1. Jack
JACK
Sparrow Sound Studios wasn’t much to look at, just a faded brick bungalow at the dead end of a side street off Music Row.
The porch sagged. Paint had faded. Windows could use a good cleaning.
No one had bothered to water the shrubs along the buckled and split concrete pathway, leaving them to wilt in the heat of a sticky August day in Nashville.
To me, though? It was my happy place. Better than my favorite bar or even the stadiums I was lucky enough to fill these days.
There was just something about a place that had helped create music for decades.
Actually, for longer than I’d been alive.
That stopped me in my tracks on more than one occasion.
I could almost feel ghosts of musicians past moving around, lending their silent wisdom.
I walked into the lobby, guitar in hand, grateful for the air-conditioning that cooled the building.
The place always smelled of coffee set too long on the burner and undertones of burnt microwave popcorn.
Gold records lined the walls. Two of which were mine.
Not bad for a hick from Stonehaven, Washington.
I followed the low murmur of voices down the carpeted hall and past the control room.
Through the glass at the far end, I spotted the boys in my band.
Most likely they’d laid their tracks already and were done for the day.
But they liked to hang around anyway. Today, I suspected they wanted to meet the lovely Ivy James.
We were about to record a duet written by her and Hunter Sloan.
I didn’t get nervous that often these days but Ivy James, all hundred pounds of her if I had to guess, had me twitchy.
Horrible traffic hadn’t helped. Even Marcus, my driver, had uttered a bad word or two as we were stuck on the freeway. He hated it when I was late.
I pushed through the heavy soundproof door.
“Dude, you’re late.” Rhett got up off the worn leather couch and nodded at a Starbucks cup on the low table. “Iced. No milk.”
No milk on recording days or concert days. Not even a bologna quesadilla. Too much cheese.
“Sorry. Traffic was a bear.” I took a sip, grateful for the bitter cold of it. “Thanks. Everything good?”
“Drums, bass, rhythm guitars are done, already tracked clean.” Rhett Lawson and I went way back. In fact, I couldn’t remember a time I didn’t know him. We were two trailer-park kids who knew when we were young that it was best we stick together. He’d had my back ever since, and I’d had his.
Rhett’s mother died young. His father was in the middle of drinking himself to death when we were kids. He’d succeeded ten years ago. Rhett didn’t attend his funeral, if there even was one. That wound went deep in my best friend. So deep he never talked about it.
My mother had raised my sister and Luci alone after my dad left, with Rhett basically her third kid.
She could barely afford two of us, but she took Rhett in without a word, knowing we were all he had.
Luci had been our bright light in those days.
Still was, if truth were told, even though my baby sister was now a doctor and all grown up.
Rhett and I shared a passion for country music, fast cars, and pretty girls.
Back then, all we had was music. Fast cars and pretty girls came later.
The two of us listened to country music radio and my mother’s records and CDs for hours and hours.
Anything we could get our hands on, studying every era of country and western music like it was our bible.
I had the voice. Rhett had the brains and the plan. He also had believed in me more than I believed in myself.
Today, he looked like he’d walked out of a board meeting, wearing a tailored jacket, crisp white shirt open at the collar, and a watch that cost more than my first truck.
He’d used his wits to crawl out of poverty, and he wasn’t afraid to show it.
He had these pale blue eyes that never missed a trick.
Never had. Rhett had entered me in a televised singing competition without so much as asking.
He mailed in a recording of one of my own songs, then scraped up bus fare to Nashville and all but dragged me to the stage when the call came that they wanted me to audition in person.
I was twenty-one and so broke I split ramen packs in half to make lunch and dinner.
God bless his interfering heart, or I’d have chickened out and gone home.
“I’ve got a good feeling about this song,” Rhett said. “It’s really good.”
“Hunter Sloan and Ivy James wrote it together.” I still couldn’t say it without my ears going hot. “With me in mind. Which is humbling.”
Across the room, my guys were tuning up. They were the whole reason any of this had caught fire.
Grant sat behind the kit in the padded corner, ramrod straight, a stick turning idly in his fingers.
His daddy had been military and had run his family on discipline and shame like it was the family religion.
Grant looked every inch the bad-boy drummer with his backward cap and three-day scruff.
However, that was just his appearance. He was actually the gentlest giant you’d ever meet and innately shy and reserved.
Knox was bent over his Telecaster, hat low, tuning by ear.
He wrote songs from a deep, truthful place inside of him, even though he looked like an outlaw.
Unlike Grant, he really was a bad boy, always in trouble.
The thin scar on his cheek he’d earned at twelve, protecting his little sister.
That told you everything about him you’d ever need to know.
Beck was at the upright, warming his fingers, and when he looked up he gave me one of those warm, decent smiles of his.
His eyes were soft brown behind black glasses, and at the moment his dark hair was sticking up where he’d run his hands through it.
Rhett had found him fresh out of Juilliard, playing a dive bar like a scene straight out of “Piano Man.” I knew a lot of talented pianists, but none could compare.
We might all bicker like brothers, but when it counted we were there for one another. In this town, sticking with people you trusted was life or death, surrounded as we were by sharks hoping to draw blood.
Madeleine Price was in the corner, dressed in a charcoal dress that hugged every curve, brown hair down her back in perfect waves, thumbs flying over her phone.
She caught my eye and gave me a nod. “How’s it going, Jack?” Her voice was as smooth and polished as the rest of her. “You pumped?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thanks for making this happen.”
“It’s all you. Ivy wanted you for this one and made me promise I’d talk you into it. You know I can’t say no to her.”
Ivy and Madeleine went way back. They’d met young and green at an open mic night, back before either of them was anybody.
Madeleine had no more musical talent than Rhett did, but she loved it with as much passion as the rest of us.
Madeleine and Rhett were the reason we’d broken out, and none of us should ever forget that.
“She’s on her way,” Madeleine said. “Traffic’s bad, and she left late. She’s always a little late. She doesn’t mean to be disrespectful. She’s just scattered. Can-never-find-her-car-keys type.”
“No problem. Traffic was terrible. I get it.”
The hall door opened, and Ivy James walked in.
Good lord, the woman was a knockout. She wore jean overalls that reached mid-thigh, with cherries embroidered into them.
She wore minimal makeup and her hair was in a high ponytail and looked young and fresh and so pretty I wasn’t sure I’d remember how to talk, let alone sing.
This was certainly different than the glamorous way she dressed for shows and concerts, but I liked it.
She looked like a regular person. A very pretty, regular person.
With a pair of strong legs and shoulders and blue eyes that made my knees wobbly.
I’d met her once before, at an awards show two springs back, both of us stranded in a hallway clutching trophies with no idea where we were meant to be, until Madeleine swept in and herded us to the press room like a pair of lost lambs.
However, Ivy and I had had a quick moment.
She’d held out her hand to shake mine; I’d marveled that a hand so small ran up and down a guitar neck the way it did.
We’d locked eyes, and I’d known in my bones she was all grit and heart, in music and life.
That night, they had her done up in a little pink dress with her hair set and her stage face on, but I saw who she was underneath.
I recognized myself in those blue eyes. She’d come up the same way I had.
One hard knock at a time. And, like me, she could hardly believe where she’d landed.
“Jack.” She crossed to me, breathless, that Tennessee in every vowel.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. Phone call ran long, then I needed gas, then traffic.
What is it lately with traffic? Anyway, I’m a hot mess, as usual.
” She held out her arms, and what I figured would be a quick hug wasn’t.
She held on tight for a few seconds, smelling like flowers mixed with a butter cookie.
When she let go, the room felt suddenly cold.
“You don’t look hot,” I said.
She grinned. “Well, I didn’t have time to get fancy for you. No fake lashes today.”
And just like that I was hot. “No, I meant you don’t look flustered. Or warm. You look … just fine. Perfect actually.”
“Jack Wilder, you charmer.” She laughed and punched me softly in the arm. “You’ll have me swooning right here in the studio.”
“I mean … you’re stunning. And it’s got nothing to do with the clothes or the makeup. But I’m sure you’ve heard that before.”
“A woman can never be told she’s beautiful too many times.” She leaned in close, speaking quietly so only I could hear. “I’m nervous to sing with you. I’m such a fan. Be gentle with me.”