3. Nash
Chapter 3
Nash
T he studio smelled like stale coffee and old vinyl—a mix of nostalgia and exhaustion that clung to the air. Easton was already seated behind his guitar, strumming idly, while I stared at the soundboard like it might offer answers to questions I wasn’t brave enough to ask.
As memories of last night flooded back, reality hit me like a dump truck. After one of our worst shows ever, I needed a distraction, something to make me forget everything spiraling out of control in my life. Dawn Taylor was it. I couldn’t recall the last time dancing and flirting with someone had been this much fun. For a moment, she made me forget my problems. She stayed with me for only two songs, but it was enough to make me leave the bar with a grin on my face.
That grin didn’t last.
This morning, I woke up to my phone buzzing nonstop. Headlines were splashed across every gossip site: “Nash Rhodes Makes a Move on Barrel Racing Princess Dawn Taylor” and “Nash Rhodes’ Latest Stunt: Using a Small-Town Hero for a Comeback.” They painted me as a washed-up flirt chasing fame, spinning a couple of harmless dances into some kind of sordid scheme. My stomach churned as I scrolled through the articles, each one dragging me back into the same old narrative—the one I’d been desperate to escape.
I glanced at Easton.
Our third album. A big deal for most artists. For us, it felt more like a last shot. I knew I needed to do this for him. I owed him another album, another tour. But thinking about going back on stage in front of thousands of people, singing and strumming my guitar, made me want to crawl into a hole and disappear. Something had shifted in me, and I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t just push through it like before.
Richard Hayes strutted into the room minutes later, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the battered chairs and tangled cables. He dropped a folder onto the desk in front of the console with a thud, then leaned back, arms crossed, looking at us like a teacher ready to deliver a lecture.
“Gentlemen,” he started, his tone clipped, “we need to talk about your image.”
I exchanged glances with Easton, who shrugged, still plucking absent notes on his guitar.
“Our image?” I asked, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. “I wasn’t aware we had one left to salvage.”
Richard didn’t laugh. He wasn’t much for humor when it came to business.
“We’re not just talking about your next album,” he continued. “We’re talking about your career. Your future. Do you know why you’re not headlining the major festivals this summer?”
“Because the market’s oversaturated?” Easton offered dryly, not looking up from his strings. I couldn’t help but stare at the worn carpet, knowing the real reason we weren’t headlining was me.
“Because of... The Incident,” Richard snapped, his sharp gaze locked on me. He couldn’t bring himself to call it anything else, as if saying the words might jinx us even more.
I stiffened. The words landed like a slap, even though I’d been expecting them.
“We’re working on that,” I said evenly, changing my stance and resting my elbows on my knees.
“Working on it?” Richard echoed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “You’re not even on the lineup for Blue Ridge Bash, and now I’ve got word you’re likely being dropped from Red Dirt Rendezvous. Red Dirt! The biggest country music festival in Nashville. Do you have any idea what kind of blow that is to your reputation? To your brand?”
“I get it, Richard,” I muttered, my jaw tightening.
“No, I don’t think you do, Nash,” he shot back, pacing now. “This isn’t just about bookings. It’s about public perception. About trust. When fans think of Rebel Rose, they don’t just see Easton; they see you. And right now, they’re seeing headlines, not music. And again, this morning!” His gaze could have stabbed me.
Easton stopped strumming, finally looking up. “We’re a duo, Rich. Don’t act like this is all on Nash.”
Richard sighed, his tone softening by a fraction. “I get it, Easton. You’re a package deal. But let’s be real—this isn’t about the band as a whole. This is about Nash’s choices.”
My fingers curled into fists, but I stayed silent. Easton shot me a sidelong glance, like he wanted to jump in again, but I shook my head. Let him finish. He was right, anyway.
“What happened last year still has people talking,” Richard continued, his grey eyebrows drawn tight. “The brawl, the arrest, the media circus afterward. That’s not what fans want from their country stars. They want stories about love, heartbreak, and chasing dreams—not scandal.”
“It wasn’t a brawl,” I said through gritted teeth. “It was one guy who couldn’t keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself.”
“One guy, one bad decision, and now here we are. Grandmas are clutching their pearls when they see you on their morning news, Nash,” Richard said sharply, acting like I’d killed someone.
“Look, I’m not here to rehash the past. I’m here to fix the future. The label is watching you closely, and so are the festival boards. You want a chance at salvaging your reputation? You need to prove you’re worth it.”
I bit back a retort, my gaze falling to the folder on the desk. It probably contained press releases, statements, and God knows what else—a roadmap to damage control.
Easton leaned back, tattooed hands crossing at the top of his head, his tone measured. “What’s the plan, then? If we’re supposed to fix this, tell us how.”
Richard rubbed his temple, clearly frustrated but trying to stay professional. “For starters, no more slip-ups. Nash, you need to stay out of trouble. That means no bar fights, no drunken antics, and absolutely no controversial headlines. Secondly, we need something to remind people why they loved Rebel Rose in the first place.”
Rebel Rose, the country duo of the hour—or at least, we had been. I glanced at Easton, his short, buzzed hair catching the soft light streaming through the studio window. Tattoos peeked from under the short sleeves of his worn-out shirt—stories etched in ink, each line marking the years we’d spent chasing this dream.
I couldn’t help but drift back to the early days. We were kids with calloused fingers, sitting on our fathers’ porches, strumming old country classics until our hands ached. Easton was always better at picking up melodies, and his dad’s pride shone every time he nailed a tricky riff. My dad would give me that same approving nod whenever I locked in the rhythm—a silent but understood connection between fathers and sons who lived for music. Country songs weren’t just tunes to us; they were a way of life—a thread tying us to something bigger.
Easton and I found each other in the chaos of shared dreams, becoming anchors for one another. We wrote songs in dimly lit garages, played dives where no one knew our names, and held onto a belief that one day, it would all be worth it. When Rebel Rose took off, it felt like the universe had vindicated those long nights and hard lessons. But it was never just about the fame or applause. It was about this—about the music, the moments, and the bond we’d built. Easton wasn’t just my partner on stage; he was my brother—my lifeline in a world that too often spun out of control.
In our first year, we signed with the most sought-after country label. By the second, we were sharing the stage at some of the biggest Western festivals. Stadiums, galas, renowned events—each performance adding another milestone to our dream.
It had all happened so fast. Now, looking back, the last few years blurred together into a whirlwind of endless travel. Province to province, state to state, performing almost every night.
Stardom swallowed us whole. While Easton seized the chance to network, fostering relationships for future collaborations, I let myself spiral into the rhythm of endless nights—numbing myself in crowds and darkness.
The memory of those times still stung. I wasn’t always this person—this name, this face, this brand. Before the endless string of late nights and the parade of perfect smiles, I could laugh without needing a reason and speak without measuring every word. Back then, the night skies were quiet, the conversations honest—not blurred by the bottom of a whiskey glass. Stardom was a dream once, but no one warns you of the price it demands.
“Rebel Rose started in a garage,” Easton’s voice broke into my thoughts. “I don’t think people want to hear a mediocre country sound or see us performing in our parents’ basement, Rich.”
Richard, ever analytical, didn’t miss a beat. “No, but it was simple back then. More importantly, it was authentic—two boys making music and having fun. That’s what country fans loved about you, and that’s what they want again.”
“And if we can’t deliver that?” I asked, my voice low.
Richard’s jaw tightened. “Then you might want to start thinking about solo careers—or retirement.”
The silence that followed hung thick in the air, heavy with implication. Easton looked troubled, lost in his thoughts.
“Great pep talk,” I muttered, grabbing my guitar. The weight in my chest made it hard to breathe, and I channeled that frustration into tuning strings that didn’t need adjusting. “Really makes a guy want to pour his heart out in the booth.”
Richard ignored the barb, methodically gathering his papers. “You have talent, Nash. Both of you do. But talent only takes you so far. The rest is up to you.”
As he left, the door clicked shut with a finality that sparked something burning in my chest—a bitter mixture of shame and guilt.
“You good?” Easton asked, cautious.
I shrugged, plucking a string more out of habit than necessity. “Guess I better figure out how to play nice.”
Easton chuckled, but there was no humour in it. “Could be worse. At least we’re not a boy band.”
I smirked despite myself and strummed a casual chord. “Yeah, but boy bands don’t have to save their careers one track at a time.”
“Then let’s make it a hell of a track,” Easton said, leaning back with renewed purpose.
I nodded, the fire inside me shifting. If they wanted a reason to believe in Rebel Rose again, we’d find it. We just had to figure out how.