I Always Will

Row, Three Months Later

I've never officially recorded music anywhere but LA. In my father's basement where Strut cut our demo's and the studio where Strut's one and only album was laid down. That place was entirely white and black with fluorescent lighting and completely computerized. The engineer's room reminded me of a space ship.

I had no idea how to make a record. I didn't have to. I had a famous father, a famous A&R guy, a famous producer. Probably even the sound engineers were famous, only I didn't know because I was young and stupid and I didn't take the time to know. All I knew then, was how to write songs, play the guitar, sing, and act like a general bad-ass. Strut strutted into the studio, did our thing, took some direction, made some adjustments, and let the suits worry about the shit we didn't care about. My dadager, our A&R guy Mason Moran, our producer Zeke Solomon, and our actual manager Riley handled everything else.

It's so different this time. It's not just the songs, its the sound that's on me. This time it's a collaboration, not a learning experience. Riley and I have spent two months experimenting in Trace's basement, not just songwriting, but finding the rough shape of our sound. Once, Riley and I both were in bands with huge sounds—lots of synthesizers and electrics and full drum kits. I think we both thought our two guitar system was only the skeleton of our sound. We tried out arrangements with a full band sound—guitars, bass, keys, full kit.

After a couple of weeks of serious conversation and deep experimentation, with Adam and Mac and Bodie often spending a few days to help out, we've decided less is really more, for us. Our music is about the beautiful and interesting tension in our harmonies. It's a challenge for us to get the most rhythm and heat out of a couple of guitars and some keys and a five drum set-up. Only about a third of the uptempo songs will have either a bass line or a electric guitar and more depth in the kit.

At least, that's the way our five song demo tape turned out. And it turned out pretty good, if I say so myself. Good enough to snag us Charlie Quetzl, a producer that's very much in demand in Nashville and in Muscle Shoals. He rearranged his entire schedule to produce our album. He pulled strings to get us recording time at the famous Muscle Shoals Studios, which we're pulling up to now for our first recording day.

The parking lot is surprising full of six-figure sports cars.

"Wow, how many studios do they have and who else is recording today?" I ask.

"Yeah, about that," Riley scratches his five o'clock shadow. "You know how you asked your BFF Bodie to lay down the drum tracks, and I asked Adam if he wouldn't mind giving us a hand on a few songs to cut down on costs? Well, I just got word this morning that...apparently...there was some unspoken assumption there...and...well...you see..."

"The entire rest of Soundcrush took that as open invitation to come hang while we record." I murmur.

"Pretty much. I think they are only planning to stay a week."

"A week!" I gasp. "Trace and Leed?" Of course I expected Mac might come with Adam, but I had no idea that the two Titans of Soundcrush were coming to play Lord Overseers of our album.

He turns the ignition off in Trace's truck and carefully turns in the seat. "I'll send them away. Just say the word, if you think they'll be distracting. I have no problem with that."

I look at my handsome husband. (Yes, I know Marley says we aren't supposed to think like that but my parents aren't married and they call each other husband and wife and he's my husband in every way that matters to me, and I've never been good at following anyone's rules, not even my marriage counselor's.) My husband is quite serious right now. Five people in that studio have meant everything to him for the last eight years, and I'm not sure he truly knows how important he is to them. Every single one of them wants to be here, standing side stage as Riley becomes the man he was born to be.

"They can stay," I smile at him.

Precisely three and half days later, I'm totally regretting that decision.

"No, you're not hearing me," Adam says from his place on the couch to Trace who replaced the sound engineer at the mixing board hours ago.

"I'm hearing you. It's a dumb instrument. Juvenile. These people are in pain, Adam!" Trace slings a hand at me and Riley, where we sit together in a second chair at the mixing board, me perched lightly on his lap. "Or they were, when they were writing these songs. Tell him, R's." Trace has taken to just calling us R's for expediency, since he's saying our names every thirty seconds to command our attention.

"Yes," Riley agrees dryly. "Utter agony."

I meet Riley's eyes. There's a mirth there, despite our emotional exhaustion and too crowded mixing booth.

I snicker. Leed looks at me sharply, as if I'm a naughty schoolgirl. Pay attention, his lion gaze seems to say.

"It's not juvenile," Leed objects. "Although it might be a bit too...Italian restaurant. We should try it, though. See if it supports their particular vocal color.

"We should definitely try it," Adam says. "Just listen a minute—thanks, Shorty," He beams at her as she plops back down beside him and hands him a mandolin she retrieved from god knows where. "Play that track again," he demands from Trace. "Without your guitar intro."

Trace rolls his eyes and turns to the computer. A song Riley and I wrote called "Dream Key" begins. Adam plays. It's neither juvenile nor reminiscent of Italian restaurant music. It's intricate and mysterious and goes beautifully with the composition we've already laid down. But it's not exactly what I feel when I sing the song. It feels too complex, and the longing in the song is brutally simple.

"Yeah?" Adam looks at me, then Riley.

Riley scratches his stubble. He peers into my eyes. I raise my eyebrows ever so slightly, and quirk one side of my mouth. Riley squeezes one eye at me almost imperceptibly and pats my hip to let me know he's on the same page with me. "It's gorgeous," he begins, and I hear the manager's voice, not my husband's, not my artist's.

"Ha! See!" Adam leaps to his feet. "I told you, Gallant!"

Trace blinks look behind him, turns back to his best friend. "Gallant? What the fuck, Bruh? We've flunked freshman chemistry, made six albums, traveled the world together, and you haven't ever called me that."

"You haven't ever been this obnoxious before," Adam shrugged.

"You are being a bit of a Matt," another British voice says. I blink, and peer around the room. When the hell did Dev arrive and more importantly, where the hell is he?

"I heard that," my father says from the recording room, where he's strumming Rattle My Chains and Bodie is experimenting with a cajon—a drum box. I smile at them. It's an amazing thing to see that my father has finally forgiven Bodie for the things I never blamed him for.

Mac is also looking around the room for Dev. Apparently she spies him behind the couch. On the floor? "Devlin, what the hell are you doing on the floor?"

Yep, on the floor.

A beautifully brown masculine forearm rises over the back of the couch, and Dev drags himself to his knees. "Hello, Madam," he grins at Mac, looking either exhausted or slightly stoned or both. She pats his arm. When Dev says Madam he never means them, he only means her. His once crush has morphed into a mad respect and friendship. "I've played five shows in the last seven days and I'm terribly jetlagged. Came in while you were on a mandolin mission and Row was in the loo."

"You could have saved your energy and stayed on your side of the pond," Matt calls.

"That's not what she said," Dev pops back. The she in question being my sister of course. Ah, here she comes now with a trayful of coffees. She puts them down on the table, joining Dev on his knees.

"Here, baby. A flat white triple shot." She looks at him adoringly. They are getting along really well lately.

"You are the most perfect angel," he murmurs, wrapping his fingers in hers as he takes the cup from her. Marley snorts, never looking up from her magazine. She's always telling Dev he has to get over his whole madonna-whore complex, because real relationships don't work like that.

I reach for a coffee, pass it to Riley with a smile. He winks at back at me. We can manage coffee without cutesy names. What we can't manage is the insanity.

"Where's Charlie?" I ask, looking around.

"Oh, he went home," Mac says smiling like the Cheshire cat. "Said call him when he was needed."

"Pfft, who needs him?" Trace says.

Suddenly I can't take it anymore. We've barely gotten two songs laid down in the last three and half days, The family reunion is great, and I love how much the guys are here for Riley, but this is complete bullshit. We're going to go bankrupt paying for this studio where we aren't recording anything. I rise "He's. Our. Producer!" I yell at Trace.

He blinks. "We can—"

"No, you can't!" I shout. "Because what you would produce is a Soundcrush Unplugged album, not our album."

"Too right about that," Dev mutters.

"And why are you even here?" I round on him.

He bites his lip. "I really don't have a clue."

"FOMO," Leed suggests. "It's why I'm here."

Dev wags a finger at him. "Ah yes, that must be it. I've really begun to think of all you wankers as family. You know she probably talk to Marley about this FOMO thing—"

"You people are unbelievable!" I yell.

Matt rises from his chair in the recording room, grabs a mic and winds up for a lecture. "Poodle, calm down—"

"No, don't calm down, Row," Riley pulls himself slowly to his feet, placing a light hand on my back. "She's absolutely right. This has... spiraled. So first things first. Adam, the mandolin is gorgeous, but we want the vocals to do the work on that one, not the strings."

"Ha! Take that, Heartley!"

"Oh shut-up, Trace," Adam drawls.

"My thoughts precisely." Riley rounds on my brother. "You are the one that should be receiving the "calm down" lecture from your ever-so-helpful father." Riley shoots Matt a look.

"Watch it," Matt growls. He's forgiven Bodie, but he hasn't quite forgiven Riley. For what I'm not sure. For his possessive somewhat abusive ways after I cheated. Or maybe for the way he tried to manage me before, that contributed to our problems.

"I am watching it," Riley looks at his watch. His voice is calm, but commanding. "I'm watching another day of studio time down the drain. I'm watching Row lose patience with you all and more importantly lose her joy for making this album. Therefore, as much as I had hoped this would be a great experience for us both as artists, I'm putting on my management hat for the next five minutes to straighten you sorry lot out."

"Really?" I beam at at him. Him advocating for me with deliberate coolness hasn't happened since the Strut days. For the last five years, I've become accustomed to Riley losing his shit all over the Girl Band producers, in a futile hammering that never worked. It seems like when it comes to my career—our career—Riley has finally found his footing again.

"Really, darlin'," he draws me to him by the waist. To the others he says, "The talent" he gestures between us, "is tapped, for the day. Not by the work. By the emotional effort to placate our entourage."

"Entourage!?!" Trace and Leed exclaim as one.

Riley sighs. I see his hand jerk, an automatic reach to remove the glasses he no longer wears to execute the habit of wiping them, which he always does when he's planning to "manage" his band. He catches himself, shakes his head, smiles and extends an open palm instead. "Look, guys. No one appreciates the support more than me. It's beyond amazing that you want to help. But Row's spot on—you're help isn't help, because your ideas aren't meant for us. They are meant for some future, softer iteration of Soundcrush—a decade from now."

Five pairs of eyes blink at Riley. I bite my lip, waiting for the egos of five rock stars rebuffed to explode.

Instead, Mac lock's eyes with Trace. A slow smile spreads across her face. "He's—"

"Right," Trace nods.

"Fuck me if he isn't," Leed says in astonishment. "He's onto something." Leed rises, pacing. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Think Metallica unplugged, people."

"We'll have to do it better than they did, if we don't want the world to call us sellouts," Bodie snorts.

Trace snaps at Adam. "Play that mandolin again, Preacher. Not the R's song. Pick us something for that new hook Mac and I were messing around with."

Adam bends his head over the mandolin, but Riley clears his throat.

Silence descends. The five Crushers exchange glances again.

Bodie laughs. "Damn, we're full of ourselves."

"Uh, yeah. We aren't the ones paying for this studio time, guys," Mac says cheerfully, plucking the mandolin from Adam.

"Sorry," Adam mumbles.

Trace and Leed have the good grace to look mildly ashamed of themselves.

"Right, thanks," Riley says mildly. "Row are I are going back to the hotel, to get a good night's sleep before our vocals tomorrow. Bodie and Adam, we'll see you in the morning for the arrangements we already ran through with Charlie," he reiterates to Adam, who shrugs in agreeable disappointment. "Mac, Marley, my dears, you've been truly lovely, always a pleasure, please come tomorrow and help me keep your husbands wrangled. Trace, Leed, don't you have LA broods to get home to? Bridge, Dev, why don't you take a little rest at the Clink, since we're here in Muscle Shoals for the next few weeks. And Matt—"

He turns toward the booth. He and my father glare at each other through the glass. "Riley, I know what you're going to say man, but I know more about recording an album than everyone in this room put together. Not only that, I'm her musical mentor and her father. She's never recorded without me. If she tells me to go, I'll go."

Riley looks down at me with the sweetest, calmest expression possible. "What do you want, darling?" he asks softly. I love the way he playfully calls me darlin' now, but when he's at his most tender, he returns to the pronunciation that shows his tender, adoring feelings for me. He's trying to manipulate me. He's not asking me to ask my dad to leave, or asking me to prove that I put his feelings above my father's. He's just asking me to make the call.

"I want you to hang out in Muscle Shoals, Daddy. Give us a few days to find our footing with Charlie, okay? When we've got new masters of all our demo songs, can you come in and listen?"

My dad's rock star face descends, and I know that I've hurt him. He presses his lips together, nods, rises, comes in the booth to kiss me good-bye, but he just can't help himself. As he hugs me, he says, "Are you sure this is what you want? Or are you just trying to please him, like always?"

I pull away, exasperated, saddened, unsure how I'm ever going to reconcile the two most important men in my life. What does Riley have to do to prove to my dad that he's changed? What do I have to do.

"I'm not trying to please him, Daddy. I just...I love him. I trust him. The same way he loves and trusts me now. I love the music we make together, and so does he. This album...I want those feelings to come through. For that, we need to less...distraction."

And still, my dad looks at Riley with cool doubt. "There is always distraction. You write great songs together, your voices might blend in perfect harmony, but if you guys make it as an duo? Nashville might respect that, but the entertainment industry is going to see it like another comeback for you. You'll be sought separate from him, for magazine covers, endorsements, probably more acting work. You're never not going to be a del Marco, and the most beautiful and intriguing one of us wearing a guitar. If Riley can't handle not being the sole focus of your undivided attention, this isn't going to work any better than it did before."

To my surprise, Riley lifts his eyebrows and nods in agreement.

"You're right. I've thought a lot about that. It's one of the reasons I was resistant at first. This is going to be tougher on our relationship than the division of roles we once had. As a manager, there was no room for my ego. As an artist, it's a requirement—that faith in yourself. Row's starpower refusing to dim enough to let anyone see what we're truly about together? It could all go horribly wrong. Except for one thing. I'm very clear about what the most important thing is now. It's not about what I think is best for her. It's not about my fear for her, or my need to safeguard her from the jackals.

"What's most important to me is Row's happiness. Because when she's happy, she takes care of herself. She takes care of me, too. We take care of one another. And it may be the most arrogant thing I've ever said, but after these last six months, I have no doubt in my mind—the thing that makes Row happy? It's me. Not your money, not the notoriety of being a del Marco, not winning a rockstar rivalry with Trace. Not even her guitar fulfills her, unless it's playing along with mine."

"I love your daughter, Matt. I swear it. Since we've reconciled, I've come to love her with a peace in my heart that I never thought possible. I know loved her badly before, but we both need you to believe I'm learning to love her much better this time. I'm not holding her clenched in my terrified fist anymore. I'm holding her like a dandelion, in the palm of my hand, hoping her dreams and mine will fly. So maybe...give us the space to sow something beautiful, yeah?"

Every day I think I can't love this man any more, and then he goes and does something like this. I wrap both my arms around him, my temple touching his jaw, as I watch my father. His eyebrows are lifted at Riley. They shift to me. Riley kisses my temple, and I close my eyes against my father's unimpressed gaze. It doesn't matter if my dad's not ready to accept—

"Okay." Matt says.

I open my eyes. "Okay?" I repeat.

He reaches out and pinches my chin like he used to when I was a little girl, and I'd gotten into trouble with Mom, but he wanted to let me know he still loved me. "Okay. You love each other. I'm sure you'll fuck it all to hell sometimes, because you're complete opposites, like me and your mom, but you'll fix it, because you truly love each other. Also like me and your mom. I guess...I see that now. It's just...it was a long road of heartache for me and your mom to make love work, and I wanted to spare you that. I wanted an easier love for you, than I have with your mom."

"Would trade the heartache you've put each other through for an easier love? Do you wish you'd kept Trace's mom with you?" I ask.

There's an intake of breathe that I'm sure was Trace's, but my dad doesn't seem at all surprised by question. "So that's what this static has been, between me and you lately? Not my alcoholism? Trace and his mom, still?"

Until that moment, I guess I didn't realize it. But yes. My mom and dad have had a rocky road. The fights, the separations, the heartbreaks they went though in the first twelve years of my life didn't automatically get erased by their improved relationship in the next dozen. Ever since I found out about Trace, I wondered if his mom was really my dad's soul mate. I wonder if my dad might have found happiness for a greater part of his life if Street had never happened, if Bridge and I hadn't followed right behind. If Street's birth and my parents' wedding hadn't been splashing all over the pages when Trace was just a newborn, would Gina have told my dad the truth? Would it have been her he married, and not my mother?

All those what-if's were tangled up

"Trace, come here, Son," Matt says. Trace's feet move slow. He's got his rock star face on, too.

My dad draws me away from Riley by the shoulder, and he puts his other on Trace's, leaning into our faces like I remember him doing to me and Bridge when we were children. "Relationships of any kind require honesty, but honesty sometimes hurts. You both have been through enough to understand that, right?"

We nod. My dad looks very sad, but he tells the truth. He looks at Riley and says, "I know it's possible for a person to truly love someone, and then love another someone later." He turns back to me and my brother. "But that's not what happened with me and your mom and Trace's mom. What happened was...I had an immediate and strong attraction to Trace's mom. I know I felt something because...well, I missed her for awhile, even after she went back to her life, and I know for sure I love the hell out of the son we made together. But I was with her two weeks and most of that time I was either partying with her or playing onstage. I have no idea if I would have fallen in love with Gina if we'd sobered up enough to truly get to know one another. The honest to god's truth? Maybe. Maybe I would have found a love that allowed me to let your mom go, Row. Maybe Gina and I would have been happy together.

"Or...maybe not. Maybe I would have made a go at things Gina, her being pregnant and all, but maybe I would have come to realize she could never replaced your mom in my heart. I don't know. All I know is life worked out the way it did and from where I stand, I can tell you, I have only ever loved one woman in my entire life, and that is your mom, Row. And son," he turns to Trace, "I'm so fucking sorry for all the bad things you've been through in your life, but from where I sit in my life now, I can't imagine a different life. I can't ever picture it, you know? Trading your brothers and sisters for the chance to find out if I could have done a better job as your father."

Trace reaches out to my dad and grips his arm. "I know, Old Man. For all the bullshit we've been through, I can't imagine my life without Ross, either."

"Thank you, Daddy. I needed to hear the truth."

I really did. He's never said anything about Trace's mom to the rest of us kids. I wasn't sure what he'd said to Trace about his relationship with his mom, and guess I resented my dad holding it so private. I see now, he's reluctance to talk about her was more about respect for Trace than love for his mom.

My dad is fighting back tears. "So, Rowan, if you're having such a growth year and learning to be a better wife to your ex-husband, and you are expecting me to also be a better father-in-law, and you want me to be a more honest dad and a better father-in-law, I think it's time you and Trace bury your issues, too, don't you?"

I laugh through my own tears. "Fine, I'll say it. Trace, you're a better guitarist than me."

"Well, only because..." he begins graciously.

"No. Even before this," I hold up my hand, which are not my dad's but my mother's hands. "The truth is, my guitar skills were mostly hard work. You've got his hands. You've always been better than me."

My brother's expression relaxes into dismay. He can't believe I admitted it. He pulls me to him in a hug—which we rarely do—and whispers hoarsely. "I know. But you got the best of his talent. You're a much better singer-and much better in the spotlight—than me. "

"I know."

"Of all of you, you're the one I'm jealous of," Trace says seriously. Then he cracks a devilish grin. "Not only does the Old Man favor you; you stole Riley from us!"

I grab Riley around the waist again. "Sorry, not sorry."

The whole room erupts in laughter. After that, everyone leaves in twos and fours, until only Riley and I remain in the darkened mixing room.

He places his hands on my face and kisses me like the day he married me. Full of hope and purpose. When he stops, my eyes are still closed, and I sway against him as he rubs my lips with his thumb.

"A lot of truth in this room today."

"None more so than this: I love you more every single day, Riley Emsworth."

"Well, in that case," he presses his lips to my forehead, "I can't wait for you to love me when we get to the hotel, because I thought it couldn't get any better than last night."

"Be serious," I'm smiling against his throat now.

"I bloody well am."

"Riley," I press against his lower back, massaging gently. "Are you very tired?"

"I just told you I'm up for a tremendous shag," he chuckles as he squeezes my bottom.

"I don't want sex."

"You don't?" He sounds offended.

"Well, I do, but not just yet. I'm feeling inspired."

"Why don't you inspire me, darlin'" he pulls my hand to the front of his trousers.

"Riley!" I laugh.

He pulls the hand he was trying to molest himself with around to his back pocket and attaches it to my phone. "Charlie is on my favorites. If you can get him back, I'll persuade the sound engineer to stay, I think I'd like to sing as well."

"Why do I have to call Charlie?" I pout. "I think I'd have better luck with the sound engineer and you with him."

"I know you would. The sound engineer was staring at your rack all day." His hands skim my waist and come to rest on the sides of my breasts, pushing them together slightly. "And I'd rather offer him double pay than have you flirt with him."

"Double pay? You really do love me, don't you."

"You bet your sweet arse." He squeezes it again, then breezes out of the room to search for the sound engineer. As he heads down the hall, I can hear him singing scales to warm up.

An hour later, we are in the darkened recording booth, nothing but me, Riley, our song in our ears, and love on our lips. We record, "I Always Will" in one take.

Four minutes, sixteen seconds. That was all it took. When we finished, I was so high on his sound, so moved by the rhythms of his words, I was convinced we had a hit song. As soon as the recording light went off, Riley grabbed me, lifted me off my feet—very ill-advised considering his back and balance—as we stumbled a little before we achieved our victory kiss.

Even Charlie thought it was gold, for sure.

If only Nashville had been so easily convinced.