Page 13 of Just Business

“I have these.” He reaches down to his guitar case and retrieves a tattered spiral-bound notebook. “I’ve been working on them for a while, but no way in hell would my label let me record them. They think they know what sells.”

Idly, I flip through the pages, seeing song after song, chord after chord, scrawled out in messy handwriting. “And you want to record all these here?” I ask, handing the notebook back to him.

“Probably not all of them.” He shrugs and snaps the notebook shut. “And these might never see the light of day after we’ve recorded them. But I have to do this for me.” He pauses and blows out a breath. “I’m losing myself out there. I don’t even recognize who I’ve become. I’m a shadow of the man I used to be.”

His voice sounds so broken that guilt tugs at me for giving him a hard time, acting like I don’t know him. I feel even worse for calling him an asshole last night. We’re both quiet, only thetick, tick, tickof the wall clock filling the silence.

“I guess we better get started,” he says, breaking the moment, but neither of us moves.

I sit, studying him. Vulnerability is not something I expected this early in the day, and certainly not from Austin James. This isn’t the same cocky, self-assured man the public knows. My first impression is telling me that maybe the media has him all wrong—that maybe I have him all wrong.

“Yep, guess we better,” I finally say.

Standing, I walk over and step into my sound booth while slipping on my headphones. I gesture for him to play something so I can begin tweaking the sound. He hesitates for a moment, then begins fingerpicking an intro I’ve never heard before. It’s a soulful country ballad that falls somewhere between classic country and folk.

His voice is rough around the edges, like sandpaper, almost like his tone alone is telling its own story. It’s raw and totally different from what’s on his latest album, making it clear why he wants to play his own stuff. I adjust the compression and raise the faders to shape the sound into what I think he’s aiming for.

As he sings, the same transformation I saw last night at the bar takes over. His face softens, the creases between his eyes smooth, and the tension melts away. I recognize this look. He’s taking it back to when music was no more than a dream, back to his roots. This isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed a moment like this. Plenty of artists come to us with the same story of burnout, the same weary expressions on their faces. The music industry will chew you up and spit you out, and the big labels are like puppet masters, using the musicians as their marionettes on a string.

When he finishes, I step from the booth and walk over to him.

“That was amazing!” His chest puffs out at my praise, and a flicker of pride dances in his eyes. “It’s got this old-school vibe, like the music my dad used to play when I was a kid. How would you feel about my band joining you? I can practically hear it with them here. Maybe even a little fiddle on a few songs. I can’t bring them in on short notice today, but I’ll shoot them a text and check their schedules.”

“Absolutely,” he replies without hesitation. “You can send an invoice to Tyler.”

“Oh, and I’ll need to keep you in the loop with the band and all, but I don’t have your number. Only Tyler’s was on the booking.”

“Right. Good thinking.” He pulls out his phone, scrolls, and types out a quick message. My phone pings, and I glance down to see his text, belatedly realizing my mistake.

Unknown

Hey. It’s Mr. Mysterious

My eyes snap up to his, and he’s looking at me with a knowing smirk on his face. Rolling my eyes, I shake my head, barely suppressing a smile.

We work the rest of the day cutting demos of his songs for me to send to my band. As we replay the recording, I steal glances Austin’s way. Pride spreads across his face and excitement radiates from him. He’s perched on the edge of his seat, his fingers tapping his leg in time with the music. I’m not sure what it is yet, but I have a feeling something big is headed his way, whether he’s ready for it or not.

“Can we stop to eat? I’m fading fast over here.” I tend to zone in when I’m recording, completely losing track of time. It’s not unusual for me to come in bright and early only to look up and see the sun setting.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll grab something too while you take a break.” He squats to put his guitar in its case.

I absolutely should not do what I’m about to do. Every instinct is screaming,Abort mission. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. But apparently my mouth has a mind of its own.

“Wanna grab lunch together?” The words spill out fast like they’re afraid I’ll pull them back in if they don’t scurry out. “Since this is your first time here, I can take you to my favorite lunch spot.” My voice sounds a lot more confident than I’m feeling. I’m well aware there's a line of professionalism that I can’t cross, but I’m having an awfully hard time remembering exactly where that line is.

His hands stall right as he’s closing the latches on his guitar case. When he looks up at me, his expression has turned soft. Like perhaps my lunch invite means more to him than I realize.

“Yeah, I’d like that, a lot. Thanks.”

Once we’ve packed everything up, we head upstairs, Austin following close behind me. Without thinking, I lead him through the exit that takes us past my office. He stops to study the pictures on the wall, his eyes lingering on each one. His lips move as he silently reads the words under each photo. There are pictures of everyone who has owned the studio: my granddad, my dad, and, lastly, my picture.

Under it, a small plaque reads:

Penny Miller

Owner 2022 - Present

With my head down I pretend to shuffle papers on my desk, but I can feel his eyes on me.

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