Just Business (Singing River Sound #1)

Chapter 1

“Austin!”

Tyler flips on the lights and slaps the back of the couch, jolting me awake. The world comes at me too fast, too bright, too loud.

“The opener’s on their last song. You’ve got thirty minutes—max—to get your shit together.”

“Mmm,” I mumble stupidly, rising to sit. My limbs are heavy like I’m moving through molasses. The fluorescent lighting in my green room is bright as hell, and the relentless drum beat in my temple kicks up a notch. Squinting, I tilt my head, attempting to bring his face into focus, but all I see is the disappointment bracketing his mouth.

“You missed sound check. I tried getting you up but you were out, man. The band did it without you.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say anyway. The last twelve hours are a foggy haze buried beneath an ocean of bourbon. You’d think I’d be used to the negative press by now. It’s my own fucking fault. But when I spotted the trashy gossip magazine I shut down. It wasn’t even the headline, just a side story with a grainy photo of me looking glassy eyed and wrecked, but it still made my blood boil. “ Austin James Leaves Luxury Suite in Shambles. Full Story on Page 31. ” Another nail in the coffin of this already miserable tour.

“Thirty minutes—I mean it. Don’t be late,” Tyler barks.

With a sharp exhale, he stalks over to the mini fridge in the corner and grabs a bottle of water, tossing it my way. It lands on the couch cushion and a bottle of ibuprofen lands right beside it.

“Thanks,” I groan, but he’s already stormed out. Tyler’s been the only person keeping me going these last few months. He isn’t just my manager; he’s also my cousin and best friend. My only friend these days. I know him like the back of my hand, and even in my current condition, I hear the edge of anger lacing his words. Honestly, I can’t say I blame him. He puts up with far more shit from me than anyone should have to, and I can tell he’s nearing the end of his very frayed rope.

This tour has been abso-fucking-lutely brutal. I’ve been on plenty of tours throughout my career and, up until this one, they were the greatest experiences of my life. The adrenaline high that performing gave me could go toe to toe with any drug out there. Every tour was different, but regardless, I’d loved every minute of them. But not this time. No, with this one I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve wished I’d never agreed to it. When my label first started planning it, it was half this size. But as arenas and festivals sold out, the greedy bastards kept tacking on one new city after another. The twenty-four seven schedule has pushed me to the brink—and I don’t know how much more I can take.

Two more cities, just two more cities. This has been a broken record playing in my mind to keep me going. All I can hope is when this ends, I’ll figure my shit out.

This self-destructive bender I’ve been on hasn’t done a damn thing to improve my mood, either. I’m drunk more than I’m sober, and according to the media, I’ve been with a different woman in every city we’ve stopped in. That wasn’t far from the truth at the start of this tour, but it didn’t take long for that to start eating away at my conscience. Despite what people think, drunken one-night stands aren’t for me. All they do is leave me feeling like a shitty, albeit lonely, human being.

My mouth feels like sandpaper, so I guzzle down half the water and throw back two ibuprofen. I sit for a few minutes before peeling myself off the pleather couch. My reflection stares back at me in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall, and I rear back, repulsed by the man I see who bears an unsettling resemblance to my father.

The dark purple shadows under my bloodshot eyes are a testament to the bourbon and energy drink diet I’ve been on, and my usual five o’clock shadow is creeping into a full-blown beard. Thankfully, the Whiskey Trail Festival— ironic, I know —is outdoors, and it’s the dead of summer in Kentucky. Nobody will think twice if I look like I’ve just rolled out of bed.

I attempt to jog toward the backstage entrance, but the motion turns my stomach upside down and I have to slow to steady myself. When I approach, a stagehand is standing waiting in the wings, holding my guitar out.

“Do you need anything, Mr. James?” She hands over my in-ear monitors and another bottle of water.

Exhaling sharply through my nose, I mutter, “A fucking lobotomy.”

With fumbling hands, I position the in-ears, grab my guitar, and step out onto the stage, leaving the confused stagehand blinking behind me. A sea of cell phones held aloft is all I see at first. Squinting against the glare of the spotlight, my footsteps falter and I sway. Fucking great. Social media will have a field day with that one. I can already imagine the captions.

My chord changes are a beat too slow, and in my periphery I catch the guys in the pick-up band shooting surreptitious glances at each other. One of them—is his name Fred? Flynn? I’m almost sure it starts with an F—gives me a quick slice across his throat, signaling that he’ll cover for me. Yeah, fuck you, whatever your name is. Thanks to my misplaced anger clouding my judgment I keep playing, no matter how terrible it sounds.

Somewhere around the halfway point of my set, I begin sobering up, and with the pain meds finally releasing the vice around my skull, I slip on the familiar mask I’ve been forced to wear. The mask of a man who isn’t drowning. My “ I’m such a lucky guy to be up here ” mask.

All my life my aunt has said I could charm the pants off a snake. Well, here’s hoping I can tonight.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?” I yell into the microphone. When I tilt the microphone toward them the crowd goes wild. Cupping my hand around my ear, I say it again. “We all know y’all can do better than that. Let’s try again. I said, How y’all doin’ tonight?” The roar of the crowd intensifies, vibrating in my chest.

Near the front row, I spot a woman waving a sign that reads It’s My Birthday! Will you make me Mrs. James?

I point at it, smirking. “I like your sign, darlin’, but I’m afraid we don’t know each other well enough to make you Mrs. James.”

“I don’t care!” she yells back to me.

Her response pulls a small chuckle from me. “How ’bout you head over to my merch table and they’ll see to it that you get one of everything. Hope you have a happy birthday.” I give her a wink and toss her my guitar pick, while the group of women she’s with lose their minds, squealing. But I’m sure it's obvious to everyone that I’m completely off my game, and not just because of the hangover.

* * *

“Thanks for a great night, Kentucky!” The thunderous applause and wolf whistles vibrate the stage I’m standing on. “Best night yet! Thanks for coming out, and y’all drive safe.” It’s the same spiel night after night, so the lies roll off my tongue regardless how fuzzy my mind is.

I head backstage where the same stagehand waits. She’s speaking into her headset, eyebrows pinched, but when I approach she lowers it. I yank my in-ears out and drop them into her open palm.

“Tyler Kent said to give you this.”

Glancing down, I see that she’s handing me a neon yellow sticky note that simply reads: Tour Bus.

With a jerk of my chin, I mutter a halfhearted “thanks” and make my way to the backstage bar for a shot of my favorite Angel’s Envy bourbon. The bartender pours a generous two fingers, and I throw it back, the heat rushing down my throat, settling warm and heavy in my chest. If I’m about to get ripped apart, I’d at least like to be a little numb for it.

Unease snakes through me, wrapping tighter with every step I take toward the bus, until it’s hard to breathe. I know damn well what Ty’s gonna say: he’ll tell me how worried he is and remind me how many people are relying on me. Despite the asshole I’ve been forcing him to be lately, he’s responsible and steady, no matter the chaos we’re usually surrounded by. If I weren’t letting my demons win, I’d probably appreciate his unwavering support more than I do right now.

At the door I pause, taking a second to center myself. Inhale for ten and out for ten. It’s something my sister taught me a long time ago, and sometimes it helps. But not tonight. My hair’s grown a bit too long, the ends still dripping with sweat, and I shake it out like a wet dog and step onto the tour bus, ready to face the music.

Tyler’s already waiting, his fingers tapping out an impatient cadence on the table beside him, his leg bouncing to the rhythm of his frustration. His lips are set in a tight line, and his brows are pinched together in a way that is becoming all too familiar. But when his eyes meet mine, they’re laced with deep concern. Always the concern, as far back as I can remember. Forcing myself to keep eye contact, I take a seat on the couch opposite his.

His mouth opens and closes, but after a beat, he takes a breath and lays into me. “We need to talk.”

He rises and begins to pace the cramped walkway of the tour bus, but he seems to reconsider and lowers back onto his seat.

“That was a shit show. You know that, right?” Without giving me a chance to respond, he goes on, “I lost track of how many words you slurred out there, and you didn’t even remember half the lyrics to your first three songs.”

My mouth opens to protest, but he holds up one finger. “Also, it didn’t slip past me that Frank tried to play your part for you on those first few songs.” Ahh, yes, his name is Frank.

Well, all right. No sugarcoating things. But his words confirm what I was already thinking: it really was a shit show, even with the mediocre second half. Despite being fully aware of this, my hackles rise.

“I know that, Ty,” I bite out. “Do I look like a fucking idiot? I just need to make it through this tour, and I’ll do whatever it takes. Just two more cities.” My head drops into my hands, and a plea seeps into my words that I can’t quite mask. “Two more.”

Tyler’s quiet for so long that a knot forms in my gut, and I finally get the nerve to glance up at him. Jaw clenched, he shakes his head and that knot pulls tighter.

“Listen, I’m not sure there’s gonna be two more cities. Doug is worried about the negative PR and all the social media bullshit that follows you after every show lately.”

My eyebrows rise slowly. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Be honest here, man. Can you blame ’em? He called me this morning to discuss it. I was on the fence, but after witnessing that tonight, I’m leaning toward at least rescheduling it. I think I can talk him into that rather than a full cancellation.”

My nostrils flare, and I can hardly hear myself think over the ringing in my ears. I sit up straighter, shaking my head.

"Unbelievable." I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "I told them it was too much. Months ago I tried to tell them I was hitting a wall. We could have avoided so much of this bullshit if someone would’ve listened to me.”

“You’ve definitely hit a wall. That’s for damn sure.”

He continues to speak, but I’m lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, only snapping back to reality at his last few words.

“—small studio in Alabama.”

My face must show my confusion. Digging my palms into my eyes, I will the haze to lift and shake my head slightly.

“I said there’s a small studio in Alabama,” he repeats. “Remember when my roommate and I went there in college?”

I jerk my head; a vague memory of the trip he’s referring to floats to the surface.

“Well, I heard about it while I was there. Took a little time today to look it up. They’re still around,” Ty continues. “It’s like some hidden gem known for producing hit records. Singing River Sound. The slow-paced life might help you clear your head. Plus, you’ve been bitchin’ about having to sing whatever the label throws at you. Go record some originals I know you’ve got in that notebook you’re always writing in.” He gestures toward the notebook hanging out of my backpack on the floor. “Think of it like a reset—an extended sabbatical. This recording will be for fun, no pressure to release it or tour with it. Might remind you why you love this. You don’t have to be anywhere until our meeting with the label in Nashville on August 30th. I can book studio time for you at Singing River.”

Blink…blink…blink . Holy Shit. I think he’s actually serious. He just threw a lot of words my way, and that shot didn’t do a damn thing, other than jumble my thoughts. August 30th. I squeeze my eyes shut to do some quick mental math. That’s just over a month away. Disappearing for a month would be a publicity nightmare. Worse than your public image already is? my traitorous brain fires back at me.

“Ty, look me in the eye and tell me my career would survive if I disappeared for that long. It’ll be a dark cloud that follows me. All people will see is a drunk who flushed years of success down the drain.” I can’t believe he thinks this is a good idea. But…why does this feel like two elephants have stepped off my chest?

“Okay, first of all, you and I both know you’re not that special.” He fixes me with a pointed stare, one eyebrow raised. “People postpone tours all the time. Your fans and some trolls on the internet will come up with some wild theories about where you are, that’ll last a week or two, and then the next shiny bit of gossip will catch their eye. You know damn well that’s how it is. Kate can handle the publicity and media to spin a believable story.”

“And second of all,” he goes on, “you are acting like a drunk, and if you don’t get your head out of your ass, this will all end with you in rehab. The writing’s on the wall, man. We’ll say you’re exhausted and dealing with vocal stress. When you figure your shit out, you can finish out the tour and give them the best night of their lives.” He offers me a weak smile—one I don’t return, and I look away, a wave of resignation washing over me.

Kate is my publicist and she’s truly fantastic at her job. She thrives off squashing rumors and putting out fires. She’s somehow managed to turn around even the worst stories about me, but I’m not sure even Kate Green can come up with something that would make people believe this isn’t tied to my very public downward spiral.

Standing, I walk to the window, watching as the crew packs up our equipment to hit the road. The thought of another god-forsaken night on this bus makes my skin crawl. I’m a caged animal with no clue how to break through the bars that are closing in on me. Is this my lifeline or my downfall?

“What about the band we hired? This will leave them all jobless until they find another gig.” My thoughts drift to Frank and the rest of the guys, looking on with disgust while I stumbled around on stage. There’s no telling what they think of me.

“We’ll have to make sure they’re available for the rescheduled concerts, but they’ll be paid either way. Doug assured me of that.” He speaks like it’s that easy. Hell, maybe it is. They’re probably wishing they were out of this dumpster fire anyway.

“Sounds like y’all thought of everything, leaving me in the dark.” I turn to face him, resting my hands on my hips, hating that I sound like a petulant child. But this is a lot to wrap my head around. “How long do I have to think on it? This is a huge decision,” I ask, moving back to take a seat on the couch.

“Will you actually consider it, or do you plan on drinking yourself stupid again tonight?” He locks his eyes onto mine. “I need you to listen to me. You’re like my brother, and I’m pretty damn worried about you. I wouldn’t do anything that would ruin you—you trust me, right? You might not be in the right headspace, but lucky for you, I’m thinking clearly enough for both of us.” He taps his temple and leans back, arms crossed across his chest.

Well, shit. He went and played nice while I’m still gearing for a fight. But he’s right. Not once in my thirty-four years on earth has he ever steered me wrong. Ty is two years older, and even though he’s not my brother by blood, he embraced that big brother role wholeheartedly after my sister and I moved in with my aunt, uncle, and him when I was ten.

I cannot believe the words that are about to leave my mouth. “How long would it take to get things booked in Alabama?”

A few seconds of silence stretch between us, and I glance up. Tyler's face has gradually morphed from stress to relief. I hadn’t truly grasped just how much concern he’d been carrying until I saw it melt away just now.

“I can start working on things tonight. Kate can get busy on a story we all agree on and get it out to the media. Forty-eight hours should be plenty of time, and then you can head to Alabama. I’ll book you a private flight tonight to get everything packed up. You wanna go to your condo or back to Texas?”

“Texas.” My response is instant. My condo in Nashville is the exact opposite of what I need right now. At least in Texas I’ll have some peace and quiet to prepare for this trip.

“Okay, flying tonight to Texas, leave in forty-eight hours. Am I driving or flying to Alabama?” I hope to God I’m flying. I’ve had one too many run-ins with paparazzi snapping pictures of my blacked-out G-Wagon to know it would be far too conspicuous for this situation.

“Flying. Definitely.” Clearly, he’s thinking along the same lines. “All right, I’ll get on it. Flight, rental, lodging, studio…that’ll cover it,” he adds, relief still evident in his voice.

“This town better change my life, Ty.” Slumping back in my chair, I let out a long, exhausted sigh and drape one arm over my eyes. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.”