Chapter 5
“What in the actual hell was I thinking last night?” I ask Honey, who is curled up on my chest, purring contentedly. At the sound of my voice, she raises her head, cocking it to one side, and lets out a loud meow in response.
I’m lying in bed, the glaringly bright beams of the early morning sun streaming through the slats in my blinds. My mind is still whirring from everything that happened last night. What was supposed to be a night out to escape from reality turned into so much more. Never in my wildest dreams could I have predicted Austin freaking James would be at the bar. I guess the drinks he ordered explain his shift in demeanor, because he went from a total mystery to hopping on the karaoke stage and totally owning it.
I mean, of course he owned it, Penny. That’s his job.
But what on God’s green earth possessed me to chase him down in the parking lot and hand over my number? Who was that carefree girl last night, and what did she do with responsible Penny? I don’t chase men, especially not tall, handsome men with rumbly laughs and a deep voice that makes my toes curl. And that look! No, I do not chase after men who have my heart hiccuping in my chest with just one look. Oh, and did I mention famous? I’m a pretty smart girl, and I know that’s usually a recipe for disaster. Maybe I can blame it on that delicious drink lowering my inhibitions.
In the music industry, we face a double standard. It’s common knowledge that men can hook up with female musicians, but if women do it, we’re called whores and accused of sleeping our way to the top. I’ve seen it happen countless times. I constantly have to go above and beyond to be taken seriously, which means not even one little pinky toe can step out of line. From everything I’ve read online about Austin James, spending time with him wouldn’t be a toe out of line; it would be my whole damn leg. Yet, for the first time in a long while, I threw caution to the wind and did something completely out of character simply because I wanted to.
Honey finally gets up, stretching her paws out in front of her, and hops to the floor, probably heading to her food bowl. Propping up on one elbow, I reach under my pillow for my phone to text Josie for proof of life.
How do you feel today?
Josie
Like I got run over by an eighteen wheeler. Jay and Abby seem better, though.
Well that’s good news! Maybe you’ll be better by this evening. Those things usually only last twenty-four hours.
Josie
Hopefully. Sorry about last night. What did you end up doing?
Take a wild guess.
Josie
If I know you like I think I do, you changed into your jammies, worked on spreadsheets, and then read a book.
Nope! I went out. Alone.
Josie
What?! Who even are you? Did you have fun?
I did. It was an interesting night.
Josie
Interesting how?
Oh, you know what karaoke night is like. Lots of interesting performers.
I don’t know why I’m being intentionally evasive. I’m unsure about that entire interaction last night, but eventually, I’ll have to tell her all the details. Josie will totally approve of this huge plot twist. Hell, she’ll probably be disappointed that I didn’t crush my lips to his. She’d cut me off there, though. No one-night stands for us, for reasons .
Rising to sit cross-legged, I grab my laptop from the nightstand and open it to Google him, hoping for some clue why he’s here. Instead, I find myself clicking on the images link. Picture after picture pops up on my screen. Some of the recent ones show him looking pretty rough on tabloid websites, but in older photos, he’s perfectly posed for red-carpet events with the gorgeous pop star, Celeste, on his arm.
Before I can stop myself, I’m opening a new tab and typing her name and Austin James into the search bar. It appears that whatever was happening between them has ended because there are tons of newer photos of her with another man. After allowing myself exactly ten minutes of doom-scrolling through image after image, I snap back into the reality that I’m an average girl living in an average town. I’m not famous, and I’m not even beautiful. I know I’m attractive-ish, but it’s mostly because there aren’t many people to look at here. I’m a big fish in a small pond, so to speak, which means I’m nowhere near the beauty of the woman in all his posts.
I let out a loud “ugh,” annoyed at myself. Closing the tab of Celeste images, I navigate to my email and spot one that must have come in right after I left last night. It's a studio session booked for two weeks, starting this morning at nine. My eyes dart to the top right corner of my screen, where the time reads 7:50 a.m. I’m a planner, and spur-of-the-moment bookings aren’t my favorite, but after the cancellation yesterday, I desperately need money to keep things afloat.
A full two-week booking will at least cover this month’s bills, but there won’t be much left over. Something is better than nothing, right? It’ll make a small dent in the pile of debt I was saddled with.
My eyes roam the screen, double-checking that I have all the necessary information. The name on the booking is Tyler Kent. His name doesn’t ring any bells, but right as I’m about to Google him, a loud crash sounds from downstairs, jolting me out of bed toward the source of the noise. Honey has knocked over a half-full cup of water on the kitchen table, and in her mad dash to escape the spill, she’s also knocked over my thick stack of unpaid bills that were bound by a rubber band. The rubber band snapped and now wet bills are scattered all over the floor. I’m frantically grabbing paper towels to clean the mess, all thoughts of a Google search evaporating from my mind.
Once the mess is cleaned up, I pop a K-cup into my Keurig and brew a cup of coffee, scarfing down a granola bar while I wait. Once it's ready I head back up to my room to get dressed. I slip into my favorite thrifted jeans and my faded Dolly for President t-shirt, and with a final swipe through my long hair, I’m ready for the day. Tossing my laptop into my messenger bag, I hitch it over my shoulder and head over to get the studio ready. My house is right across the street, a few yards away.
I’m fishing through my bag for my keys as I approach the parking lot, but my steps falter when an all-too-familiar green van catches my eye. After a moment of standing there with my mouth agape, Austin looks up through the driver’s window and lowers his aviators, our eyes meeting. Slowly, he climbs from the van, his shocked expression probably mirroring my own. Cocking my head to the side, I try to make sense of why he’s in my parking lot. I mean, it’s obvious why he’s here, but my brain’s a little slow on the uptake.
Just yesterday, I saw an article claiming his tour was cut short. Apparently it’s true, or at least some semblance of truth, since he’s now standing in the parking lot of my studio in my tiny town. Tentatively, I approach while giving myself a stern talking-to. Act naturally. You’re a grown-ass woman. You deal with men every single day of your life. Last night didn’t happen. This is just another client on your schedule.
This close and in the daylight, I register all the details I missed last night. Details my Google search failed to capture. Though his facial hair has gotten long, it looks good on him. His honey-brown hair, which was hidden by a ball cap last night, hangs loose today, a stray lock falling across his forehead. It’s slightly damp, the ends curling up at his neck. He looks damn near perfect. But then I notice his nose is slightly crooked, like maybe it’s been broken, and that small detail brings him back down to the level of us mere mortals, as if he’s just the boy next door. He stretches his arms above his head like he’s working out some stiffness, and the hem of his shirt rides up, exposing a trail of hair right above his belt buckle. My face heats, and I force myself to look away.
His clothes are wrinkled, and there’s an air of general dishevelment about him. But it’s not until he opens the sliding back door to grab his guitar, revealing the seats lying flat with a heap of rumpled blankets and a travel pillow, that it hits me.
“Oh my gosh! Did you sleep in your van?” I’m unable to mask the shock in my voice, especially since I know for a fact he could afford to buy our motel and probably half the town.
He turns back to me, rubbing the back of his neck, wearing a sleepy expression. It’s such a charming, boyish gesture. One corner of his mouth quirks up in that barely there smile I noticed last night, but it never reaches his eyes. They’re the same shade as the cloudless summer sky above us right now. They’re also kind. Austin James has kind eyes. But when did the light in them go out?
“So, I had a little mix-up with the motel.” He drags out the word “so” like it has several o’s. “They overbooked, and the bartender last night informed me I might be living in my van here for a few days.” He jerks his head toward the van. “Lucky for me, that truck stop one town over has a shower with endless hot water.”
I’m aware that you can’t believe everything you read online, but from what I’ve read, this man is arrogant and cocky. The thought of him using a truck stop shower almost makes me laugh. Maybe this is exactly what his ego needs. A little bit of deflating. And that’s exactly what I’ll do. Deflate, Deflate, Deflate.
Clearing my throat, I square my shoulders and plaster on the most professional-looking face I can muster.
“I’m Penny Miller,” I say, sticking my hand out for him to shake.
His brows pinch together, but he reaches out and takes my tiny hand in his very large hands. “Austin James.”
“Well, I’m assuming you’re my nine a.m. session? You’re a few minutes early, but you’re welcome to come in while I set things up.”
He hasn’t dropped my hand yet, and it takes every ounce of concentration to form complete sentences. All my senses are focused on how my hand feels in his. Finally, I step back and start walking toward the door of my building, him following behind me.
“Are you new to the industry?” I ask over my shoulder. “Your face isn’t ringing a bell.” Lies, all lies. At this point, anyone who listens to country music has heard his name and probably has his songs on their playlist. His face is on the cover of magazines at the grocery store checkout and probably in at least one-third of the population’s For You Page on social media.
My hands shake as I unlock the side door to the lobby, nerves jangling with every movement. I steal a glance to check if he's noticed, but he's staring at me, wearing a quizzical expression. “I’m Austin James. Country singer?” There’s an incredulous uptick in his words at the end, and I have to work to keep a straight face.
“Hmm, that’s not familiar to me, but so many musicians come through here who are just starting out that they all start running together.” I pop one shoulder in a shrug and head inside, feigning far more confidence than my erratic heartbeat suggests.
He lets out that same rumbly chuckle that I heard last night and follows behind. His steps falter as he stands, stock-still. I go quiet while he takes it all in. We’re a small town, but it's surprising the household names that come through here just to record where some of the greatest have—Aretha Franklin, Cher, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Percy Sledge, and countless others—and I’m so damn proud to be part of that legacy. People come from all over the world to stand where those legends have stood.
The room is dimly lit by string lights on the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the gold records covering the wood-paneled walls. One wall is entirely covered floor to ceiling with vinyl record sleeves of every number one recorded here. Austin takes a few minutes, walking around, inspecting each album and gold record.
“It’s something, isn’t it? Sometimes if I listen closely enough, I swear I hear the ghosts of late-night songwriting or the low strum of a bass guitar.” I’ll probably never cease to be awestruck by what my granddad and dad accomplished here, even though I’ve been around it my whole life. When I turn toward him, he’s wearing the same look of awe on his face.
He doesn’t look over at me. He just shakes his head, muttering, “Damn you, Tyler,” under his breath.
I choose not to ask what he means by that or who Tyler is. I’m assuming it's his manager or maybe a personal assistant. I might have practically thrown myself at him last night, but getting to know this man is no longer part of my plan. Not now that he’s my client, at least. We’re both here to do a job and that's it.
“Right, well, I’ll let you get set up, and then we can discuss your plans for this session.” He follows me into the live room and starts unpacking his guitar, and I busy myself flipping on lights and switching on amps and mics.
“Where’s the sound tech?” he asks, not glancing up from where he’s perched on the edge of a stool. He’s tuning his guitar, adjusting each peg, and plucking each string.
“You’re looking at her. Normally, the studio band is here, but it’s a Saturday and this was last-minute.” I give a half shrug. “It’s just me today.”
He looks up then, his eyes widening slightly, probably assuming I was a receptionist or something. I’m immune to this reaction from musicians by now.
He exhales a sharp puff of air, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed that he’ll be recording with a woman, or just surprised. His reaction rankles me, but I try to shove it down. While I wait for him to finish tuning, I drag a stool next to him and take out my laptop.
“Okay, Mr. James?—”
“Austin,” he interrupts me. “Just Austin.” By the knowing look he’s giving me I’m sure he sees exactly what I’m doing.
“Okay, Austin. ” I emphasize his name, pulling my laptop onto my lap. “Tell me what you want to do, and then I can make a spreadsheet to plan out your studio session. I noticed the booking is for the next two weeks. Depending on what you need, we might get a lot recorded.”
He inhales deeply, scrubbing his hands over his face like he’s weighing his words. His next sentence stops me in my tracks.
“I’m starting over.”
What I know about him is that he’s known for partying, drinking, and women. His songs are at the top of the charts, but in my opinion, most of them aren’t anything to write home about. The ones I have on my playlist are from his older albums. Things changed as he got more popular. But hearing him say he’s starting over gives me pause.
“I’m gonna need more information. What are you starting over from?” I still have to play like I don’t know him. Gotta keep that ego in check.
“Do you really not know who I am? You work in the industry.” He motions at the room around us. “You’re telling me you haven’t heard of me? ‘ After Midnight ’?” He sings a line from a song that’s currently playing on every station.
“Nope,” I pop the p , but to my great horror, when I open my laptop my Google search is still on the screen from my low-key stalking earlier.
“Shit!” The word slips out of me and I slam my laptop shut. He turns to face me, an amused look on his face.
"So you don’t know who I am?” He swivels his head back and forth between my computer and me.
Biting back the laugh that’s threatening to bubble up, I close my eyes and say, “Just tell me your plans.”
He turns on his stool to face me, eyes boring into mine. Then, with a quick shake of his head, he explains how his cousin and manager, Tyler, sent him here to get his shit together.
“This isn’t the life I pictured for myself, ya know? I’ve been writing songs since I was fourteen, but the ones my label keeps giving me now are garbage. They all sound the same, and I’m just over it.” His weariness is palpable, like a physical presence sitting between us. “Don’t get me wrong, the country-pop stuff is great, but it’s not what I wanna be singing. I’ve been at this for a while now, and I’m so damn exhausted. I keep making one drunken mistake after another. Tyler thinks this could be a fresh start for me. I’m here till the end of August.”
Interesting. His session is only two weeks, but he’ll be here for four.
“Did he tell you much about the studio?” I ask.
“Nah, to be honest, I don’t think he actually knew much about the town. He was young when he visited. I did a little research before I came, though. I’m blown away. It’s like this place holds some kind of magic.”
“Oh it does. And just think,” I add, “you get to record right here, with all that magic in the air, for two whole weeks. It’s like the river itself guides the songs. My dad used to say the river guided musicians home.” I swirl my hands in the air, and our gazes catch, his eyes lingering on mine.
That brief eye contact flusters me more than it should, and a voice in my head screams for me to get us back on track.
“What’ve you got for us to record?” I ask, breaking the moment.
“I have these.” He reaches down to his guitar case and retrieves a tattered spiral-bound notebook. “I’ve been working on them for a while, but no way in hell would my label let me record them. They think they know what sells.”
Idly, I flip through the pages, seeing song after song, chord after chord, scrawled out in messy handwriting. “And you want to record all these here?” I ask, handing the notebook back to him.
“Probably not all of them.” He shrugs and snaps the notebook shut. “And these might never see the light of day after we’ve recorded them. But I have to do this for me.” He pauses and blows out a breath. “I’m losing myself out there. I don’t even recognize who I’ve become. I’m a shadow of the man I used to be.”
His voice sounds so broken that guilt tugs at me for giving him a hard time, acting like I don’t know him. I feel even worse for calling him an asshole last night. We’re both quiet, only the tick, tick, tick of the wall clock filling the silence.
“I guess we better get started,” he says, breaking the moment, but neither of us moves.
I sit, studying him. Vulnerability is not something I expected this early in the day, and certainly not from Austin James. This isn’t the same cocky, self-assured man the public knows. My first impression is telling me that maybe the media has him all wrong—that maybe I have him all wrong.
“Yep, guess we better,” I finally say.
Standing, I walk over and step into my sound booth while slipping on my headphones. I gesture for him to play something so I can begin tweaking the sound. He hesitates for a moment, then begins fingerpicking an intro I’ve never heard before. It’s a soulful country ballad that falls somewhere between classic country and folk.
His voice is rough around the edges, like sandpaper, almost like his tone alone is telling its own story. It’s raw and totally different from what’s on his latest album, making it clear why he wants to play his own stuff. I adjust the compression and raise the faders to shape the sound into what I think he’s aiming for.
As he sings, the same transformation I saw last night at the bar takes over. His face softens, the creases between his eyes smooth, and the tension melts away. I recognize this look. He’s taking it back to when music was no more than a dream, back to his roots. This isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed a moment like this. Plenty of artists come to us with the same story of burnout, the same weary expressions on their faces. The music industry will chew you up and spit you out, and the big labels are like puppet masters, using the musicians as their marionettes on a string.
When he finishes, I step from the booth and walk over to him.
“That was amazing!” His chest puffs out at my praise, and a flicker of pride dances in his eyes. “It’s got this old-school vibe, like the music my dad used to play when I was a kid. How would you feel about my band joining you? I can practically hear it with them here. Maybe even a little fiddle on a few songs. I can’t bring them in on short notice today, but I’ll shoot them a text and check their schedules.”
“Absolutely,” he replies without hesitation. “You can send an invoice to Tyler.”
“Oh, and I’ll need to keep you in the loop with the band and all, but I don’t have your number. Only Tyler’s was on the booking.”
“Right. Good thinking.” He pulls out his phone, scrolls, and types out a quick message. My phone pings, and I glance down to see his text, belatedly realizing my mistake.
Unknown
Hey. It’s Mr. Mysterious
My eyes snap up to his, and he’s looking at me with a knowing smirk on his face. Rolling my eyes, I shake my head, barely suppressing a smile.
We work the rest of the day cutting demos of his songs for me to send to my band. As we replay the recording, I steal glances Austin’s way. Pride spreads across his face and excitement radiates from him. He’s perched on the edge of his seat, his fingers tapping his leg in time with the music. I’m not sure what it is yet, but I have a feeling something big is headed his way, whether he’s ready for it or not.