“I’m sorry to be the bearer of this news,” Ronan said, “and to add to it. But you should know that Chris won’t be working at Vidal moving forward. The executives are now Ireland, Christopher, my brother and sister Jules and Claudette Robicheaux, and me.”
The entire band looked at him with astonishment.
“Because of the kidnapping?” Kline asked. “I mean, we get it. Totally. Rum’s right—we’ve known Irie for ages. Shit, she was in high school when we met her. Of course they’ll want some time once she’s back—and theywillget her back. Her brother is Gideon Cross for fuck’s sake. But Chris can’t walk away from the biz. And we’ll wait as long as he needs, but he’s gotta produce this single.”
Ronan’s arms crossed. “There is no place for Chris Vidal at Vidal Records. Period. We’ll find you another producer, and we’ll get this single made sooner rather than later.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Rumsfeld pushed to his feet. “Chris Vidal Sr. is a legend in the music industry. We’re talking genre-defining A&R. You don’t throw that out. He’s what makes this label what it is.”
Ireland had also argued that her father was invaluable to the business. And maybe that was true. Ronan wasn’t discounting it. But the man was also capable of lying, betrayal, and sleeping peacefully at night knowing he’d ruined lives.
“Chrishasto work on this single with us,” the lead guitarist insisted. “He was really excited about it, and that means we’ve got something. This song is his kinda jam, and he’ll help us get it in the shape it needs to be a hit.”
“This is a departure for us,” Kline explained. “It’s a fusion… Soul. Rock. A dash of country.”
“I heard it,” Ronan said. “The lyrics… They pack a punch.”
The verses told the story of a man in a relationship he knew was doomed but couldn’t quit. The chorus about the first kiss goodbye reflected the pain of knowing that a love affair was already in a countdown to the end.
“What about the music?” the bassist queried, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“I’m not the one you should ask,” Ronan deflected.
“Why not? You don’t like it?”
Ronan slid his hands into his pockets. “As I said, the lyrics are striking a chord right now. I’m not in the right headspace to offer an opinion.”
“You going through a bad breakup?” Kline asked.
“Not that it’s anyone’s business but Ireland and I are seeing each other.”
The band went silent.
Rumsfeld spoke first. “I’m sorry, man. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
With a brisk nod of acknowledgment, Ronan turned toward the door. “I’ll be upstairs working on getting you a producer if you need anything.”
“Let me ask you,” Kline began, following. “Are you a paper pusher, Ronan, or do you actually like music?”
Brows raised, Ronan faced the singer. “I’m a musician myself. An amateur, but…” He shrugged. “I play the trumpet.”
“Okay.” Kline extended his arms wide. “Sitting upstairs alone, working on…whatever…you’ll just be in your head. Music will get you out of it for a while. And whatever your opinion is, we need to hear it. Because if you’re not one hundred percent in with this single, you’re not gonna give the support needed to make it a hit.”
The lead guitarist sized him up. “You’ve got thoughts. Spit ‘em out.”
“All right.” Ronan walked back. “You said it’s got soul, and I hear that. But what I wanted to hear was the blues.”
Kline’s brows went up. “The blues,” he repeated.
“Soul is uplifting,” Ronan explained. “Romantic. You’ve got a heartbreak song, ergo the blues.”
Rumsfeld scratched his jaw. “Huh. You think it needs brass?”
“No, that would still lean toward soul. I’m thinking heavier guitar. And maybe a harmonica.”
“A harmonica.” Kline’s foot tapped restlessly. “Can you play one?”
“Maisyeah,” Ronan answered offhandedly. Then more clearly, “Yes.”
