Cady huffed. As if she’d have time to write after the promo appearances, the North American tour with more appearances, the awards shows and social appearances, all carefully managed to keep her in the public eye. She could do some work on material for a new album on the road, but not the deep work needed to write, sing, and produce the kind of album she wanted.
“That’s at least eighteen months away, Chris,” she said firmly.
“And here you are, with weeks and weeks of time off,” Chris said. “How fortuitous!”
Eight weeks, half of which would be taken up with the holidays and family time, wasn’t enough to write an album that would convince a major record label to take her career in a new direction. She looked at Conn, trying to gauge his interest in what could be considered fairly important music industry gossip. But Conn’s gaze was entirely focused on the road, taking the side streets to Thirteenth Street, the quickest route to the airport. He knew all the shortcuts, drove the car like he knew his way around a gearshift and a performance engine.
“Cady? It’s not like you to give up on an argument with me.”
She wasn’t giving up on the argument. She was just paying attention to her body, which was reminding her that eight months of touring and no sex made Cady a dull, dull girl.
“This album is the safe choice,” she started.
“Safe sells records. Ask Justin Bieber.”
Which was the heart of the problem. Industry execs didn’t care if the critics blasted the album if fans bought it in droves. Only Cady cared. It was a huge risk for her; if the label dropped the wrong album, they’d just find another Cady with an active following on YouTube or wherever, and sign her. Throw more spaghetti at the wall, relegating Cady to third-rate venues suitable for one-hit wonders. She needed to make them wait, and to do that, she needed good material. Really good material.
“Yes, but creative and adventurous sells even more records. Just ask Beyoncé.”
“We’re ready to go with this one, Cady. We’ve got bookings on all the major talk shows. Jimmy Fallon wants to do the classroom instruments thing with you. The tour schedule will capitalize on the summer concert season. After this album’s a hit and the public knows exactly who you are, you can branch out.”
After I’ve sold out, I can buy my soul back?
“I’m tired of being safe,” Cady said, then stopped. Chris was playing the devil’s advocate, part of his job as her manager. She trusted him to guide her career, and in just over two years he’d gotten her from busking on street corners for pocket change to her own tour. “It’s my vacation, Chris. If I want to spend it writing songs, I will.”
“I’d be delighted to take something groundbreaking into Eric’s office,” Chris said.
Conn turned onto the drive leading to Lancaster’s small but busy airport. When he braked in front of the United sign, Chris flung open the passenger rear door, shoved his suitcase onto the sidewalk, and followed it.
Cady got out herself. “Thanks for everything,” she said. “Have a good trip.”
“I really do have your best interests at heart,” he said, all the brash confrontation gone from his voice. “Both for your safety and for your career. Trust me.”
Cady looked over her shoulder at Conn’s big, bulky body hulking in the driver’s seat. “You owe me,” she said, resigned. “This is totally unnecessary.”
“He looks like the strong, silent type,” Chris said. “Probably you won’t even notice he’s there.”
Their running joke. Chris always promised the bodyguards were the strong, silent type, and he was always wrong. But Conn fit the bill, with his big, pushy muscled arms and his Neanderthal forehead and his thousand-yard stare. So far he had the silent part down pat. She pressed her lips together and nodded. Chris hoisted his bag and strode through the big revolving doors, into the terminal, leaving Cady with no other option but to get back in the car with Conn.
Strong, yes. Silent, yes. She’d met people who talked all the time about nothing, people she could easily tune out. Conn fell into the other camp, barely saying a word but his body talking all the time. Right now, his gaze alternating between the mirrors and the traffic, both car and pedestrian, he smoldered with a banked fury.
“Where am I going?”
“Forty-third and Hanscomb,” she said. “My mom’s house.”
Without a word, he signaled, then merged into the slow-moving traffic along the airport’s main drive. Cady wrapped her hands around the insulated mug, held it up to her nose, and inhaled the sweet scent of hot honey water. “Ignore everything he said, by the way. Except the confidentiality agreement stuff. He loves litigation. He’ll happily sue you for the rest of your life, just for the fun of it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Conn said. “What can I forget? The bodyguard part is non-negotiable, and if you go out, I’m driving.”
“Yes to all of that,” Cady said. She waved her hand, dismissing it. “The rest of it, the anything-else-she-needs part. That mostly applied to tours, getting meals and running errands. There won’t be any of that. Because I’m going to cook my own food and run my own errands.”
“Which I’ll drive you to,” he said.