly what I was thinking.”
“You want soundproofing or just walls and vibes?”
“Both? All of it? Everything.”
Patrick laughs. “Give me a week to price the full setup. You work on getting that place retrofit. She’s got a voice worth the drywall.”
I nod again, grateful but overwhelmed—the way I always get when something actually good feels like it’s coming together. “Appreciate it.”
He shrugs. “Just make sure she knows it’s hers, no matter what happens between you.”
I nod. “She’ll know.”