Chapter 4
Chapter Four
ISAIAH
When it comes down to it, I’m used to fangirls. But it’s hard to play it smooth with one woman when another is standing in the wings screaming your name.
The private moment has turned embarrassing as hell.
Cassidy is the prettiest girl I’ve met in years. Of course, the recently deceased wife means my timing is all off. Except, my timing always seems to be off. I’m almost certain that’s how I wound up married to begin with.
I don’t know if I’ll see Cassidy again, and I didn’t want the opportunity to ask her out to pass me by.
I’d hate to see how this scenario would’ve played out had we met backstage months from now when the tour stops in Houston. Somehow I know I’d be as interested in her then as I am now. Her hesitance to answer me makes it obvious she doesn’t understand that I hoped to score a date with her.
A bright red blush covers Cassidy’s face as she introduces Rhiannon, her “sister from another mister”; a not unattractive brunette, who I recognize in an instant I’m not the least bit attracted to.
The subtle reassurance gives me confidence to pursue Cassidy.
“I knew something was up when Gatlin said to meet him over here with my camera.” She stomps her feet gleefully, her dark ponytail bouncing.
I notice the strap dangling over Rhiannon’s shoulder. It was hidden by her comfortable, all-black ensemble. Sweat prickles my neck. I’ve hidden from cameras for months.
“Rhi shoots private events on the property and takes all the pictures for our social media. She is the official family photographer as well,” Cassidy explains.
“Don’t worry. I’m under an NDA and most of the pictures are for Uncle Cris’s personal use. He has me document sessions when other artists visit. We’re strict about making sure we’ve been granted permission to use anyone’s likeness. Anything that’s shared widely, you’ll have to sign a release for. More people than singers and songwriters don’t want random pictures of themselves circulating on the internet.” Rhiannon puts me at ease. “I swear, now that I’m over the shock, you won’t even notice I’m there,” she continues. “But I told Gatlin you’re on my list of people I’d die to photograph. So, I also plan to murder our cousin for not warning me you were at Kingsbrier.”
“There’s a lot of that sentiment going around.” I wink at Cassidy.
Her eyelashes flutter, and she looks away.
I need her attention back like the air I breathe. “So Cassidy, I’ll see you at seven?”
Asking Cassidy to accompany me here was a bit of a ruse to spend more time with her. I have a good sense of direction both geographically and with women whose bodies I’d like to map. I could’ve found my way to Cris’s and I know my way back.
“I’ll be at the inn.” Her reply is cagey, yet the way her tooth sinks into her plump lower lip, I’m able to read between the lines.
Cassidy’s not entirely on board and I can’t say I blame her. I’ve been on lockdown and I’m just as confused about the way I’m suddenly feeling. It’s on me to clear things up and I have a few tricks up my sleeve to help her understand my intentions.
Cassidy turns to go. The only thing stopping me from following her like a stray pup is missing my chance to compose with the duo I came to Kingsbrier intending to meet.
Escorting me to Cris’s studio, Rhiannon is bubbly about her work, but loads calmer.
The epitome of what you’d expect from someone artsy, she mentions her upcoming excitement over snapping pictures on Christmas Day.
“I’d like to see your work,” I say, about to ask her for a preview of the photographs she takes while I’m with Cris and Jake.
Rhiannon flicks up her index fingers, pointing to either side of the hallway covered in black and whites. Her portfolio is impressive, filled with candid snapshots of singers I’ve gotten to know over the course of my career.
I shouldn’t keep everyone waiting, but I linger, examining an older picture. There’s no way Rhiannon took this one. But something about it strikes me as special. It’s of a group of women—one of whom I recognize as Daveigh Sanchez—and a bunch of gangly girls surrounding a trailblazing female artist.
“Is that — ”
“—It most certainly is,” Rhiannon confirms.
“She’s a legend.”
“We were little and didn’t know, you know? How important she was? We were just over the moon. The lady who sang the song our mothers dropped everything and turned up the radio to hear came to visit Uncle Cris. Cass and I could sing her lyrics before we could speak.” Rhiannon looks me straight in the eye mentioning Cassidy.
Curiosity has the best of her, and she’s baiting me. I won’t bite. I think whatever anyone has to say should come from Cassidy.
A male voice interrupts. “What’s funny about that picture is my wife and my sisters-in-law were bigger fans than I ever was. The energy the women brought to the table made those writing sessions click. Doing something important to them made her visit larger than life.”
I spin, finding the man I’ve idolized since I picked up a guitar standing in the doorway.
In the snapshots adorning the hall, Cris has morphed from his strapping youth, singing lead in his original band, to the man I associate with his success. Still in good shape, he’s closing in on his seventh decade. Although, I notice his hair has swaths of white streaking the deep black. I’m humbled by the kindness and knowledge in his soulful face.
I’m no slacker at songwriting, but Cris Sanchez has the artistry and industry experience a singer needs to level up. You fit into his schedule, not the other way around. I’m grateful to be here before he retires and the opportunity passes me by.
“It’s a pleasure, Isaiah.” Cris greets me like we are old friends, pulling me into his studio.
“It’s absolutely all mine.”
Gatlin is already here, sitting a loveseat. Jake Ballentine is pacing the room. His lighter complexion hides a weathered lifestyle and his Norse-God height is as imposing as the list of artists he’s worked with over the past three decades.
On the inside, I’m reacting no differently than Rhiannon. The number of times the duo has been nominated for song of the year is incomprehensible. Writing with them is a goal of mine.
I shake hands with Jake and meet his wife, Paisley, a tiny brunette, before she excuses herself. Rhiannon’s camera shutter clicks rapid fire from every angle.
“Glad you dropped by. Looking forward to hearing what we can help you with,” Jake says.
“A number one would be great,” I joke.
“That’s what we strive for, and we have solid footing. The album you released this summer gives us great momentum to build on.”
“Of course, you’re familiar with Gatlin,” Cris remarks. “In a good way, thank goodness for small favors.”
“Thank Cris for saving Gatlin’s behind and getting him back on the air or you wouldn’t be here,” Jake instructs me with a hint of the devil.
“I’m thankful,” I tell Cris.
More than they realize.
Gatlin grumbles, rising from the couch to grip my hand. “Number one syndicated country radio show. I bring you the Isaiah Roomer. Yet, I won’t ever live down one slip up on the radio around here.”
I first encountered Gatlin at a concert after he rebooted his career. The internet buzz surrounding the scandal was loud—and I know he met his wife Bellamy at a resort while doing his penance—but I’ve never asked Gatlin for the whole story. The DJ never struck me as a complete asshole, and celebrity gossip is like a game of telephone. The message you receive isn’t always the one that was sent.
“Now, if you could save my ass I’d appreciate it,” I say.
“What’s going on?” Cris inquires, offering me a seat. He motions to his niece. “Rhiannon has a non-disclosure. She blends into the woodwork, but if you’re uncomfortable talking about anything, she’s never held it against us to come back once we’ve got a few instruments out and are in the throes.”
It doesn’t make a difference to me whether Rhiannon stays. I learned how to choose my words in this industry a decade ago. With Gatlin milling about, he’ll hear everything anyway. It’s easier to settle into the couch and get down to business.
“I guess now is as good a time as ever to delve into the nitty-gritty. The new singles we’ve been promoting for the upcoming tour I wrote before Kylie’s accident. They’re climbing or holding steady on the charts. Online the video views for the upbeat songs keep racking up.
“What about the ballad?” Jake pushes. “It’s topping the country chart and having crossover success in the pop top ten, but word is the lack of promotion is promoting it.”
I sigh. “I’ve been fighting with my PR team and the video director. All of them want a montage of Kylie. Our wedding pictures, home movies, personal highlights.”
“And you’re disinclined to share those memories with the rest of the world.”
My palm flattens face up. “On one hand, our public relations managers gave fans exactly what they wanted. Everyone pretty much saw Kylie and I grow up together.”
We starred in a revival of the same television show. The ratings were outstanding, and the audience loved us. Except the demographic was for teens. We aged out a few seasons in and younger cast members replaced us. Kylie and I had made enough of a splash that the same label signed us to recording contracts. I loved my wife. However, the early stages of our romance were fabricated to sell more albums.
“On the other hand, your marriage is private,” Cris supplies.
I scrub my face. “Yeah, but the song isn’t about Kylie and using their grief over her death to further my career isn’t something I think I can live with. The truth is, since she passed away, my songbook is filled with melancholy notes. I’d record all of them if it were about selling my soul.”
“So we’re not compiling a tribute album.” Ballentine leans back in his chair.
“Don’t sound so relieved, Jake.” Cris cocks his chin in his partner’s direction.
“I’m not saying we can’t do it. But your songs about Liz wouldn’t have had the same effect if they were co-written. Even your version of the single you sold about falling for Daveigh is a fuck ton better than the one that got recorded and wound up on the airwaves. Shit like that oozes from your pores.”
“That’s poetic… And gross,” Gatlin reminds us he’s present.
Jake kicks his knee. “What I mean is, a songwriter rarely needs help tapping into that emotion. It flows.”
I regard the men in the room. They’re down to earth and I feel like they get the point I’m trying to make. “There’s a tribute to Kylie out there, but not like this. I’m not selling her story. I’m not pandering. And if I follow the current album up with what’s in my notebooks, listeners will grab onto the first tune and expect more of the same.” It’s a death sentence. They’ll say I’m depressed, clinging to her memory.
In some regards, they’re not too far off in that assessment. I’ve mourned the person I thought Kylie was, the marriage I wanted, and have come to grips with the marriage we had. I’ve made choices I’m none too proud of. Ones that tested my will and challenged my beliefs of right and wrong. I won’t ever forget Kylie, but my commitment to whatever comes next is that it doesn’t turn into a circus sideshow.
Cris grabs a pen. “So we’re writing about moving on. Sometimes life’s a party—”
Jake interrupts. “And other times you make it your bitch.”
“What’s our jumping off point?” I’m at a loss.
It’s Christmastime. I hadn’t expected this meeting to be more than a brief introduction. I’m shocked, but so on board that they’re ready to get down to the nitty gritty.
“We’re taking the path of least resistance.” Cris offers me some blank sheets, his pen, and then a guitar.
“He says as if he did not resist!” Jake booms, shuffling around the room. A red light turns on and when he hits buttons to record the rest of the session.
“If I recall correctly, old friend, you were the one who resisted.” Cris taunts back. He turns from Jake to me. “Take it from us, kid. Resisting is futile.”
“Y’all lost me.” I huff, strumming, then I clap my palm over the strings to stop the twang.
“The easiest place to bring the energy from is by falling in love with falling in love again.”
I think about the morning spent with Cassidy. Fire ignites in my fingertips. “I might be able to do that.”
Gatlin and Rhiannon stick around a little longer. By the time they leave, Cris, Jake and I are in the thick of it, strumming and humming and writing snippets of refrains down. Their absence is hardly noticeable.
These guys are amazing at their craft. Having known one another for ages, they unabashedly taunt each other without a care that I’m not privy to the inside jokes.
The collaboration is sound, easy. It’s one of the best times I’ve had in a long time. I’m all at once exhilarated and humbled to be in their presence. We’re knocking ideas out left and right. This is the kind of afternoon when the giddy kid inside of me thinks he is never writing another album without Cris or Jake’s input. Which I know is stupid. An artist has to invite creativity in, not keep it at bay.
Cris excuses himself. His grandkids have stopped by. He’s eager to see them. Jake steps out of the room to take a call. While getting a jump on the next album is my priority, guilt creeps over me. I’m keeping these people away from their personal lives. It occurs to me to pay attention to mine.
I get on the horn with Vespa, my assistant. “I need you to set up reservations for two for dinner. I’m sending you the restaurant information right now.”
“Two, not three? I thought Jake Ballantine was wherever you are, and that’s what made it so freaking important to extend the trip after the interview with Gatlin Newhouse wrapped.” Vespa is clearly perturbed that I waited this long to contact her.
“Just two. I’ll finish with Sanchez and Ballantine in a few hours.”
“Then why aren’t you calling for a pilot?”
I’m silent for a beat. Vespa has me on speakerphone. The rapid click-click-click of her ball point pen is audible.
“You’re taking a woman out.” She blows an irritated breath. “After all these months, are you fucking kidding me?”
“Get the table, V.” I’m not arguing. Vespa may run my life, but she does so because she works for me. I’ve asked her for crazier things.
“I can’t. Not without you giving me permission to throw out your name. You’ve been all about flying under the radar. Don’t risk everything for a quick lay, Isaiah.”
It’s my turn to get irritated. “Do what you have to do.” I gnaw on my thumbnail. “And courier me something suitable to wear. I can’t show up in the same ratty clothes I’ve had on since yesterday.”
Twenty minutes later, Vespa texts a scolding confirmation. The reservation is all set.
You’re goddamned lucky you are who you are.
Not always. But yeah, being Isaiah Roomer sometimes has its perks.