Me: Really? You’re quoting Nike to me at a time like this???????
Caleb: I was going for supportive
Caleb: But seriously, don’t fuck up. You won’t get a chance this good again
And there went the excitement, sliding straight into terror. Her stomach started churning.
Me: I think I’d rather go back to Nike. Thanks for the vote of confidence. And the added pressure
Caleb: You live for pressure xx
The kicker was, he was right…to a degree. In normal circumstances she loved the adrenaline rush of solving high-difficulty problems in high-pressure situations. Loved the creativity that came when her back was against the wall and she was staring down the barrel of a crazy deadline or a crazier mess. But this…this was different. This wasn’t pressure. This was a nightmare. A lie. A disaster waiting to happen. And thanks to Caleb, she was now right in the middle of it.
Part of her wanted to text him back, to tell him to forget it. That he needed to get his ass down here to Austin right the fuck now. But there was another part of her that knew he was right, knew that him being here watching over Wyatt’s shoulder would send the reclusive drummer spinning out of control again. And that was the last thing she wanted to see happen. For the record label…and for Wyatt. He was too talented, had worked too hard to get clean, for her to just let him fall back into the abyss.
And that wasn’t even taking into account what his falling off the wagon again would do to the label. Since Shaken Dirty had had to pull out of the last tour, the tour insurance for this new one was completely insane—Caleb had taken great pains this summer to impress on her just how insane it was—and they sure as hell couldn’t afford to eat the astronomical deductible on it a second time. If Wyatt fucked up again, it would tank Shaken Dirty for sure. And take a huge bite out of her father’s bottom line as well.
Plus, she was pissed. It infuriated her that the subterfuge was necessary. That she and Caleb had to pull a bait and switch like this just to do what was best for the company.
And on that happy thought…
She shoved her phone back in her purse with a groan, then closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the seat as she accepted the truth. She was going to do this. She was going to throw herself into the ring with Wyatt freaking Jennings and do her best to keep him on his game. She could only pray that it didn’t blow up in her face and ruin everything.
Everything she had planned.
Everything she’d ever wanted.
Everything she’d worked so hard for.
Her whole life she’d never wanted anything more than to run her own record label. She had an eye for talent, had a really good instinct for what the public wanted and who was going to break when. But since her father had made it pretty much impossible for her to get a job at any of the other labels—for her own good, he always said—she’d been stuck working for him since she got out of college four years ago.
Unless she actually pulled this off. Unless she actually managed to keep Wyatt from falling off the wagon and messing everything up again. If she could do that, if she could keep Shaken Dirty together, then everything would be different. Her father wouldn’t be able to doubt her anymore. He wouldn’t be able to pretend her contributions were less valuable just because she was a woman. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to tell her she couldn’t handle rock stars, not if she managed to keep one of the industry’s most notorious addicts from falling prey to his most dangerous addiction once again.
Which meant she was going to have to put her big girl panties on and do this. She was going to have to lie to the band and figure out a way to keep Wyatt occupied and sober and out of trouble. Plus she was going to have to do all this while also spying on the bassist auditions, because there wasn’t a chance that Li was going to measure up to the talent the rest of Shaken Dirty displayed. And since there was no way in hell she was going to let them pick a subpar bassist, she would have to find a way to solve that problem, too.
Yeah, no pressure at all.
For a moment, she considered asking the driver to pull into the nearest convenience store so she could stock up on Cherry Garcia ice cream. If she was going to have to do this, she was going to do it fully fortified on Ben & Jerry’s. Otherwise, she didn’t have a chance of making it through.
But before she could hit the intercom button again, the driver pulled over to the curb. “This is as close as I can get you tonight, ma’am. But if you walk a block up, you can’t miss it on the right.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” She grabbed her purse and opened up the car door before the driver could make it around to her side and do it for her.
“Here’s my card,” he told her as he shut the door behind her. “Text me when you leave the club and I’ll meet you here.”
She nodded, shoving the card into the front pocket of her purse. “Thanks.” She smiled at him, hoping her nerves didn’t show. She’d been to this club many times since she’d turned twenty-one, but none of them seemed as important—or as terrifying—as this time.
Refusing to dwell on that fact, or what she was going to do once she got to Antone’s, she gave the driver a little wave and then walked away. As she turned on to Fifth Street, she was giving herself the pep talk of a lifetime.
By the time she got to Antone’s, she was calm, cool, in control. At least until she paid her cover at the door and started making her way into the belly of the club. Then, as the darkness and the noise of a band that was decidedly not Shaken Dirty closed around her, she couldn’t help freaking out.
There was no way she could do this, no way she could play Wyatt like that. She’d screw everything up, get him super pissed at the record label, and then any chance she had of showing her dad she could do this job would go up in smoke.
But did she have a choice? If there was a better, more reasonable option, she was all for it. But since she couldn’t come up with anything—and neither could Caleb or her dad—she was pretty sure she was stuck with this plan. Damn it.
As she made her way through the club, the close, hot air made it hard to breathe. Then again, maybe that was just her panic. Either way, she wasn’t about to have a meltdown in the middle of a show, so she pushed her way through the wall of bodies in front of her and slowly, painstakingly, made her way to the bathrooms. If nothing else, she’d spend a couple of minutes splashing water on her face and definitely not hyperventilating. She could do this. She would do this.
Except when she got there, the bathroom was packed—which overshadowed any good her you-can-do-it mantra had wrought. Bypassing the crowded room, she made her way down the hallway to the door at the end, clearly marked with a red exit sign.