Chapter 3
Chapter Three
GAVIN
Idrum my fingers against the car door panel, impatient energy coursing through my veins while watching the outside scenery pass by.
Sosie is driving us to my show tonight, and for some reason, I feel nervous.
My pre-show jitters are usually due to the anticipation of the high I get while performing, so this nervousness is a foreign feeling.
Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Yesterday was a long day with continued interviews and time spent in the studio working on a song for another artist. I didn’t get home until close to midnight and crashed as soon as I turned the lights off.
“What’s up with you?” Sosie asks, giving me a strange look out of the corner of her eye. She notices everything, so I know I won’t be able to weasel my way out of this unwanted conversation.
“Nothing. What’s up with you and those bags under your eyes?
” I question with concern as I study her more closely.
She has her hair up in a messy bun and her thick red glasses on, but those glasses only accentuate the deep purple bags underneath her blue eyes.
Something is going on with her that she’s not sharing.
When I’m in the studio working for other artists, Sosie isn’t on the clock, meaning she was done working for me yesterday after lunch.
What she does with her free time is her business, but when I see her not looking well, I make it a point to make her personal time my business.
“Always deflecting, but it won’t work this time, Gav. I’m not answering your question until you answer mine.” She gives me a sweet, fake smile before turning her attention back to the road.
“Fine,” I mumble, caring more about hearing what’s going on with her than my own nervousness. “Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. For some reason, I’m nervous.”
“Yeah, I can tell. You’re like the Tasmanian Devil over there.” I follow her eyes to my left leg bouncing rapidly up and down. I place my hand on my thigh, mentally forcing it to stop. “But you’ve performed numerous times at the Bluebird. Why would this time be any different?”
“Possibly because this is a private event being held by another record label.” Their people will be watching me…
judging me, I think but don’t say out loud.
I shouldn’t be nervous. I practically lived at the Bluebird Cafe when I first landed in Nashville.
It’s the place to play when you’re a songwriter wanting to get noticed.
It’s an extremely small venue, capacity of only 90 people, making the audience seem like they’re right on top of you.
Food and beverages are served while the crowd listens to singers belt out their songs.
The Bluebird has launched the careers of some of today’s most famous singers like Taylor Swift and Garth Brooks.
You can feel how special the place is the moment you walk through the doors.
“People are watching and judging you every time you walk on stage though,” she reminds me.
“True.” I sigh, not really wanting to psychoanalyze my mood right now.
“Maybe subconsciously, you’re anxious because you know when your contract is up with the devil, you need to change record labels, and Big Little Music could potentially be your future home.
” I chuckle at her calling Atticus Langston the devil.
From day one, Sosie saw right through his weaselly charm and loves telling me, in her heavily laced sarcastic voice that she prays for my soul every day.
“I don’t think so. For one thing, I like being with a big label, because they have more dollars for marketing and advertising.”
“That actually isn’t true anymore,” she informs me quietly.
“I know you’ve heard how Big Little Music’s artists love being with them.
Plus, they’ve landed some pretty big names for not being a more well-known label.
” She starts rattling off the names of their well-known singers, surprising me with not only their lineup of talent, but her knowledge of who they have signed.
When Sosie first started working for me, she didn’t know shit about this industry.
Not that it mattered to me—I was just trying to get her the fuck out of California and away from my toxic aunt and uncle.
Since working for me, she has taken her job as my assistant very seriously, immersing herself in the industry, studying the ins and outs of it and who the big players are.
As I let her words settle in, I realize she might have a point. For a small label, Big Little Music has created quite the reputation for themselves. For one, they still care about their artists and not how much money they can get out of them. They are the total opposite of Charisma Records.
Up-and-coming artists like myself don’t usually get signed by labels like Charisma.
They already make enough money on their current catalog of talent and don’t need or want to take a chance on nobodies.
The only reason I got signed is because I wrote a hit song for Tori, who ran home and told her daddy about me.
I highly doubt she raved about how truly talented I was—more like she wanted to keep me around and happy so I could write more songs for her.
Fortunately, I signed only a single album deal with Charisma.
Yes, it sucks big giant, Texas-sized balls that they get to own the rights to my songs for ten years, but that’s the price you pay when you sign on the dotted line sometimes.
We pull into the parking lot behind the Bluebird.
Since there are no dressing rooms for artists to wait in, most just arrive at their designated time slot or hang out with other performers in the back by their cars.
I wave at a couple people I recognize as I get out of the car then retrieve my Martin D28 acoustic guitar from the back and start to warm up while standing there.
Sosie always makes sure we arrive ten minutes before call time, which I know is padded with a few extra minutes.
Once I’m warmed up, I head over to a group of people gathered near the back door.
“How’s the crowd tonight?” I ask, greeting Scotty Wilkins with a pat to his shoulder. I’ve known Scotty for years and have even wrote a couple songs with him. Despite his overinflated ego, he’s a good guy.
“Great crowd tonight. I might stick around to make myself available, if you know what I mean.” He winks at Sosie, who responds by rolling her eyes in disgust at him.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, man. My cousin would chew you up and spit you out.
” I give him a cold smile, hoping he catches my warning when our eyes lock.
I know Sosie can handle herself, but I can’t help the protectiveness I feel when it comes to my baby cousin.
Anyone disrespects her, they’ll answer to me.
Scotty chuckles and shakes his head while smiling. “You know, it’s pretty awesome how tight you two are. I wish I had that family dynamic.” For a moment, something that resembles sadness flashes in his eyes, but Scotty is quick to blink it away and go back to his usual cocky self.
What was that all about? Not that he would tell me anyway.
We aren’t close, nor will we probably ever be.
I purposely keep my circle close and tight.
In this industry, I’ve learned you don’t know what people’s motives are, so it’s best to keep everyone at a distance until they prove themselves to be loyal.
“A couple of us are getting together next week to jam. Look at your schedule, and if you’re free, come join us.
It would be worth your time.” Having worked together before, Scotty knows how I operate.
For him to say it would be worth my time piques my interest. I look over at Sosie, who nods at me while typing notes in her phone to check my schedule.
“I’ll text you tomorrow with my schedule and you let me know where and when,” I tell him, trying to remember what’s going on next week. If I recall correctly, it’s a slower week, with the end of the month being crazier.
“Good luck in there tonight,“ Scotty says with a nod at me. He pats me on the shoulder, waves at Sosie, and heads toward his car to leave.
“So much for him staying to make himself available,” Sosie snarks sarcastically while watching him drive away.
“You like Scotty Wilkins?” I narrow my eyes at her, trying to gauge her reaction to my question.
Sosie has shown zero interest in anyone since moving to Nashville.
Her douchebag of an ex-boyfriend did a number on her, so it isn’t that surprising to me that she’s so standoffish when it comes to the opposite sex.
“Seriously, what is wrong with you tonight?” She huffs in annoyance, my smirk only seeming to rile her up even more.
“That question doesn’t even warrant a response.
Get your head out of your ass, because it’s time to perform.
” I laugh at her not-so-motivating pep talk and follow her up to the back door.
We check in with the staff and wait for them to signal me through.
I hear the audience clapping and see the performer who was just on stage walk back to us.
I smile in acknowledgment at her and then start walking when she’s cleared the hallway.
Once I appear into the main room, I keep a smile on my face, my eyes trained on the stool for me to sit on.
The room is silent, no one applauding in greeting, because the rules of the Bluebird Cafe are that you are here to listen and immerse yourself in the experience and emotion of the songs.
No one gets rowdy here. No one gets up to dance.
This is a true, musical experience of listening and dissecting every word and meaning of these songs.