Okay, that hurt. Right in that sack of stupid she called her heart. He didn’t have to be so blunt about it. Sure, they’d been slinging arrows at each other for months. But she was the one who’d ended it, if you wanted to get technical. So he shouldn’t be acting like he’d never wanted her in the first place. They’d loved each other once. Right? Even if they’d never said it. There had been strong feelings. But whatever it had been, it had gone into the pool along with his guitar and sunk straight on down to the bottom. And drowned.
The thought made her squirm again on her chair. She crossed and re-crossed her legs, the button on her jeans cutting into her gut. Yeah. The grits and BBQ and vast quantities of nachos needed to stop or she was going to be popping sequins and ripping fringe. She felt both frumpy and put out, and that made her want to defend herself. “I can cut a record with anyone. Hell, I can cut a record with a potbellied pig if that’s what it takes.”
“Which is where you and I have differing opinions,” Chance said flatly. “You want to slap your smile on a shitty song if it will sell. I want to make real music.”
Oh, the bastard. Pretentious as hell, with his nose so far in the air it was a wonder he didn’t fall over backward. “I am not ashamed of the fact that I want to make a dime,” she said. “Not everyone gets the luxury of a lifetime of success. I want to ride the gravy train while I can. So sue me.”
“You signed the contract,” Ginny reminded him. “So don’t go all artiste on me. Look, you either cut the record or you’re going to lose your career. Given what I’ve been hearing about you and your drinking, if you screw the label over, you might as well book your spot on Celebrity Rehab right now. It’s the only work you’re gonna get, no matter who your daddy is.”
Ouch. Ginny didn’t mince words. Though after his dig about her being a sellout, Jolene had to admit she didn’t mind seeing him insulted, and for once she hadn’t needed to lift a finger to do it. She sat back and waited for Chance’s ears to start emitting steam. He had a problem processing his anger, and she would accept no blame for it this go-round. His outbursts were never frightening, just annoying. He got in rant mode and it was impossible to pull him back out.
“I do not have a drinking problem. Not since Jolene and I broke up, anyway.” There was a tic in his jaw.
He was damn near to the point of exploding. Jolene knew that one more strategically placed push could send him over the edge. In the eighteen months of her Chance Rivers immersion program, she’d learned every single one of his hot buttons, and all of them had to do with his songwriting. If she were an evil son of a bitch with no heart, she’d flick him good right now and watch the fireworks. But she wasn’t cruel, and she wasn’t stupid. She had to play this right, because Ginny was talking truth.
There wasn’t any choice but to write some songs and record an album. She’d already done a single two years earlier on her own, and it hadn’t set the world on fire. No one wanted Jolene Hart solo then, and she doubted they would want her solo now. They wanted Hart-Rivers and the chemistry they’d brought to songwriting and the stage.
So despite wanting to smack him upside the head for being a stubborn and pretentious idiot who didn’t know what was best for him, she knew how to play the game. You didn’t get out of Starkey and succeed on Music Row without some savvy. She might have more of that than talent, frankly, and she wasn’t above admitting it. It was her personal policy to always be honest with herself.
It was savvy and charm that had brought her this far, and she knew when to swallow her pride and use them.
“Ginny, take it down a notch,” she said. “Chance doesn’t have a drinking problem.” He just liked to drink. Or at least he had. She had no idea if he genuinely had a problem because she was no longer privy to his private life. But mostly, she wanted to show him she was on his side, even if the truth was that she was on Jolene Hart’s side.
If the way to hurt him was to criticize his songs, the way to woo him was to compliment them. Jolene busted out every acting skill she’d acquired onstage and reached over and touched his knee. Chance shot her a look that was damn near panicked.
Interesting. So he wasn’t as immune to her as he claimed to be. That shouldn’t matter, yet it did. She felt a flutter of something that wasn’t her stomach digesting that morning’s thoroughly unnecessary chocolate chip pancakes.
“Chance, you know I’ll sing any song you write. You’re a brilliant songwriter.” He was. But to stroke his already enormous ego still made her want to gag. That was part of why their relationship had been so contentious. She wasn’t into threesomes, and his ego was a needy-ass bitch who took center stage repeatedly. “And we have musical chemistry. Let’s just bang it out, no fuss, no muss.”
A sliver of amusement crossed Chance’s face. “Bang it out?”
Jolene gave him the smile, the one that always had male fans breaking into a spontaneous sweat. “Yes. Bang it out. We were always good at that.”
Chance cleared his throat and shifted a little on his chair.
Oh, yeah. That one had gotten him.
“Jolene, you know as well as I do this is not a good idea.”