Page 12 of Just Business

He lets out that same rumbly chuckle that I heard last night and follows behind. His steps falter as he stands, stock-still. I go quiet while he takes it all in. We’re a small town, but it's surprising the household names that come through here just to record where some of the greatest have—Aretha Franklin, Cher, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Percy Sledge, and countless others—and I’m so damn proud to be part of that legacy. People come from all over the world to stand where those legends have stood.

The room is dimly lit by string lights on the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the gold records covering the wood-paneled walls. One wall is entirely covered floor to ceiling with vinyl record sleeves of every number one recorded here. Austin takes a few minutes, walking around, inspecting each album and gold record.

“It’s something, isn’t it? Sometimes if I listen closely enough, I swear I hear the ghosts of late-night songwriting or the low strum of a bass guitar.” I’ll probably never cease to be awestruck by what my granddad and dad accomplished here, even though I’ve been around it my whole life. When I turn toward him, he’s wearing the same look of awe on his face.

He doesn’t look over at me. He just shakes his head, muttering, “Damn you, Tyler,” under his breath.

I choose not to ask what he means by that or who Tyler is. I’m assuming it's his manager or maybe a personal assistant. I might have practically thrown myself at him last night, but getting to know this man is no longer part of my plan. Not now that he’s my client, at least. We’re both here to do a job and that's it.

“Right, well, I’ll let you get set up, and then we can discuss your plans for this session.” He follows me into the live room and starts unpacking his guitar, and I busy myself flipping on lights and switching on amps and mics.

“Where’s the sound tech?” he asks, not glancing up from where he’s perched on the edge of a stool. He’s tuning his guitar, adjusting each peg, and plucking each string.

“You’re looking at her. Normally, the studio band is here, but it’s a Saturday and this was last-minute.” I give a half shrug. “It’s just me today.”

He looks up then, his eyes widening slightly, probably assuming I was a receptionist or something. I’m immune to this reaction from musicians by now.

He exhales a sharp puff of air, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed that he’ll be recording with a woman, or just surprised. His reaction rankles me, but I try to shove it down. While I wait for him to finish tuning, I drag a stool next to him and take out my laptop.

“Okay, Mr. James?—”

“Austin,” he interrupts me. “Just Austin.” By the knowing look he’s giving me I’m sure he sees exactly what I’m doing.

“Okay,Austin.” I emphasize his name, pulling my laptop onto my lap. “Tell me what you want to do, and then I can make a spreadsheet to plan out your studio session. I noticed the booking is for the next two weeks. Depending on what you need, we might get a lot recorded.”

He inhales deeply, scrubbing his hands over his face like he’s weighing his words. His next sentence stops me in my tracks.

“I’m starting over.”

What I know about him is that he’s known for partying, drinking, and women. His songs are at the top of the charts, but in my opinion, most of them aren’t anything to write home about. The ones I have on my playlist are from his older albums. Things changed as he got more popular. But hearing him say he’s starting over gives me pause.

“I’m gonna need more information. What are you starting over from?” I still have to play like I don’t know him. Gotta keep that ego in check.

“Do you really not know who I am? You work in the industry.” He motions at the room around us. “You’re telling me you haven’t heard of me? ‘After Midnight’?” He sings a line from a song that’s currently playing on every station.

“Nope,” I pop thep, but to my great horror, when I open my laptop my Google search is still on the screen from my low-key stalking earlier.

“Shit!” The word slips out of me and I slam my laptop shut. He turns to face me, an amused look on his face.

"So you don’t know who I am?” He swivels his head back and forth between my computer and me.

Biting back the laugh that’s threatening to bubble up, I close my eyes and say, “Just tell me your plans.”

He turns on his stool to face me, eyes boring into mine. Then, with a quick shake of his head, he explains how his cousin and manager, Tyler, sent him here to get his shit together.

“This isn’t the life I pictured for myself, ya know? I’ve been writing songs since I was fourteen, but the ones my label keeps giving me now are garbage. They all sound the same, and I’m just over it.” His weariness is palpable, like a physical presence sitting between us. “Don’t get me wrong, the country-pop stuff is great, but it’s not what I wanna be singing. I’ve been at this for a while now, and I’m so damn exhausted. I keep making one drunken mistake after another. Tyler thinks this could be a fresh start for me. I’m here till the end of August.”

Interesting. His session is only two weeks, but he’ll be here for four.

“Did he tell you much about the studio?” I ask.

“Nah, to be honest, I don’t think he actually knew much about the town. He was young when he visited. I did a little research before I came, though. I’m blown away. It’s like this place holds some kind of magic.”

“Oh it does. And just think,” I add, “you get to record right here, with all that magic in the air, for two whole weeks. It’s like the river itself guides the songs. My dad used to say the river guided musicians home.” I swirl my hands in the air, and our gazes catch, his eyes lingering on mine.

That brief eye contact flusters me more than it should, and a voice in my head screams for me to get us back on track.

“What’ve you got for us to record?” I ask, breaking the moment.

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