Page 3 of Make It Burn

“Good. I need someone who can stick to a schedule and keep everyone in check without getting too involved with them, if you know what I mean.”

“Everyone is right about you Tristan, you are a terrifying label head.”

“I’m waiting, darling.” He snickers while I scan through Dad’s calendar.

What the hell? Dad has highlighted studio time for next month without telling me about it. I haven’t had a chance to go over the schedule today; it’s already taken me five hours to shift through all the emails.

It’s my fault. I made the decision to be a coward and hide out for a week in New York with Max—one of my best friends?and his partner, Tommy. After a cringeworthy moment at the local strip club three weeks ago, one involving the man plastered on the cover, I ran as far away from Nashville as I could.

“Hon, you still with me?” Tristan asks.

Fuck, I need to stop daydreaming. “What the hell, Dad has—”

“Hold on. I need to yell at a couple of people.”

I pull the phone away from my ear as he does so.

“Tristan, why has Jack highlighted studio time for you?”

“You don’t know?” he mumbles. Leaning back in my chair I open the door and squint my eyes at my dad who’s rearranging the studio setup yet again. The phone buzzes with an incoming message, I read the text, it’s from Tristan. Prepare yourself Jack, the kid is about to find out.

Biting on the inside of my cheek, I look at the studio time Dad has highlighted without telling me.

“So lift off or what? I guess it’s my turn to bring the snacks?” Tristan says, sounding excited.

“Tristan, what’s going on?”

“Jack didn’t tell you?” he asks, feigning innocence, sounding like he’s in a rush. “Hon, they are calling me in for a meeting. Are we on for man-day?”

“No one is calling you, and yes, all the guys are coming over,” I tell the cranky pants on the other end of the line. “Next Sunday, around eleven. But what about the studio time?”

His response is an exaggerated sigh.

“Who are you booking studio time for, Tristan?” My voice is smooth like velvet. Checking the calendar again, I can’t find the name of the band in the system. Dad must have forgotten to write it down. Figures.

“Outlaw,” he says in one breath.

What the hell?Oh no, Dad didn’t.

“Need to go, honey. Love you,” he calls before hanging up.

Dropping the phone, I whisper. “This is not happening.” Turning the crumpled magazine, I brush my fingers over his picture. Navarone’s intense dark eyes stare back at me, and I want to punch the roguish smile from his face. “So not happening,” I groan.

Dad starts to play some honky-tonk tune, and I swear under my breath.

He is a traitor when it comes to Navarone. I know for a fact they still talk and meet up.

“Fuck my life,” I murmur, slamming the magazine against my desk a couple of times. Dad may be country music’s number-one in-demand producer, but in my case, he’s a pain in the ass who can’t keep his nose out of my business.

“Okay, Jack,” I grumble, grabbing the magazine. “When it’s on, it’s freaking on.”

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