I mock-glare at Briggs over the rim of my glass. It’s nice that he’s worried about me, and I know he wants me to succeed, but it’s a little annoying that he’d never be this worried over, say, Maxwell.
Briggs, Meyers, and Associates has been hit pretty hard by female clients leaving because of Meyers and his condescending attitude and leering gaze. I’m the logical choice to bring them back, but Meyers refuses to see it that way. If I can land a new client, it’s one step closer to proving Briggs’s point.
“I’m sure. And thank you. But I really do have it under control,” I finally say.
Briggs nods. “I believe it. Is there anything I can do to help you?”
I hand him my empty flute. “Watch me work. And possibly get me another drink. I’m off to find Mathias and conclude our deal.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Give ‘em hell.” He gives me a genuine smile.
Oh, I plan to do just that.
Mathias from Triton Entertainment is by the stage. His dark hair and olive complexion make him look like some sort of Greek god. We’ve talked on the phone, and sometimes it felt like we were going in circles, but I’d been told by other colleagues in the industry that he just needs to be handled right. And if there’s anything I know how to do, it’s handle difficult people. But speaking of which, right now I need to call in a favor from Mathias—the favor that could clinch my career trajectory. Triton Entertainment reps mostly music acts—country music, specifically.
And Meyers loves country music.
“Mathias, Savannah Sunday.”
“So good to meet you, finally.” He gives me a light hug.
“Yes, well, it’s been my pleasure to work with you on this. I hope you got the bourbon?”
He smiles. “I did, thank you. It was much enjoyed. You have great taste.”
I send up a silent prayer of thanks to Cash for helping me pick exactly the right bourbon to get me on Mathias’s good side. “You said you have someone special for me to meet tonight? Someone who’s going to knock my socks off?”
“Absolutely. I think you’re really going to love him.” He leans in conspiratorially. “It’s probably best that you didn’t wear socks.”
“He’s that good?”
“He’ll be bigger than Tim McGraw, and he’s got all the appeal of Luke Bryan.”
Now this I have to see.
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
“I was just about to introduce him, actually. We’re showcasing him tonight. He’s in the market for an attorney, as you know. He wants a real fighter.” Mathias adds a wink, and I work hard to suppress an eye roll. “You’ll have the best view from right where you’re standing. I’ll just say, his first song has been topping the charts and I think we’re going to have a lot to talk about after he’s finished up there.”
A flashy smile, and Mathias disappears into the crowd only to reappear moments later on the stage. The back-up band comes on behind him and starts setting up while Mathias announces the performer. My heart’s in my throat. This is it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out tonight. It is my pleasure to announce our newest artist, Tanner Jakes, and his hit song: “Old Dirt Roads.” ”
The smile drops off my face.
No.
It’s just a big long scream inside my head. No. Not possible. Fate cannot be that cruel.
Then Tanner Jakes steps out of the wings and saunters to the mic, the slow roll of his hips accentuated by low-slung, worn-in, sexy as hell button-fly jeans. All six feet three of cowboy boot-wearing, Stetson-topped perfection. He is the poster child for country music, and my own personal nightmare. He leans into the mic, and it squeals. His dimples appear as he makes an apology to the crowd.
They’re charmed. They’re going to love him.
I know this because I once loved him. Fate, you fickle bitch.
The music starts, and Mathias catches my eye from the wings, flashing me a thumbs up. No. No thumbs up. Suddenly there is not enough air in the room. But I’m stuck at the front of the stage.
Tanner looks right at me and I can’t move. Everything that I have put between this man and me evaporates, and the raw wounds he left on my heart start bleeding again.
“I been out on the road so long,
On these old dirt roads,
Just thinkin’ bout the girl I left at home…” he croons, in that soulful twang of his.
My eyes are stinging, and I look away. I hate that he’s affecting me like this. Dopey love songs are a staple for country music, just like the love of God and the USA. They’re a dime a dozen. He probably has a million of them. But hearing him sing still hurts.
This is not just some regular run of the mill nightmare; this is a Dante’s lowest layer of hell nightmare. The room shrinks, and I can’t escape the panic that’s clawing at my stomach.
I can get through this, I tell myself. This means nothing. How long can one song be? Not long enough to kill me—that’s about the only good news I have. But Tanner sings the chorus directly to me.
“She always felt like coming home.”