“Yes, but it will pour in for decades if we do this. Trust me, Caleb. For once, just fucking trust me to know what I’m talking about.”
“I do trust you, Soda Pop. You’re the one who isn’t trusting me. I’m telling you there is no way this is going to happen—no way that Drew or Dad is going to go for it. So you need to get the fuck over it.”
“You’re being shortsighted!”
“And you’re being stubborn just for the sake of being stubborn. So stop thinking about Drew Fitzpatrick and start trying to convince Shaken Dirty to give Li another shot.”
“That’s not going to happen, Caleb,” she said, grimly repeating his words back to him. “So you should probably get the fuck over it.”
“Poppy—” She clicked off without bothering to hear any more of his excuses or ultimatums.
Tossing her phone on the table, she got up and started to pace back and forth across her living room in an effort to work off the fury coursing through her. Why the hell were the men in her family so shortsighted? Why the hell were they so unwilling to listen to reason? Her plan made sense. She knew it did. And yes, maybe the argument could be made that she was so anxious to make Shaken Dirty work because she was wrapped up in Wyatt and wanted things to work for him.
But it was more than that. This band had so much talent and so much potential—if they did this right, they would own rock and roll. They deserved that chance.
Of course, they also deserved a label that believed in them, that wouldn’t force them into something that everyone knew was musically wrong for them. Why couldn’t Caleb see that? Why couldn’t her father?
Or maybe Caleb did see it. He was just too chicken to stand up to her father. Too afraid of losing everything he’d worked for. Hadn’t that been her problem all along? Wasn’t that why she’d gone along with her father’s idea of her role in the company? Sure, she’d done stuff behind his back like scouting talent and then letting Caleb be the one to bring them to her father’s attention, but the truth was, she’d spent her whole career cowed by her father, doing what he wanted her to do because she was afraid to stand up to him. Afraid to trust that things would be okay. Afraid that he’d never love her or believe in her.
So how could she condemn her brother for doing the exact same thing?
She couldn’t. She might be a coward, but she wasn’t a hypocrite—which meant she was going to have to do something here. She was going to have to be the one to step up and find a way to do what needed to be done to make this right. Because Shaken Dirty was their band and it was the label’s job to take care of them and not just the immediate bottom line. At least, that was the kind of label she wanted to work for. The kind of label she wanted to build.
Flopping back down on the couch, she opened her laptop and pulled up the directory of artists’ phone numbers and addresses. She scrolled through until she found the number she was looking for, then dialed it on her phone with fingers that were shaking just a little.
She was so freaked out by the thought of her father’s reaction that she nearly hung up three times as she waited for Drew to answer, but the second his slow, Tennessee drawl came over the line, she knew she’d made the right choice. No matter what happened after this, Wyatt—and Shaken Dirty—were worth the risk.
“Hello, Drew? This is Poppy Germaine from Six Strings. I’m Bill Germaine’s daughter. How are you?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Are you sure we shouldn’t cancel?” Ryder asked, glancing down at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.
“We’re not canceling. We’ll go on without a bass player if we have to, but canceling isn’t an option, not now.” Quinn held up his own phone. “Someone spotted Jared arriving and put a photo of him out on Twitter more than an hour ago. The fans know we’re here—it’s why the place is so packed. We are not canceling another gig on them.”
Though he knew Quinn wasn’t leveling a dig at him, Wyatt still felt the sting of his words. He tried not to dwell on it, though. Not when they had other issues to deal with. Like the fact that they should have been on stage ten minutes ago, but were stuck in the dressing room hoping Poppy delivered the bass player she’d promised them.
“So why are we waiting?” Jared demanded. He was pacing the room like a wolf trying to catch the scent of prey, doing his best—Wyatt knew—to work off the nerves he got before every performance, no matter how big or small. “Let’s just get out there and give them a show—”
“We’re waiting,” Wyatt told him, “because Poppy asked us to. Let’s give her another few minutes, see if she shows up with whatever mystery bass player she’s got on tap.”