“It didn’t seem like your heart was in it,” I tell him. “Your voice sounded great, the production was top-notch. But the words…. I don’t know. It was all whiskey shots and Friday nights and dirt roads and girls in tight blue jeans. Kinda paint-by-numbers. None of your usual poetic turns of phrase, or insightful observation, or soul. Just seemed like you were phoning it in.”
He slaps the stone countertop with the palm of his hand. “Damn fucking right. It was drivel. I hate that record.”
The dusty guitar in that empty studio suddenly makes a lot more sense.
“Then why’d you make it?” I ask, genuinely curious.
A deep exhale as his eyes go distant.
“Because I was in the middle of a divorce that was draining the life force out of me. Because I was trying to protect and provide for Jonah and feeling like I was failing every fucking day. Because I thought puttingsomethingout into the world was better thannothing. But I was wrong. Nothing is better, if that’s the something I made.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” I tell him. “You had three singles in the top ten out of it. It still went platinum. Fans loved it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I’m not a fan.”
Not anymore.
His eyes narrow. “You’ve got some pretty strong opinions for someone who’s not a fan.”
“I have strong opinions on lots of things I’m not fond of. Mayonnaise, for instance. Or the color chartreuse.”
“Is that what my music is to you? Mayonnaise and chartreuse?”
“Not your first five albums,” I tell him truthfully. “But maybe that sixth one. Bland and flashy at the same time.”
For a moment, he just stares at me.
And then he starts laughing.
Walker Rhodes, unsmiling, moody, grump extraordinaire, is laughing with his whole chest.
Chapter 8
Heart of Glass
WALKER
Sadie’s looking at me like I just grew a second head, and honestly, I probably deserve it.
But it feels so fucking good to laugh, I don’t even care.
“Are you gonna fire me now?” she asks, still looking askance at me.
“Hell no. I’m giving you a raise,” I say.
She looks at me like I’m crazier with every passing moment.
“Thank you,” I tell her, when I finally catch my breath. “I’ve been waiting for someone, fuckinganyone, in my inner circle to tell me the truth about that record.”
Leave it to my spitfire of a nanny to be the one to do so.
When I got home this afternoon, anxious to check on Jonah, I was already in a bad mood. Everything that could have gone wrong on the ranch did today, and I should have stayed longer instead of leaving it to Dad and Rafe, our foreman. But I needed to make sure my son is doing okay.
And I needed to see how Sadie was doing too. First day on a new job, new place, a kid she just met. It’s only natural to want to make sure things were running smooth.
Purely professional concern.
