Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Afew hours later, in Nashville, Jamie sat at a sterile conference room table with half a dozen record label executives. The cavalcade of batshit ideas had only gotten worse.
“Let’s cut a deal with Chevy; for every new Silverado sold, we throw in a deluxe copy of the album for free,” barked a man with a thick auburn mustache and ruddy cheeks.
“What, you wanna sell our boy like an economy pack of Costco socks?” asked another. His scraggly blond ponytail whipped as he shook his head. “I got a guy at an erectile dysfunction pill manufacturer who’s dying to talk sponsorships. Check out the slogan.”
Ponytail dragged his hand across the air wistfully, as if unveiling a Sunset Boulevard billboard. “Pop one for hours of fun.”
“Forget brand deals,” said a third man with sleep-deprived eyes. “Jamie Jr. ought to endorse a politician. Somebody who gets people fired up and engaged. Somebody like—”
Jamie held up a hand to stop him. “I’m not endorsing anybody, or shilling trucks, or anything else.” He didn’t need to pop anything to have a good time. He excelled at falling into bed with the wrong person, at the wrong time.
“Well, son, we gotta go with something,” Mustache grumbled. “We ran the numbers for the new album, and first-week sales projections are down two-percent compared to your debut.”
“Is that bad?” Jamie asked. He was no mathematician, but a two-percent dip sounded trivial. Allegedly, his job was to focus on the music.
“It’s not bad. It’s fucking terrible,” Mustache retorted.
Ponytail cleared his throat. The sound was thick with phlegm. “We agreed the Heartbreak Prince thing was working. The first album soared with the buzz around you and Kendall. Hell, we wrote a whole album around it.”
Jamie’s team had masterfully engineered the “Heartbreak Prince” persona amid his breakup with Kendall Chase two years ago, before his first album came out.
Kendall was a gifted singer from Memphis.
With her family connections in Jamie’s tiny hometown of Iris, Tennessee, Jamie Sr. insisted they get acquainted.
Kendall was ambitious and spoke her mind, which Jamie admired. That took guts in an industry that fed on complacency. They dated off-and-on for a year, and much to Jamie’s chagrin, the tabloids christened them as country’s Justin and Britney.
Mustache’s crooked smile widened. “Jamie and Kendall should get back together. Social media will eat that up, and—poof—our problem is solved.”
Jamie’s team didn’t know that for Kendall, at least, the feelings were real.
Six months in, she had told Jamie that she loved him, but he couldn’t reciprocate.
Not when love failed to keep his family from falling apart after his mother’s death.
Love hadn’t saved her from the abyss. Jamie knew it wouldn’t be any different for him.
It was better to keep things light. Detached.
When Jamie finally broke things off, Kendall embarked on a scorching press tour, painting him as the “heartbreaker” who had strung her along and betrayed her trust. He hadn’t done either of those things on purpose, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t take any of it back.
“I’m just saying,” Mustache threw in, “let’s make lightning strike twice. It clinched us the eighteen-to-thirty-four women’s demo. Though the cougars love you too.”
What he meant was, they pushed Jamie as the serial bachelor. It was a perfect—and lucrative—contrast to Jamie Sr., whose personal brand in the ’80s and ’90s centered on traditional family values.
His team set him up with a stable of celebutantes and ensured all the right details about his “relationships” were leaked to the press. Jamie wasn’t keen on building a fake public persona, but his father was on board.
Even as a thirty-year-old man, Jamie still yearned for his father’s approval. It probably seemed crazy to anyone not from a small, Southern town, but there were rules for how sons and daughters honored their elders.
Respect for family legacy was at the root of everything.
Beneath the table, Jamie balled the frustration in his fists, offended by how little anyone actually believed in him. He should have told Mustache to screw himself.
“Kendall and I are not getting back together. We’re just friends.”
This was mostly true. While they weren’t in a committed relationship, Jamie and Kendall met each other’s basic needs on occasion. A scratch-my-back, I’ll-sit-on-your-face kind of arrangement. Though it had been months since he’d last seen her.
“What we need is a media push, something fit for an icon in the making,” said a man with a combover and sweaty brow. “We get you on a cover of Landmark, and the buzz is guaranteed. Six months after your daddy’s first Landmark spot, his debut went platinum.”
Combover’s gaze flitted to Jamie. It was a fruitless gesture, considering everyone knew who would make the final call.
All eyes cut to Jamie Crawford Sr., seated opposite his son.
Now in his late 60s, he was as rugged-handsome as ever, with short, salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back and the right amount of stubble on his squared jaw.
If Nashville was the mafia, then Jamie Sr. was Don Vito Corleone.
Jamie was expected to leave the gun and take the cannoli.
Jamie Sr.’s low grunt tumbled out like loose gravel. “We’ll set it up.”
The Suits unleashed an obsequious chorus of “how genius” and “Landmark’s perfect” and “fit for an icon.”
While Jamie had done press interviews with local and regional outlets, nothing came close to Landmark’s prestige. The reporters were often on Jamie Sr.’s short list of middle-aged white guys with coffee-stained teeth. They were all guaranteed to write something favorable.
Landmark’s journalism was deep and probing. It turned moderately famous artists like himself into household names. Jamie didn’t want that if it was all based on a big, fat lie.
The Suits filed out as Jamie’s father rose from his seat.
Hopeful, Jamie pushed back from his own chair. “Daddy, can we talk for a second?”
Jamie Sr. impatiently checked his gold Rolex. “We need to get back to the studio. Got some re-writes for the last few tracks.”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to discuss,” Jamie said, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.
“You said if I let you handle the first album, you’d let me write my own songs on the second album.
Then you said ‘wait and see’ after the Grammys, and if I won, I could write on the third album. If we keep pushing things back—”
Jamie Sr. rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. He narrowed his eyes. “You know I’d never steer you wrong.”
“But you said—”
“This ain’t the right time to…experiment. You heard the team. This album needs to be a smash. Luckily, you’ve got the best songwriter on Music Row working for you.”
Hesitantly, Jamie stepped forward. “We agreed to use a ghostwriter for my debut. You said I needed a competitive edge. But I don’t want—I don’t need that anymore.”
It was a well-guarded secret with his label and management team. When Jamie’s debut was an instant hit, his father convinced him that it would be crazy not to replicate the success. Jamie Sr. brokered his record deal, paid for the studio time, and had the country music industry in his back pocket.
Jamie, consequently, was trapped.
“I feel like there’s still an opportunity to correct the narrative out there,” Jamie pleaded. “If you let me write something now, that’s a good faith start.”
His father shot him a disapproving look, which made Jamie’s shoulders jerk backward.
“Opportunity? Boy, let me tell you something about opportunity. Your generation is up against a different beast, with your little algorithms deciding what lands on the charts. You gotta use all the resources you’ve got.
That includes me, and this team busting their hides for you. ”
“But that don’t make up for…” Jamie started softly, the last drop of hope siphoned out of him. “I don’t write any of these lyrics, yet we slap my name on them.”
“Many of country’s best don’t write their own lyrics. This has been happening for years.”
“But they don’t lie about it,” Jamie said thinly. His windpipe clenched tighter with each breath. “They gave me a Grammy, for God’s sake.”
On that stage, in front of the world, the industry rewarded him for compromising his integrity.
Could he ever become a legitimate artist? The question was a switchblade. It tortured him each night, when he lay his head down to rest.
Jamie Sr. drained the final whiff of whiskey from his crystal tumbler. Jamie flinched at the clanking of glass on the mahogany table.
“Best New Artist is awarded for performance, not just songwriting. Did you sing those songs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you earned that Grammy.” His father tutted. “Not everyone can write and sing. Not everyone can be like Dolly, or Cash, or hell, like Taylor Swift.”
“You wrote all twenty of your number-ones. I want the same chance to prove myself.”
Jamie Sr. squeezed his son’s shoulder hard enough to prove his point. “We’re building your legacy. Let’s get through this Landmark article, then you can make whatever album you want next,” his father said. “Just trust me.”
Paranoia and regret soured Jamie’s stomach. For the first time, he couldn’t see a future where he wasn’t locked away in a cell of his father’s making. If his father was willing to go on the record with this lie, with a reputable magazine like Landmark, there was no end.
There would always be another “trust me” if it led to pursuing his vision.
A sliver of hope pierced the darkness clouding Jamie’s mind. What if he told his story, on his own terms?
What if he revealed himself as a fraud and rebuilt himself into the artist he longed to become?
What if Brinton helped him? They could work together in secret, like a mission. A calling.
She was damn perceptive with her questions. He couldn’t hide from her, which made him nervous. Usually, women didn’t affect him that way, but it was attractive. Really attractive.
It would also be nice to see her again, to make sure he pictured her face just right.
He did this often as he lay awake in bed.
Late on the night of their interview, he found her email address on Landmark’s website and wrote a message confessing his guilt.
His cursor hovered over “send.” But as his heart thudded in his ears, he lost his nerve.
Again, it wasn’t the right time. He wanted Brinton’s support, not her pity. Jamie had deleted the email, then poured his frustration into lyrics for a song no one would likely ever hear.
But this new plan…Goddamn, this was it.
Jamie Sr.’s eyes shifted toward the door.
“We need to get that Landmark reporter Brinton Shaw to write the story about me,” Jamie blurted out. “The team loved the social media pop from the Grammys, so why not leverage that? Maybe that storyline is the ticket, because fans wanna see us…reunite?”
Jamie almost felt guilty for manipulating his father with recycled language he had heard in these team meetings, day in and day out. But manipulation seemed to be the only language his father spoke.
Jamie Sr. grunted, then thumbed his jawline.
Was he contemplating, or choosing his preferred weapon?
“It’s like you said, the album’s gotta be a smash,” Jamie added. “The story’ll write itself.”
“We do need a smash,” Jamie Sr. repeated. His expression was inscrutable as he swirled his right pointer finger in the air. “We’ll also need advance approval before it’s published, and—”
“I’ll stick to the talking points,” Jamie interjected. “I’ll keep the story on the right track with her, make sure it goes down in history. For my legacy.” That was one way to put it.
“Legacy is everything,” Jamie Sr. said, nodding.
Jamie’s heart hiccupped into his throat. Had he really pulled this off? “You won’t regret it.”
“Better see to it that I don’t,” his father answered, ducking through the doorway.