I vaguely recognize the man standing on my front porch, but I can’t say that I know him. He’s definitely not local. If I had to describe him, I’d say he’s right at the intersection of gay and Nashville. His face is preternaturally smooth, his brows are perfectly waxed, he’s got far too nice a tan for the middle of winter, his cowboy boots are a gorgeous iridescent black leather, his jeans look like they’ve been made especially for him, and his lamb’s wool jacket is a little too clean.
“Gene!” Mac shouts, gleefully pushing me aside.
Oh…shit. That’s why he looks familiar. It’s Gene Humbolt, CEO of Out There Records. Mac’s record label.
I curse Dr. K in my head as I take his jacket from him, noting that even his basic waffle-weave Henley looks expensive.
Mac brings her boss in for a massive hug. “So glad to see you!”
Gene pulls back and gives Mac a once-over.
“Look at you! Good coloring, you’ve kept your weight up,andyou’re out of the boot.”
“I’m only walking with the cane because Kinley insists I have it on hand, just in case.”
“That Kinley, she’s good people,” Gene says, aiming his sparkling eyes in my direction.
Yeah, let’s see if Mac agrees with that by the end of this conversation.
“So, what brings you out?”
“I’m checking in on you. I’ve been so busy finalizing Kole Berber’s contract that I haven’t been able to come back and check on you. I heard you’re making music again and wanted to see it for myself.”
Mac gets this shrewd look on her face—because she’s not an idiot—and she looks at me, lifting her chin. “Yeah? Who told you that?”
“I have my sources. I’m also being told you’re putting in long sessions, which seems unreasonable given everything, don’t you think?”
Mac glares at me, and I raise my hands, trying to look innocent, probably failing miserably.
Turning back to Gene, she asks, “Did you really come out here to tell me I’m working too hard?”
He grins. “Yep.”
“I’m an adult. I know my limits.”
“Sure, but here’s the thing,” he says, shifting subtly out of friend mode and into boss mode. “When you’re a record executive—that’d be me—for a major music star—that’d be you—and that major music star dies from overwork? It looks bad, reputation-wise, you understand. So stop giving Kinley death glares and know this is a purely selfish call.”
Mac thins her lips but nods and leads Gene into our makeshift studio. I bring in an extra chair, and we sit in a circle. Mac grabs Old Faithful, and I recognize it as a defensive move. I think Gene clocks it as well because he picks up her Martin, strumming a familiar tune.
“So, talk me through this new song of yours,” he says, adjusting the tuning pegs.
Mac looks at me accusatorially, then gestures at her boss. “We could be making love right now, but now I’m going to hafta sit here and take a scolding.”
“Yes, darling,” I say dryly, not buying it for one second. “Gene looks like he’s ready to rip you a new one.”
Gene snorts. “I like her.”
“Besides,” I continue, grabbing the Fender while ignoring Mac’s disgruntledness, “I would like to continue making love to you for the foreseeable future, which becomes infinitely more difficult when you are dead. So, if Gene can get you to back off just a little, then—and this is purely selfish—he can read you the riot act if he wants to.”
Turning to Gene, I lift my chin. “ThatDstring is a little flat. And you might’ve overshot theAby a hair.”
Gene stares at Mac, who sighs, put-upon. “Kinley’s got perfect pitch.”
Gene lets out a rough laugh, shaking his head.
“What?”
He and I exchange a look, and he refocuses on the guitar, making the adjustments.
