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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jade

I’ve been on the phone for nearly three hours.

Three long, miserable, frustrating, and unproductive hours.

It’s maddening, how stubborn my management company is being. They’re so far up the record company’s behinds, they must be seeing brown.

And I’m furious.

They’re pushing back hard against firing Farrah, so much so that they’ve refused to do it. She didn’t realize how much the personal questions would bother me. Plus, since I’m such a big star she assumed I’m used to it. She’s apologized at least a hundred times, and both she and my management company have practically filled my house with flowers and baskets of goodies.

I’m physically and mentally exhausted because it feels like no one has my back.

Not a single person in my life supports what I want to do. How I want to run my career. What I expect from the people who work for me.

It’s my own fault because I’ve been too easy going for too long. In the beginning, I trusted the record label and my manager to do what’s best. Now that I know better—and they see that their money train might be leaving the station without them—they’re trying to control me.

Not only that, the news that I’ve decided to let Royal produce my next album has them freaking out.

“…Jade, honey, I know he wrote a huge hit for you, but is this really the guy you want hitching his star to yours?” My manager, Norma, has asked me this three times already.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” I reply, also for the third time.

“Have you done the research?” Farrah asks.

Not that I give a hoot what she thinks.

“Look at this.” She sends me the link to an article.

Rock superstar Royal Ewing in physical altercation with wife.

Amber.

That harlot.

“The woman who told him she had no interest in staying married to a guy who couldn’t play guitar anymore?” I snort. “I probably would have hit her too.” He didn’t hit her, though. I know this story because he told me every detail.

“Sweetie, we’re just worried about your reputation,” Farrah says in a sickeningly sweet voice.

“My name,” I say icily, “is Ms. Cantrell . Unless and until I tell you otherwise. And where was all this concern about my reputation when Liza was asking me wholly inappropriate questions?”

“Oh, Jade.” Norma sounds disappointed in me. “We’ve already acknowledged that Farrah made a mistake. One she’ll never make again.”

“Never, ever,” Farrah promises.

This whole thing is so ridiculous—we’ve been going round and round for hours—I almost laugh at the absurdity.

“You know, the guy who produced one of Garth’s early albums—” Norma begins.

“No.” I say it flatly and lean back in my chair. We’re on a video chat, so they can see me, and I’m sure there’s no doubt how annoyed I am. “I’m not going old school. That’s not my style. I love Garth, but his music isn’t my music.”

“Well, what is your music?” Farrah asks. “That way we can spin it correctly.”

“There’s no spin!” I say in frustration. “It’s just music. Royal and I wrote at least four songs for the new album, and I wish you would trust that I know what I’m doing. You handle the tours and merch and advertising and marketing. I handle the music. Right?”

There’s a long silence that makes me want to grit my teeth. Possibly start throwing things.

“Your music alone didn’t get you where you are,” Norma says. “There are a thousand talented, attractive singer-songwriters in Nashville. And no one knows their names. You got where you are because of us. Because we showed you how to do it and got the right songs in front of the right people.”

A touch of unease snakes its way through my system, nearly taking the wind from my sails.

Royal told me to stand up for myself. He assured me I have the strength and the power to run my career the way I want to. But it doesn’t feel like it.

These people—whether I like them or not—have been instrumental in getting me to the top. The fact that I want to drop them now that I’m there feels wrong. No matter how uncomfortable they make me.

I know what I want to do but making it happen suddenly feels impossible.

I wish Royal was here.

Figuratively—or literally—holding my hand and reminding me that I can do this.

That I can do anything .

I’ve never been the type of woman who needs a man’s help to navigate life, but the music business is a completely separate—and much more scary—entity.

Fortunately, I don’t have time to argue anymore.

“I’m sorry, guys,” I say finally. “Rico Galagos is coming over for lunch, so I have to go. We can pick this up again on Monday. Thank you.” With that, I disconnect. It feels a little bit rude but I don’t care. Rico really is on his way, he texted that he’s ten minutes out, and I’m looking forward to seeing him.

He’s someone I’ve always been able to count on, so maybe he’ll have a different perspective for me. I’d been both surprised and excited when he’d mentioned he was going to be in Nashville because this isn’t really his scene. I didn’t hesitate to invite him over for lunch, though.

“Baby girl, you look amazing!” Rico whistles as he comes through the door. He’s never been to my house in Nashville before, and we do a little tour.

“I tried to update and modernize without losing the charm,” I explain when we get to my incredibly contemporary primary bathroom.

“Look, ain’t nobody got time for avocado green appliances or ugly showers,” he says firmly. “You’ve got lots of charm while still immersing yourself in luxury.”

“That’s what I think too.”

We make our way back to the kitchen, and I start pulling out the quiche I made, along with salad, fruit, and pomegranate lemonade.

“Do you cook?” he asks, wide-eyed.

“Of course.” I cock my head. “What self-respecting Southern girl doesn’t cook?”

He grimaces. “None that I know. But I don’t know that many.”

We chuckle together.

Sitting at the island, we eat and catch up, and I tell him what happened with Farrah.

He wrinkles his nose. “She’s always been a little entitled, you know? Like her clients should be grateful for her presence in their life.”

“I’m not at all grateful. Honestly, she hasn’t done anything for me. I had someone else before the record company forced her on me. Mostly, she annoys me.”

“There’s a game to be played, though, and you could use this to your benefit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when you want something next time, something that’s bigger than this pissing contest you have going with Farrah—you say, well, when I wanted Farrah gone, I towed the company line. This time, I want you to take a hit for me. Or whatever.”

He has an interesting point.

And maybe I can use that to get Royal to produce my album.

“I want you to listen to something,” I tell him excitedly, reaching for my phone. Royal and I made better recordings, but I love the ones on my phone because they’re both intimate and raw, with a little bit of Royal’s grittiness. Something I’ve started to love.

I play him “Midnight Snow,” practically bouncing in my seat as I wait for his reaction.

“Damn, girlfriend.” He nods with a big smile. “That’s got the makings of a hit. Will you send me a copy? I’d love to hear it in my studio.”

I do a happy little wiggle as I scroll through my voice memos so I can send him the right recording. If Rico likes it…eek! Then it’s really good. “Of course.” I tap out the message, attach the file, and listen to the little whoosh as it’s sent off through cyberspace. “Done!”

“Thanks, babe.” He squeezes my hand. “I can’t wait to see where this takes you.”

“I know. Me too.” I’m probably grinning a little too much, but I can’t help it.

“Is it for the next album?”

I nod.

“Who are you gonna get to produce it?” There’s a gleam in his eyes and out of nowhere, it hits me what today was all about.

Crud.

He’s never come to visit before because he didn’t need anything.

Now he does.

After my recent success, he’s the next one jumping on the money train—he wants to produce the next album.

Darn.

“Royal Ewing is going to produce,” I say quietly. “We work well together. We wrote ‘Midnight Snow’ in a couple of hours.” That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but he doesn’t need to know about all the kissing and touching and making out that went on in between making music.

“I see.” He puts his fork down and meets my gaze steadily. “So…are you planning to replace everyone who got you where you are?”

Guilt slices through me.

“Rico, no. That’s not it at all. Remember, you turned me down when I asked you to work on my second album, because you were doing more hip hop—I didn’t think you wanted to do country at all anymore.”

“But you could have asked.” His dark eyes are sad.

And I really hate that it’s because of me.

“I’m… sorry . Truly. You never said anything.”

“I didn’t think I had to.” He wipes his mouth and stands up. “And you already asked Royal, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes.” Not officially, but we discussed it. Again, not something I plan to share because this is so awkward already.

I nervously chew the inside of my cheek.

“Please don’t go,” I say quietly. “Maybe you can produce one of the songs and collaborate on?—”

“Give me a break. That’s the equivalent of a pity fuck,” he says, shaking his head. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Jade. And I guess you’re going to learn the hard way about not stepping on people on your way to the top. They’re the same people you have to pass on your way back down.”

My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

I’m too shocked to formulate a response.

“I think you should go.” That’s all I manage to choke out once I find my voice.

“When Royal Ewing chews you up and spits you out, don’t come crawling back to me,” he says as he heads for the door.

He closes it softly behind him and all I can do is stare.

What in the world just happened?

Why would he talk to me this way?

I thought we were friends.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Standing there in my foyer, the surge of loneliness that hits me is so strong, I almost can’t breathe. And then, because I’m just so tired of everything, I burst into tears.