Chapter 30
Thirty
GRAY
I wake early, ready to start the day much sooner than the day is ready to begin.
Lounging around while Rhea showers and readies for her weekly Al-Anon meeting over in Dahlonega, I try not to think about the band meeting too much, not until it’s time to actually start worrying.
I watch Rhea with fascination instead--the way she brushes her hair, braids it on either side with ease, and applies light makeup to a face that doesn’t need the first drop of it.
She’s pretty as a peach when she rolls out of bed.
Once she’s done with her morning routine, I walk my girl to her car and press a kiss to Rhea’s soft lips. I close her car door and walk the few blocks to Belvedere Street Studios. The emergency band meeting starts at eight on the dot. The air already smells like old coffee.
Everyone is already aware of Marcus's ultimatum. Andrew looks sleep-deprived, Parker drums on his cup, and Zep distracts himself with his cell phone, but it’s not hard to read the room and notice the tension.
“So, are we really going to turn down the biggest tour opportunity of our careers?” Wyatt says as soon as we're all seated.
“That's what we're here to decide,” I reply, feeling the weight of the moment. I know I'll choose the path that means more time at home over the tour. The challenge now is convincing the others to agree, but my decision is set. However, their choice hangs in the balance.
“Let's look at the numbers.” Andrew spreads printouts across the coffee table.
“The tour would gross somewhere between one hundred twenty-five and one hundred and fifty million dollars. Our cut would be enough to set us all up for life, pay off every debt, buy houses, and secure future profitable tours.”
“And all it would cost is eight months away from everything that matters,” I add quietly.
“Gray.” Parker leans forward, his expression serious. “I know you're happy here. We all are, but opportunities like this don't come around twice. What if we say no and ‘Solid Ground’ peaks on release? What if this is our one shot at fucking legendary status?”
His fear strikes a familiar chord in my chest, a reminder of how fragile everything we’ve achieved together is. We’ve watched bands vanish after one mistake, and there are situations when it barely takes a whisper to shatter everything you love.
“What do you think, Rhea?” Cody asks.
“I told Gray to follow his heart,” Rhea replies.
“So, what's your heart telling you?” Zep implores.
I stand and look out at the village that's become home. Mrs. Patterson walks her old retriever past the studio. Leslie is watering flowers with care, and Emma is doing what she does best, serving up coffee at Mountain Mornings.
“My heart is telling me I’ve made this choice before. I’ve chosen my career over my relationship, and success over stability. Now, clarity points me toward what matters right now.”
“This is different. You're sober now. Stable. You can handle the pressure with our support,” Andrew argues.
“Can I?” My chest tightens, uncertainty filling the quiet. I see my doubt echoing in their faces, an ache forming in my gut. “Only two hundred thirty-seven days ago, I thought nothing could break me. Yet I woke cold and alone in an Atlanta alley, and it nearly erased me.” The memory stings.
The room goes quiet. We seldom mention Atlanta and how it almost ended me.
“Recovery isn't only about not drinking. It's about making different choices. I’ve decided that spending eight months away from my support system, Rhea, and what keeps me healthy isn't right for me. I need a cleaner path, even if it means turning down the tour.”
“So, what are you proposing?” Zep asks.
I've been working on this idea since talking to Leslie yesterday.
It's been coming together, like lyrics finding their melody. “We could focus on regional tours, shorter three-week runs, followed by at least two weeks at home. We'd cut our schedule from 60 to 30 shows. Yes, it would mean less money, but the tour would be more sustainable. For me, it’s about setting boundaries and maintaining a steady pace. Planning and marketing would be key. If the label’s on board, they can help with logistics. What do you think? Can this work?”
The room is quiet as everyone considers their options.
“The label won't go for it,” Parker says immediately.
“Then maybe the label isn't right for us anymore,” I suggest, putting another way of thinking about this in front of them.
The words hang in the air like a challenge.
Andrew is the first to speak. “Gray, we've been with this label for eight years. They discovered Case in Point, believed in us when no one else would.”
“And they've made millions off us while I nearly drank myself to death,” I reply, more sharply than I intend. “I'm grateful for what they've given us, but that doesn't mean I owe them my sobriety.”
Before anyone can respond, my phone rings. Marcus Webb, as if summoned by our conversation about him.
“It’s Marcus,” I say, pulling my phone from my back pocket and putting him on speaker phone for all to hear.
“Gray!” Marcus's voice is bright with the kind of artificial enthusiasm that sets my teeth on edge. “Please tell me you've come to your senses about this tour.”
“No, we were just about to call with a counteroffer.” I hope the man comes to his own senses and allows me to focus on my career while also giving what matters so much to me the attention it deserves.
The pause is long enough that I start to wonder if the call dropped.
“A counteroffer,” Marcus repeats slowly. “Gray, this isn't a negotiation. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that requires a yes or no answer.”
“Then here's my answer—we've decided to only do regional tours. These would have a maximum run of three weeks, with at least two weeks at home in between. We'll still play every major market but only on terms we can handle, for the health and stability of the band.”
“That's not how the industry works, Gray. You strike while the iron is hot, or someone else takes your spot.” His reminder is cold and callous.
“Or maybe we build a lasting band and tour, instead of something that burns bright and crashes,” I offer him a unique perspective.
“Jesus Christ, what has happened to you down there, Gray? You sound like some kind of monk instead of a rock star.” Marcus scoffs at me.
The comment hits harder than he probably intends, because it forces me to confront a truth I've been dancing around for months.
“Maybe I'm not a rock star anymore, Marcus. Maybe I’m just a musician who wants to trade the blinding stadium spotlight for the comforting glow of a campfire. I want to make music and then go home to the woman I love.”
“And maybe you're making the biggest mistake of your career,” he counters.
“It's my mistake to make.”
Another long pause. When Marcus speaks again, his voice has lost all pretense of friendliness.
“You know what, Gray? I've been in this business for twenty years, and I've watched many talented people squander incredible opportunities for trivial reasons.
But this takes the cake. You're choosing a small-town girl over millions of dollars and international fame.”
The way he says “small-town girl” makes my blood pressure spike. “I'm choosing my life over your version of what my life should be.”
“Fine. Have it your way, but don't come crawling back when 'Solid Ground' falls off the charts and no one remembers your name anymore. This label isn’t here to hold your hand through your recovery journey. You want to play it small? Find yourself a small label.” The call ends.
I let it sink in for a long moment.
We just got dropped by our label.
A sense of relief mingled with anxiety and hope washes over me—a weight I barely knew I was carrying falls away. For the first time in a long while, I breathe freely.
When I return to the studio, six pairs of eyes are watching me expectantly. “I guess we're free agents.”
Silence. Parker drops his head in his hands. Wyatt stares at the ceiling. Cody looks stunned.
“Fuck,” Zep says finally. “I mean, fuck.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Fuck.”
“So, what now?” Andrew asks, and I can hear him trying to keep the accusation out of his voice.
“Now we prove we're right.” Calmly, I outline our decisions for moving forward: select a label that aligns with our mission, define actions to ensure sustainability, and prioritize well-being over industry norms.
“First, we’ll write new songs that reflect our current state and what matters to us, focusing on resilience and authenticity, using our own stories to create music that connects with people.
” Writing together isn’t just about making music.
It’s also about healing. We want our songs to be honest and focus on hope, so that listeners can see their own stories reflected in them.
We’ll work as a group, sharing ideas and turning them into music that means something to all of us.
“Next up, looking for independent labels that share our vision. We can even consider Red King Records, which both Kip Knox and Henley Hendrix helped to start with their bandmates. It’s just down in Atlanta.
We’ll review their artists and see if their values align with ours.
The right label would allow us to experiment, help us reach more people, and support our touring plans without compromising our creative control.
Reaching out, sharing our requirements, and exploring whether we can find a partnership that works for both parties.
“Finally, we need to set up some small shows close to home to reconnect with our fans and share our new music.
We want to play in places where we can truly interact with people and build stronger ties within our fan-based community, crafting setlists that showcase our new direction and focus on making each show feel personal.