Adjusting the cuffs of her powder-blue silk suit, she says, “Now, about last night.”
“What about it?” Griff mumbles, his mouth full.
A low sigh comes from the back seat. Brian, his hands on each of the headrests, pulls himself forward. “We need to talk, Griff.”
“So talk.”
An under-her-breath mutter comes from Freddie as Griff tears into a second Egg McMuffin, littering her pristine floor with oily wrappers. “Ugh. The smell will haunt me until the end of my days.” Then she clears her throat and locks eyes with Griff. “I hope you can hear me over the sounds of you chewing your food like a pig at a trough.” Freddie’s wry tone switches over to one that’s all business. “The man you hit last night won’t press charges.”
Griff shrugs. “What can I say? He got in the way. Of my fist.”
“Griff, the guy’s a bartender,” Brian says. “He was doing his job, man.”
Griff scowls at the memory of last night. As far as he remembers, he met some fans who bought him a shot, and when he finished it, he slammed it on the bar. Glass broke. People were pissed. The bartender wouldn’t serve him another one, and that’s when he hit him.
Freddie’s stiff shoulders sag. “Aren’t you tired? I’m tired, Griff. I’m tired of always sweeping your shenanigans under the rug.”
He lifts his flask and takes a long pull, trying to drown out her words.
Freddie’s right. He is tired. Tired of always sleeping alone, tired of the drinking and the women, tired of singing shit songs someone else writes for him. Hell, how many more nights can he sing about beer and trucks? He hasn’t sung an honest song since he left Clover. But it’s all he knows. It’s what made him a star.
Rule breaker. Rebel. Rowdy like Hank. That’s what he was when he first started out. He made his music, his money, his reputation by playing fast and loose. Shooting off at the mouth, shooting guns onstage. It was a damn fine act, and it worked.
Twelve years ago.
And now, now he’s sunk. He’s so stuck in his image he can’t even remember who the fuck he is anymore.
If he tells anyone he’s bored with it all, he loses face. If he sings what he wants, he’s a sellout.
“Now that I have your attention,” Freddie says, her clipped voice breaking through his thoughts. “Let me tell you about the damage your fist did.” She pauses for effect. Then, “Curt and Sooz have walked.”
The news has him blinking. He lowers his sunglasses. “What? I got no band?”
This is the third band he’s lost in two years. The only one still stuck with him is Brian, and that’s because they’re family. His cousin is loyal as a dog, stupid as one too. But he trusts him. Brian got him off a bender in the unruly days of his early music career, and since then, Griff’s made him tour manager, put him in charge of writing some songs, cleaning up his messes.
“That is correct. You ‘got’ no band, Griff. You also have a ho-hum reputation in the press.” Flashing her phone, Freddie shows him the home page of the Nashville Star website. AgingCountry Rock Crooner Griff Greyson: From Bad to Boring?
Griff stares, that old familiar anger bubbling in his veins. “What the fuck kind of bullshit headline is this? Aging?” he snaps. “I’m thirty goddamn years old.”
Freddie smirks. “I’ll be blunt. Your music is boring, Griff. It needs work. You need work.”
He slumps in his seat, wishing the car were currently going eighty right now so he could toss his ass into oncoming traffic. Freddie continues. “Did you notice there was not one photographer out there this morning?”
“There was Nikki,” Griff grunts.
“Yes. Thank God the walking chlamydia machine came to the rescue.” Freddie purses her lips. “You’re stale, Griff. Your last album was all covers. You play mechanically, like you hate it. No one cares about you anymore. If they did, your little antics would sell records. You would sell records. Which brings us to my next point.”
Griff shifts in his seat and takes another long swig of his flask, Freddie’s harsh words hitting below the belt.
“The label is threatening to cut you loose. That means no fall tour. No new album.”
This time, Griff sits up straight, his fingers curling against the thighs of his blue jeans. His body rocked by a kind of tense terror he hasn’t felt in a long while.
Fuck. He can’t lose everything he lost everything for. Especially not the music. The music’s all he’s got. All he cares about in his scummy shit-ass of a life, even if he hasn’t shown it the last three years.
“They can’t do that,” he grits out.
“They can and they will. If your fast fists sold records it would be a different story. But instead you’re busting jaws and sliding down in the charts faster than the Hindenburg crashed and burned.”