Griff runs a hand down his scruffy jaw. He’s thinking. Quick. He side-eyes Freddie for answers. She’s always been sharp, willing to shake out solutions by the throat if necessary. “Well, what do we do?” he demands. “Tell me you got somethin’ for me.”
Smugness radiates from her like a beacon. “I believe I may have found what the label would deem a suitable resolution.” She runs a finger down the line of her short black bob.
He waves a hand, impatient. “You’re killin’ me, Freddie.” Then he glances in the back seat. “Why’s he here anyway?” he asks, hooking a thumb at Brian, who’s been mute and useless the entire time.
“My next point is why Brian is here,” Freddie begins.
“The label will give you one last chance,” Brian says, holding his eyes, telling him to shut up and listen. “They’re willing to keep your fall tour on the schedule, with the sole change of demoting it from an arena tour to intimate music venues—”
“That’s a goddamn insult and you know it,” Griff snaps. Intimate music venues is code for dive bars. It means he goes back to playing on peanut-covered floors behind chicken wire.
“—providing you do one thing.”
“Well? What the fuck is it?”
Brian clears his throat. “They want you to add someone new to the roster. A new opening act.” His eyes fall to the floor. “Alabama Forester.”
Griff’s jaw drops, his mind automatically sizzling at the thought of her.
Then—
“No fuckin’ way,” he growls, drilling a finger on the dash. He ain’t having her here on this tour. He can’t.
“You have little choice in the matter,” Freddie says, cutting off Brian, who’s opened his mouth to speak again. “It’s the deal. If you want to keep the label, the tour, we add her.”
“Not her. Anyone but her.” He searches his hangover-fogged head. “What about Bella Hope? Or, you know ... that Kelly girl.” He snaps his fingers, lost on her last name. “The one with the weird warble. Kelly Karr.”
“Carrington.” Freddie eyes Griff. “They want Alabama. Despite her troubles in the press, the single she has out is still at number one, which is more than we can say for you.”
“It’s that song she cut with Luke Kincaid. ‘All Night Long.’” Brian adds, as if Griff needs a reminder about the guy Alabama locked lips with. “It’s still gettin’ airplay.”
Griff makes a sound of disgust. That song makes him want to step on Luke Kincaid’s fucking neck.
Freddie continues. “In this social media world we’re in, negative publicity is gold. People hate her. But they also like her music. CMI wants to capitalize on her ... let’s say bad girl image.” Freddie smirks. “Sex sells. You used to know all about that.”
Griff bristles. What he knows about is Alabama’s highly publicized troubles with the media, the scandal with the Brothers Kincaid, the way Six String sued the shit out of her. He’s also heard the gossip whispered around Nashville. What they’re calling Alabama in the press, at parties.
Using her misfortune to sell his records leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
“Our styles ain’t even the same,” he grumbles.
“Does it matter?” Freddie asks. “No one is buying your records, Griff. They’ll come to see her. Besides, we need someone with more bad press than you. She’ll soften you up some. In return, you keep your tour, stay relevant, and if merch sells, if album sales pick up, we’ll do a winter tour. Maybe then they’ll bump you back to arenas. Dive bars aren’t fun.” Freddie examines her long, manicured nails. “For any of us.”
Her words, her plan make sense. Still, he tries again. “Not Alabama. We have a past.”
The words are like poison in his mouth, shutting down his body, making him choke.
“Yes,” Freddie says. “Brian already informed me. Which is why I’m sure it won’t be hard for you to ... do that thing you do so well.”
Freddie makes a hand gesture that looks suspiciously like rubbing a button. A very female button.
“You want me to sleep with her?” He’s gawking. Freddie’s always been unscrupulous, but this ...
“Why not?” Freddie palms invisible words across the air like she’s writing her own tabloid headline. “‘Ex-Sweethearts Reunite Onstage.’” She looks at Griff. “People love a romance. Good, bad, dysfunctional. It all sells.”
He lets out a snarl of revulsion. “I’d rather go back to jail.”
Freddie’s laugh is clipped. “Don’t be so dramatic. You’ve slept with half of Nashville. Why would this be any different?”