In Which Riley Must (Finally) Relinquish Control

Riley

We've done a round dozen of songwriter showcases in Nashville, but they are usually small events at the honkytonks or local bars. Some aren't much more than an open mic night. Others require a little more legwork to get into. Most of the showcases are just a fan engagement opportunity, although you never know when there might be some A&R guys at the bar, hoping to find an act that fits their needs. When they are there, they always talk to us, probably out of respect for Row's celebrity and my name in the business.

They tell us we've got a tremendous act, beautiful songs, vocal sync that is both dynamic and smooth, great stage presence. However, no one aggressively pursued signing us. I understood that they assumed we had a handshake deal with Colossal. They thought Colossal had just sent us out to look like we were paying our dues. I didn't discourage their notions. I didn't think we'd need a label. I thought our first album would magically catch fire on the charts based on the hype around our appearance on Corbin Frey, and Row's former celebrity, and perhaps the curiosity surrounding our personal life.

I thought we'd generate enough on the music stream apps to found our own independent label, but our downloads barely covered the promotion packages we had to purchase to upload our music. I should have thrown much more money into our branding than into the fancy studio in Muscle Shoals. But I didn't. I tried to run our socials myself, just like I tried to manage our appearance schedule and our money and our equipment and our merch and our publicity and... everything.

And everything else was much more urgent than social media branding and our publicity. It was the last place I put my energy. I thought Row's fame would automatically transfer to our brand. It did not, because I failed to build the cyber-bridge.

In other words, for the first time in my business career, I made a huge error in judgment. Of course, it would be when it matters to most to the woman I love.

After that, I started courting the A&R guys at showcases, because I knew we needed some of the resources a label would help us with—specifically the branding. But Matt's predictions about how our act would be received were all true.

They don't take us seriously. No one wants to risk backing us. They're afraid we won't last as a couple. They don't trust Row's professionalism. They expect she will lose focus again. They think I'm just having a lark, probably some existential crisis after my near-fatal car crash, or perhaps I'm just trying to please my woman by doing her musical bidding.

I know how these guys think. I used to be one of them. Guys who love power rarely comprehend giving it up. They're sure I'll get tired of the tedium of performing and return to management, where I can simply trade one aging act for the new hottest band, and keep the money and the power.

It's one of the reasons we need to get new music out. To show we are serious about going the distance. And our sophomore album—cut at the Clink by our producer Charlie Peacock who is about the only bloke this side of the Mississippi that actually believes in us—is ready to drop on all the streaming apps through the same production platforms we used before, but I've pressed pause. Because doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is insanity.

I need something—anything—to happen for us at this Showcase tonight. This showcase is not like the small-time gigs from last year. This showcase is sponsored by the Ryman. The most respected venue in Nashville. We had to bloody audition, and even then I had to broker a deal for Adam Heartley to host the damn thing, just to make sure we got in.

We need a record deal with a marketing team behind us. Or a publicist willing to work without a retainer, on future commission. Or hell, I'd even take a big industry mag feature to bump up our buzz again before the album drops—it doesn't even have to be Rolling Stone.

We're sitting in the parking lot of the Ryman well in advance of our time on the call sheet to rehearse our thirty-minute set. Nothing like showing up early to get the lay of the land, finding out the name of every person I have to liaison with tonight, getting the gossip on every A&R guy, every trade reporter, every music critic, every publicist, every publishing house that will evaluate us tonight.

I close my eyes and put on my management hat. Everyone always thought I was so on top of everything. Everyone thought I couldn't lose when it came to positioning my artists.

It wasn't because I'm superhuman. I'm very very human. I realize that now. I always won because I was always overprepared. Now, there's not enough time in my day, week, month, year, to overprepare for these types of things. We spend eighty hours a week working on our craft, performing, recording, traveling. And I refuse to lose sight of our personal partnership in the midst of that.

Row doesn't live half the world away anymore. Row lives within the embrace of my arms now. I'm never letting her go. Never not loving her, never not making her feel valued and heard. I don't work through dinner anymore. I don't stay on my phone all evening and then send her off to bed alone and work another fours hours until 2 am. If we're working until 2 am, it's about passion—either our music or our lovemaking.

So that leaves me with a little less time for management prep work.

But I can handle it. I'm an excellent talent manager. One of the best in the business. One mistake about the importance of our branding doesn't mean I've ruined us. I'm going to get us back on track tonight. So much of it is about seeing the opportunities as they are unfolding, reading the room, seizing the day.

And this is a big bloody day for us.

"Riley? Babe?" Row is biting her nails in the passenger seat of the Airstream. "Tell me what to do. How to help."

I look over at her. I do need her help networking, but I can't help focusing on the ragged condition of her black gel manicure. Two nails are missing, and she's working on a third. Our entire brand—what we have of it—is about glamorous sexual tension. I wear a dark suit onstage which contrasts dramatically with my longish, curling hair and neatly outlined five o'clock. Row looks like a silver screen goddess from another century. Dark dress, high heels, glossy black hair, dramatic red lips, tiny diamond nose ring, and her beautiful hands—the way she moves them—either playing her guitar or almost but never quite touching me—those hands steal the show. Not only that—her healed hand injury is part of her persona. Part of her lore. Everyone looks at her hands. She can't perform the Ryman in front of Nashville's most serious music professional and wield the power of her beautiful hands with glaringly tattered nails.

I sigh. She's not going to like this, but I have to put on my manager hat and get the best optic for our performance. "After we unload, perhaps you could go get a manicure?"

She snorts, then glares when she realizes I'm not joking. "Riley, you said this is the most important gig we've done yet. You said we have to network. We need a break here, tonight. Now you're...you're treating me...like...like the talent."

"Darling, you are the talent in this outfit. I'm just the mirror that reflects your shine," I tell her quite seriously.

Her face is a painful mash of appreciation of the comment and anger at me. She slaps me lightly on the arm.

"Riley, I want to do my part on the business end. Please."

"You will, Row. You'll blow them away on stage, and after our set, you'll charm every A&R guy in the room. I'll sweep in behind your hoo-doo to mop up a deal."

She glares at me."I know what you're doing. You're just handling me. Flattering me the way you used to handle Leed to get keep me out of the way of putting my foot in my mouth. I'm not some goofy, narcissistic frontman! I'm your wife! Your partner! I can help you!"

She's furious. She wants this so bad. But we each have our part to play. Our marriage is fifty-fifty, but that doesn't mean our roles in this creative partnership are perfectly interchangeable.

"Listen to me. I know you want to help, but I need more than your help. I need your bloody brilliance tonight. You're Rowan del Marco. You're our star—a glorious guitarist with a silken voice and silk dress and four-inch stilettos. You have to be the sun to my moon on that stage. The emotion I need you to show is desire. Desire so undeniably sure, you make everyone in that room want us, want our sound as much as you do. There is no room at all for uncertainty or fear when we take the stage." I take her hand and pull it in front of her face, forcing her to look at her mutilated nails. "You cannot perform with your nerves showing on your fingertips, darling."

"My fingernails are not that goddamn important! If they are, what does say that say about what we are trying to do here?" she yells at me.

"Rowan, please. You know bloody well we build a dream onstage to give to people. One perfect date. One perfect kiss. One perfect song. One perfect night. One perfect love. One perfect picture of us, embodying all that. So stop fighting the wrong fight with me and go get a fucking manicure!"

"Fuck you, Riley," she says quietly, pulling her hand away, slamming the passenger door.

She's angry, but she's not the girl she once was. The girl that would lose her shit and break beer bottles over people's heads or smash guitars in a rage. She opens the camper door, reaches in for her guitar, garment bag, and makeup case, and heads toward the back door. I grab my things and follow. By the time I catch up, she's instinctively wound through the backstage maze and found our "dressing room"—one portable makeup artist table in a line of ten, with a neon pink R&R tag taped to it, one garment rack with the same tag, and a 6X6square taped off on the floor, R&R stenciled in chalk.

She's hanging her bag and automatically reaches for mine without even looking at me. Wordlessly, I hand it to her. She arranges a few pieces of beauty regimen on the table, slapping them around restlessly. I wander around among the other performers, pick up a piece of chalk from the detritus I find on a supply cart, and draw a heart around our initials on the floor. She pretends not to notice.

I know that she knows I'm right about her nails, and she knows that I know she'll be leaving in a few minutes to take care of it. But I hate for her to go like this, and for hurt to rush into the vacuum of our separation. We're not perfect; we do occasionally have a petty argument, but this is not petty. This is...bad. This is self-sabotage. This is throwing cold water on our intimacy when we need it most.

I reach for her, pulling both her hands to my mouth. She makes them heavy, resistant, but she doesn't jerk away. I nibble her fingers. She watches my mouth but refuses to meet my eyes. "Riley your husband thinks you would be brilliant performing with literal bloody nails in a potato sack. He also thinks Riley our manager is a fucking arsehole."

"It seems Riley my husband has left the building," she mutters, toeing at the heart, smudging the point a tiny bit, but stopping before she ruins the effect.

"No, he's hanging about, but he's not the guy R&R needs right at this very moment. But you love him enough to forgive his abdication in favor of his alter ego, don't you?"

"I guess. As long as he meets me on the stage."

"You can bet he'll be there with you. For you. All about you, darling."

I kiss her fingers, drop her hands from between us, and pull her close. Reluctantly, she lets me peck her lips.

"Are we ok?" I ask.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm just... wound tight today."

"I know, darling. Me, too. I'm sorry as well."

She nods. She holds out her hand—the one missing all the nails. "Keys?"

I drop them into her palm. She moves around me. I nearly let it go, but I have to say it.

"Row."

She turns to look at me, giving me a small, I'm-trying smile.

I close my eyes and commend my soul to God.

"Not matte black, okay? Something softer, shiny, please."

She comes flouncing back into my face, whispering her anger. "Are you fucking kidding me right now? You never ever micromanaged my appearance like this with Strut."

I meet her furious gaze with calm. "Yes, I did. Through your stylist. And your glam squad. And your publicist. And sometimes through your mother. At least I'm being more direct, less manipulative now."

She opens her mouth. She closes it. "Only because I don't have a stylist, or glam squad, or publicist anymore."

I give her a crooked smile and painful half-shrug. "You still have a mother."

She turns on her heel and stalks away.

I experiment with cracking my neck. Nope. I don't know what Trace is on about. Doesn't help me a bit. I wish I were wearing my glasses. Cleaning them is quite satisfying in a moment of irritation.

I double-check our guitars, making sure they are tuned up. That soothes me somewhat. I go in search of the stage manager, confirming both our place in the assembly line soundcheck and our performance time. I'm pleased we're next to last. Not only does that give me a little morale boost—they always have the best acts either go early or late in the showcase, with the mediocre somewhere in the middle—I think next to last gives us a tactical advantage. Coming that late in line-up means there's no chance we'll be forgotten. Even if the last performers rival us, we'll beat them to the industry floor to network.

Next, I make the press rounds, schmoozing the trade journalists and a few A&R guys who have arrived early, but it doesn't go quite as well as I'd like. Our conversations keep getting interrupted.

First by a backline specialist with a technical question about which amps R&R will be using. Then a nervous intern who looks about fifteen and wants to know if she can leave plain or sparkling water in our dressing area, because "there isn't enough sparkling water and some people don't actually like sparkling water, so I thought I'd ask in case you don't. Actually like it, I mean...". Then by some production assistant wondering why our manager didn't pick up his backstage pass. I sigh and put it over my head with my talent pass. Then by a merch organizer, because they can't find our box Adam said he personally delivered to the Ryman office last week, labeled per all instructions.

"Look, go find Adam Heartley." I snap at the merch kid. "He's a friend of mine, and he was my delivery man."

"Who?"

"The host of this show? I'm sure he has a big dressing room with a star on it? He can probably describe exactly which one of you lot he personally handed the box to."

Perhaps I am a little bit bitter that I had to bribe our way into the show with Adam's fame. He's definitely doing us a favor, but I'm currently losing my mind being plagued by minutia while I can picture him perfectly, not stressing his teleprompter performance, eating a bowl of M&M's while group-texting SCIC about the current betting pool. Whatever it might be. I wouldn't know. Although I still communicate with them all frequently, I've been dropped from most of the group texts where the inside jokes play out. I'm on the outside now.

The merch kid's eyes go big. "Oh, him? No, I can't bother him. He has a rider. No one except the stage manager can speak to him unless spoken to."

"Believe me, that's a mistake. Go find him. Ask him about R&R's merch box." I turn back to the A&R guy.

"No, it's right here." He frantically paws his clipboard for the urgent memorandum in bold. A last-minute rider, insisted upon by the Soundcrush manager Marley Watkins, approved just this morning.

"Excuse me," I say to the A&R guy I was trying to impress. That's the least Adamish thing I've ever heard. There are only a few reasons he would have a rider like that, none of them good.

In about three minutes I've made my way to his dressing room and knocked on the door. He doesn't call out but throws open the door himself. He gives me a chin-tip and a grin, but he doesn't speak.

I clap it out with him even as I'm closing the door in the merch kid's face telling him to "just go fucking find it, alright? It's here bloody somewhere." I squint at Adam's Adam's apple. "Laryngitis? Or a polyp? Fuck's sake, it's not a torn cord is it?"

"Naw, man. Just a cold," he says, with a terribly hoarse voice. "Kids. Germ incubators, you know."

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"They brought me some tea," he croaks. I snort. He got a tray with a carafe and a real ceramic tea mug, with sugar and cream. How quickly I've forgotten what the big time was like

"Tea is not fixing that," I say, pulling my phone. "I'm calling your doctor. You drove yourself, I'm assuming? You can just head straight over there..."

"Riley. I got this. No way I'm bailing on you."

"Adam, Soundcrush has two charity performances next week. You'll talk away your voice entirely tonight—"

"How do you still know our schedule?" he laughs, erupting in a cough.

"Think of who you're speaking to," I mutter, thumbing his physician's number.

Adam grabs my phone, disconnects the call. "Call Marley. Tell her to call the other guy. With the steroids." He mimics a hypodermic needle plunging into his throat. I wince. It's not a practice I'm comfortable with, but we have, on rare occasions, been compelled to dose Leed. Works like a charm in a pinch, but it's not sustainable.

"No."

"Yes."

"Adam, you'll be in worse shape next week."

He shrugs and whispers, "Trace or Bodie can step up." Though Adam and Mac are the main members for Soundcrush's backing vocals due to the good merge of their vocal color with Leed's, Soundcrush is full of adequate singers.

"No, Adam. You're not dosing your cords on my account. I'm not calling Marley and asking her to facilitate that. I'll go talk to the stage manager." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "We'll find a replacement. Surely we can find someone semi-famous who can read a teleprompter."

"Thanks," he cracks.

"Adam, Christ, that's not what I meant. I appreciate your willingness to help us out—it's just..." I stare at him.

I crack. I fucking crack like I never have. Not on one of these guys. It all comes tumbling out.

"Honestly, Adam? I think I'm losing my goddamn mind right now, okay? I have soundcheck in thirty minutes—and Row's likely to be late— our promo materials are lost, I forgot to make a setlist with Row, and I'm not even sure if Row and I are capable of making a decent harmony right now because we had a fight an hour ago. Over her wrecked manicure. She can't go on like that, but she got furious when I told her so. I didn't mean to be critical. It's just...fuck. Can you believe that, Adam? We're desperate for a break, and I'm fighting with Row over her fingernails! What the bloody hell is wrong with me?"

"You really don't know, do you?" he croaks, shaking his head as he snatches my phone, searches my contacts for Throat Guy-Emergencies—Nashville, and sends the call. "Hey, Adam Heartley, here. I need the doc's help. Just a little shot for mild laryngitis. At the Ryman. By 3 should be good. Great, call me when he's on the way, I'll send a guy to bring him in. Thanks."

He tosses my phone back. Pours the tea and offers it to me. I push it right back to him. "No, you drink it, Adam."

"I hate tea. The doc will fix me up."

We're pushing the cup between us.

"Still, you should—"

"Drink the goddamn tea, Riley!!!" He roars. Not like a lion. Like a bear.

"Jesus, Adam, don't fucking tear anything in there," I say, as I sip the tea to appease him. He coughs and grabs a water from a tin of cold beverages, sipping it slowly, clearing his throat, sipping again.

"Better?" I ask.

"Yeah. You?"

"Not really," I say, putting the tea down, scraping through my hair, pacing around the room, snatching up a pen and official Ryman notepad, muttering our setlist options. The last thing I want to do is make a setlist without Row, but I need it for soundcheck—

Adam steps in front of me. "You know what your problem is, right?"

"I'm not a control freak," I mutter, scratching through our angriest song. No need to pour petrol on the fire. Or wait, perhaps that's exactly what we need—

"No, Trace is a control freak. You have a different problem. You have too much that needs controlling."

"Stop talking, Adam. The doc can't help you if you lose your voice entirely."

"Riley."

Something about the way he says my name makes me look up from the setlist. Adam smiles at me in an empathetic way that makes him look very much like his father. He reaches toward my chest. "You can't be this," he points to my talent pass, "And still be that." He pinches my manager pass between his fingers, then lifts it off my head, holding it out to me. "You need a manager, man."

I sigh heavily as I pocket the pass. He's right. In my heart, I know he's right. I've known it since I got clean. It was the pressures of trying to do everything that got me down and out with oxy in the first place.

More importantly, I hate what's happening today. Wearing two hats is distracting me from what's most important. Row. And the music. What I said to Adam about losing my mind? It's all because I'm not right with her. These small annoyances are nothing in the landscape of a manager's job. But they are huge now because I'm ripped up emotionally from my fight with Row.

Which I wouldn't have had in the first place if we had a manager. She would have taken that suggestion about her nails in stride from anyone on our team—if we had a team. Anyone except me, because it felt like criticism from the one person she needed to bolster her today. To believe she was capable of anything. And instead, she was trying to be my partner, my support, and I hurt her feelings by making her feel like a disorganized child.

But at the same time, I don't know how to do that—give up the job of holding Row's dreams to someone I barely know. And what kind of manager are we attractive to right now? No record deal, no distribution deal, no tour dates in the works?

"It's on my list. For a little later. We've got to have money prospects to attract the best."

"Or you could go with someone you trust with your music. Someone who feels you, who keeps faith with your artistry." he croaks. "The way we went with you. Someone who feels like family."

"You lot willing to give me Gorgeous, then?" I snap. "She's the only person I can think of who fits that bill."

Adam laughs, then coughs. "Touché. But maybe, if you just... open... to the possibility, the right person will come along."

"Stop talking, Adam." I remind him.

"Then get outta here and go do your soundcheck," he pushes me toward the door. He points to a song on the setlist. "Strike that. It's depressing. Definitely do Rattle My Chain. Wait, here..." he grabs the pen and rearranges the set entirely.

"Thanks," I say.

"Knock 'em dead," he gives me a doubles thumbs up.

"Stop talking," I say again. He changes his thumbs to birds and slams the door in my face. I crumple the set list he made and toss it in the garbage as I write a new one on my way back to retrieve the guitars for soundcheck.

I'm trying to work out whether I should risk carrying both guitars at once to side-stage and risk not using my cane when a hand touches my back. I turn, and Row stands behind me, face impassive, a tissue clutched in her newly manicured hand.

"Thank god, you're back," I say with real feeling.

"Miss me?" she says coldly.

"Like you wouldn't believe," I swear. I reach for her, but she thrusts the tissue at me.

"We forgot the setlist."

I look down at her list. I bite my lip and whip my effort from my back pocket, handing it to her. Her mouth twitches, then she rolls her eyes and begrudgingly smiles.

Our set lists are identical.

This time when I reach for her it's almost a lunge, and she lets me grab her. I press my forehead to hers.

"I'm sorry. Truly. I never want to handle you, or manipulate you, or make you feel like I don't trust you. I trust you Row. With my heart. With my life. With our dreams. With our stage and with being the one to get us where we need to be. God knows I'm doing a piss poor job of it."

"You're doing a great job of it," she protests. "You're doing everything humanly possible—"

"Except the smart thing. Except the hard thing. Except the obvious thing."

She pulls back, searches my eyes. She puts a hand on my cheek. "If you talking about what I'm thinking about, then yes-it's all those things. But finding a manager is maybe a conversation we should not have five minutes before soundcheck."

I only realize my mouth has fallen open in surprise when she shuts it for me. I had no idea that Row was giving thought to hiring a manager. But I should have. Of course, I should have. My wife is intelligent, insightful, and intuitive. She understands perfectly the pressures I am under. It's just that she loves me, and she's been giving me the space to get to the same place on my own.

"Okay. Later then," I say as the stage manager calls for the act prior to us to soundcheck. Each act is only getting about five minutes to plug up and balance.

I pass Row the guitars and we have our cursory soundcheck which isn't much more than an opportunity to line up the acts and organize our guitars. Thank god we're not a full band, it's a nightmare for them. But Row and I are nothing but efficient after all this time roading for ourselves, so the stage manager and front of house appreciate our professionalism. As the front of house makes a couple of notes on his clipboard about our sound settings, I notice a familiar face among the several dozen people scattered through the auditorium.

Sean Faraday, speaking with another unfamiliar man. He's somewhat slight and blond, and like Sean, has tattoos visible creeping up the neck, but unlike Sean who is dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, this guy wears a dark crisp button-down and black pants. He's got his arms crossed and he's doing most of the talking, gesturing at us.

"Great, thank you..." the front of house looks at his clipboard again, "R&R."

He cuts our mics and as we unstrap, I make eye contact with Row. I jerk my chin to call her attention to Faraday. Her eyes go wide.

"Holy shit, he came."

"Is that this Finn character, with him?"

"No," Row laughs.

I give her a puzzled look.

"Finn is incredibly good-looking. Like Alex Pettyfer and a young Brad Pitt had a baby."

"Well, that's a visual I could have done without," I mutter as Sean holds up two fingers. It's a casual gesture but it's definitely a summons. We're being summoned. I've seen Matt del Marco make the same gesture and half a room full of people rush to see what he wants. And Faraday is half Matt's age but with twice the cult of personality. It's really too bad he retired from the business. He was bigger than Ed Sheeran, and he just...abdicated and let that bloke take the kingdom from him.

I'm thinking all this as we descend the steps to the auditorium, Row bracing my arm so that I can trust in my balance and move fluidly.

We arrive in front of him. Faraday kisses Row on the cheek and claps it out with me.

"Come to see the showcase?" I ask casually.

"Naw, I can't stay. It's the Solstice. Big day on the mountain. My kids have been practicing their parts, and I definitely have to be there. Kind of like being the angels in a Christmas play for them, you know? Except awesome, instead of lame," he smiles benevolently. "I'm just popping by to wish you guys luck."

"I bet they will be adorable," Row says with enthusiasm, but I'm trying to work out how he thinks a trip like this is "popping by." It's an hour's flight from Asheville to Nashville.

"Or scary as fuck. They have a lot of... presence if you know what I mean. Our twins are the terrors of the coven, man," he laughs almost to himself.

"Sean," the guy at his side says his name casually but squeezes his shoulder. "Not everybody takes the lifestyle in stride, man."

Sean dismisses him. "These guys are cool, Leander. You guys don't care if we're pagan, right?"

"Uhm, no. It's no secret that my old client is somewhat pagan. Unofficially," I add.

"Lawson. Yeah, I can see that. He thinks he's Eastern, but he should try it our way. He's a freakin' Viking, man," Sean says to his friend, almost off-handedly. "The special kind of Viking."

"Really?" his friend says with real interest. "You thinking... Odin, maybe?"

Sean shrugs. "I don't know, I'd have to meet him. But with that voice, probably more like... there's some Bragi back there."

"Ah." He nods. Seeing the look of confusion on our faces, Sean's friend supplies, "Bragi. Norse God of poetry and music."

"Oh-kay," Row says looking at me for a cue on how to react to this insanity.

"That makes sense," I nod gravely. The first rule of business. Always act like you know what they're on about.

"Yeah, I think so..." Sean says speculatively. His eyes go a little dark like he's lost in thought. He snaps back. "Duty calls. Dru needs me. I have no idea where Carrie rounded up another freakin' pet, but he's eating our house."

"Damn." His friend makes a sympathetic face. "Like the siding or the brick?"

"I don't know, but he's about to be one dead damn Questing..." he glances at us. "Uhhh...dog," he finishes lamely.

Row looks at me. Questing Dog? she mouths.

Norse Gods? I mouth back.

The blonde man scratches at the tat on his neck. "Sean, you're freakin' them out, man. With your...artistic metaphors. You should have let me come alone and do this the... conventional way."

"You'll probably right. But I'm already here, so... okay." He claps his hands and points at us. "Heard you guys needed a manager. Giving you my guy, since I put him out of a job." He puts both hands on the blonde man's shoulders. "This is Leander Buchanan. Best damn brother you could have at your back. We went to college together. We did this whole gig together, the two of us. On the road together for years, before I settled down. I probably wouldn't even be a musician if it weren't for Leander. I had a hobby, but Leander? He had a dream my hobby could be more, that we could help out our family. You know, make it big, pay it forward? He's my cousin, you see." Sean cocks his head again, and shakes his finger at me. "Honestly? I'm pretty sure he's your cousin, too. Or so Carrie says."

"Carrie?" I ask.

"You met her. Smokin' hot red-headed goddess. Big black beast of a husband."

"Oh. Her." Row says dryly.

"Yeah." Sean raises his eyebrows, then shakes his head, like he's remembering something awesome. Or awful. Or maybe both. "Used to date her." He looks at me. "Thought for a minute she was gonna be the one, but it turned out, we could never have gone the distance. She was only schoolin' me for the love of my life, you know what I mean?"

"Yes!"I say urgently, reaching out a hand to him because that's the first thing he's said I can actually relate to. "That makes perfect sense. Doesn't it, darling?" I pull Row to me and give her my best smile. "Love of my life."

"Whatever," she rolls her eyes.

Sean snaps his fingers, twirls his pointers between me, Row, and Leander. "Okay, you guys good? Awesome. I gotta jet." He turns away, then turns back again so rapidly that the force of his movement nearly knocks me over. "Sorry," he reaches out a hand to steady me, and his touch is alarmingly...heavy. Magnetic or something.

"Listen, one more thing," he says. "I love my brother-in-law. Finn's a great guy. But he's overly optimistic about his family. Always thinking they will... reform. In reality, they're like the godsdamn mafia. Do not get into bed with Apollo Records, okay? They will own you."

I raise my eyebrows. "Apollo is his connection? Well, you didn't have to warn me off them, mate. I'd rather busk on a corner with this beauty for the rest of my life than sign it over to them. A bunch of devils, that lot."

"Almost, but not quite," he grins, and Leander laughs like they are sharing a private joke.

"Take care of 'em, Leander," Sean calls as he shoves open the double doors to the lobby.

"Little premature there, boss. But we'll see if can get to know each other," Leander calls after him.

It must have been a trick of the doors closing, but I swear, just before they folded together, Faraday disappeared, leaving us with this blonde bloke.

He reaches out his hand in the old school way. "Leander Buchanan."

"Riley Emsworth. This is..."

Row sticks out her hand. "Row. Row del Marco."

"Of course," he smiles at her. "Wild ride for you two. Rockstar. Manager of the biggest band in the world. Now you're here. Starting over. Getting real about what you love to do." He puts a hand on his heart. "Much respect."

"Uhm, yeah. Something like that. Thanks." I say. He's perfectly relaxed. He's not selling himself. I think he's genuinely trying to start a dialogue.

"Listen, Leander, I'm not sure where Faraday heard we were in the market for a manager—"

"But we're talking about it," Row says quickly. "Are you really here to throw your name in the hat?"

He laughs. "Well, maybe. I don't know if I stand a chance, however—after Sean's performance just now. Listen, I love him. Literally worship the guy. It's been a privilege to manage his career. But his... uhm... fame? It's caused him to lose a little perspective."

"Oh, we understand that," Row says. "The Lion of Soundcrush? And my dad? Great big hearts but absolutely nutso. They both think they rule the world."

"Yeah, Sean is..." Leander shakes his head. "Something else. But I want to assure you, I'm just a normal guy. Like you two. It's true I'm pagan, but it's more like a family tradition for me, not a religious calling like it is for Sean. I have a little weekend cabin up in the mountain community, but most of the time, I live in downtown Asheville. I've been managing a number of local festivals since Sean has retired, but I could get behind a new client if it was the right fit. Mind if I hang out, watch your set, and we can talk after?"

I stare at Leander. I don't know him. I don't know Faraday, either, but the guy is eccentric enough to make the Lion look as bland as a scoop of vanilla ice cream by comparison.

I don't trust easily. "Why would you want to manage us?" I ask.

He smiles. "When I was growing up? I thought I was a real loser. It seemed like everyone around me had something going for them that I didn't. Talents I didn't have. Then I met a... guy. Carrie's husband. His name is Hearne. He taught me what it is to... a herald. To be the one that goes ahead, sets the scene, preps the crowd, and makes the perfect space for... the talent. Turns out, that's a talent, too. I'm sure you know that, Riley."

"I do."

Leander crossed his arms, shrugged his shoulders. "It's what I love to do. Making the perfect moments for the kind of magic you can make. To be honest with you, I didn't know what the hell I was doing when Sean started out in the business. Neither did he. But we figured it out. Turned out, I'm pretty damn good at manifesting what he needed."

What Leander says resonates with me. I have heard that Sean never had another manager, and no one could ever tempt him from his relation that managed him. Loyalty like that doesn't breed from nothing. It comes perhaps from family ties, but most assuredly from competence, as well.

"Alright, let's talk some more after the show." We shake hands again.

Just then, the sweating, frantic merch intern comes dashing back into the auditorium and shouts at me. "I cannot find your t-shirts, man! If you wanna come look through the backroom yourself, you can, but I don't know what to tell ya!" He slaps his clipboard on his thigh.

I rub my forehead. The kid is almost is stressed as I am, and he's probably not even getting paid for this. "Look," I peer at his event badge, "Artie—sounds like you've got a crap job today, but our merch box is not just t-shirts, alright? It's our demos, our headshots, our bios, our catalog—we really need those materials for the industry types to take with them. So if you will please look one more time—"

Leander puts his hand up to me. "I got it, Riley."

"We're not signing yet, mate—"

"It's just a box, man," Leander laughs at me. "Consider it a trial run. If I can't your box, I'm probably not very good at this job, right?"

"Thanks, very much," Row says. "You would save our lives if you can find our promo stuff."

"No problem," Leander checks his watch. "You're at the end of the showcase, I assume, being the most quality act by far? About three hours till you go on, then. Did you snag a bite from hospitality?"

"Not yet," I say. I turn to Row. "We should grab something before it's—"

He shakes his head. "Too late. The food's all gone. Let me get you something. From of the honkytonks down the street. Or maybe the Palm? Row?"

"The Palm would be great," Row says. "Riley likes the steak salad there. They have this tomato Caprese thing..."

"Yeah, on their app menu." It doesn't go unnoticed to me that Leander checks her frame and gives me the slightest glance. "Anything else?"

"You like their grilled shrimp, darling," I say.

"Oh! Yes. The shrimp app, too. Please."

He nods. "Got it." He turns to the merch intern. "Come on kid, show me where the boxes are stored." He's already on the phone with the restaurant, but he notices a man standing in the lobby and says. "Yeah, let me call you back in just a sec. Artie," he puts his hands on the intern's arm. "Don't fucking move, 'kay? If you're here to take me to the boxes after I talk to this guy, there's a much better summer gig for you than this in it."

"Riley, Row" he calls us forward. "Want you to meet someone."

He ushers us forward to meet a Nashville exec type. Geled hair, goatee, polished boots. "Barker!"

"Leander! Give me the good word. Tell me Faraday is bored with his hippie commune and ready to write an album he's actually willing to promote with a tour?"

"I wish I could but he's all about the wife and kids, man. Four under six."

"Goddammit," Barker says, a look of real pain on his face. "I need a barnstormer of a new crossover act."

"Well, I'll see what I can do for you. Have you meet the R's of R&R?"

And just like that Leander has introduced us to the President of OneStopMusicShop. Independent label, media, and tour promotion company. They do it all in-house for a small number of artists they really believe in. Faraday was with them for the last couple of years of his heyday. I've been trying to get a meeting with this guy since our Frey appearance.

"Riley Emsworth. How come I've never been able to get your guys with my team?"

Because his company is too small for Soundcrush. They could never handle Soundcrush's huge arena tours. But I don't say that, of course. "Well, they're not my guys anymore, but I can get you a call through to Doc Gorgeous..."

"Heard about her," He grins. "Is she as easy on the eyes as they say?"

"I suppose, but my eyes are otherwise occupied," I smile at Row. "I'm pleased to introduce my wife, and my duet partner, Rowan del Marco.

He takes her hand. "Briggs Barker. Pleased to finally meet you. Big fan. Your entire family is amazing. I just heard your sound check. Sounded super-promising. So you two had an album already, right? Why aren't you on the radio in Nashville?"

"I've been asking myself that same question," I smile. "I believe the short answer is... Nashville thinks we're LA Flakes."

He laughs. "Are you?"

Rowan smiles at her feet and looks up at Barker, who is a little bit of a jerk but not the worst kind of a jerk in this business by far.

"To play the music I'm playing right now, I quit a lucrative TV show and got sued for every penny I have access to. We sold two houses, eight cars, and virtually all our personal possessions of any value to fund two albums and sixteen months of small venue gigs that didn't cover what they were worth to get to them. And you know what, Mr. Barker? I have loved every damn second of it. My show, my music, my songs with my husband on our terms. And you're right, I could go home to LA anytime I wanted. Except that it doesn't feel like home to me anymore. Home is a stage I share with Riley. The show? The venue? The energy? It's everything. Well, almost everything. This guy is actually everything."

She hugs me and smiles at me with love. "But enough about me. You on the other hand? You have a big opportunity. Because we love the music and maybe even more than that, we love performing it. Love on the Road. That's the name of our new album. R&R could make a select few in the industry a lot of money. We could be a big deal. A Sean Faraday. Or we could just go on writing our songs, making people fall in love in bars, riding around in our little Airstream, having the time of our lives. It honestly doesn't make a bit of damn difference to me. But it might to you."

She bats her lashes. Leander refrains from chuckling and gives Row an approving nod, then a quick look to me, as if to say, Damn. She's good.

That she is.

Barker stares at her for a long moment. Then he looks at me. "Hey, what she said, Mate," I hold up my hands. "Not much to add to that, is there?"

"You have a new album?" he asks.

"Ready to drop at the touch of a button."

"Like the last one?"

"You heard the last one, then?" Leander interjected.

Barker gives a guilty look as if he's been caught at his own game. "Of course I heard it. Everyone in Nashville heard it. It's tremendous, innovative work. The sound is all the brand they need."

I want to grab the guy by the collar and ask him if everyone in the business heard it, and it's so fucking good—why didn't it get any bloody damn airplay? But I can't. This is not my town. Not yet. Not my game. But apparently, it's Leander's, because he says, "Let's get down to brass tax. They've paid their dues. It's their year. Is OneStop going to be the genius outfit at the crest of R&R's wave, or will you spend years chasing their success, and only get your fingers in the half-eaten pie, like with Sean?"

Barker nods, scratching his jaw. "Who shares in the distribution rights to the first album?"

"No one but us. It was a completely independent effort. But the new one is better," I assure him.

Leander jumps in quickly. "They could push the new release. The debut album could be repackaged and rereleased on the right label. No one's ever heard it. It has less than a million collective downloads across all platforms. It would break like a brand new phenomenon. Follow up next year with the new one. Back to back gold records at least." Leander shrugs. "But my gut says platinum and Duo of the Year."

Leander is good. Damn good. He came prepared, and he's ballsing his way through this like he's been our manager since the beginning of time.

"Which award show." Barker raises his brow. Now he's just being a shit to Leander, probably because he's pissed his top artist Faraday quit at the height of the career.

"All of them," Leander shoots back.

Barker grins, squeezing Leander on the shoulder. Clearly, they like each other, though Barker rubs me the wrong way a little. Then again, Moran is not my favorite person in the world either, and I had a good working relationship with the man for ten years.

"So you're really going to let this guy represent you?" Barker says, his hand still gripping Leander's shoulder. Leander raises his eyebrows at me.

Bloody fucking hell. I just met this guy. Both these guys. Two years ago I would have already made up my mind what I thought about them before I ever met either of them. I would have been prepared. Now, life is careening us around corners I can't predict.

I think about my plan, my goals for the day.

Wing it. Read the room. Seize the opportunities.

Fuck. This my life. Row's life. It's so much harder when it's everything we ever wanted on the line, instead of some crazy crew of rockstars.

I look down at Row. She squeezes my hand. Her eyes are open, trusting. She's leaving it up to me. My expertise.

I give Leander one long hard, assessing stare. He doesn't flinch. He just shrugs slightly and stares back. I go with my gut.

"Barker, to tell you the truth, I just met Leander. But he comes highly recommended. So I'll make you two gentlemen a proposal. We'll give Leander a provisional eighteenth-month representation contract, if he can work with OneStop to generate us a distribution deal for our first album before we sign with him. Keeping in mind, Rowan is a star already, in her own right. We'll want the full press for R&R—radio promotion tour, airplay support, small venue tour. We'll give OneStop the second album in nine months if your team comes through for us."

Barker grins and puts his hand out to me. "You've got yourself a deal, Riley. And Row." He shakes her hand as well. "Leander, William will be their A&R guy. You two get the contracts together by end of the week. I want to move fast on the buzz they are about to generate at this showcase."

Barker walks away. Leander grins and shakes my head. "Really wasn't expecting that. Thought for sure Freaky Faraday had scared you off."

"Ah, well. He's not much worse than Lawson."

Row snorts but amends her laugh as she shakes hands with Leander. "I hope you are as good as you seem, today."

"Better. Sean's career was... stellar. I have a lot of experience. Congratulations on your deal, girl!" He gives her a brief hug. "Artie, boxes!" he yells. "Lunch in forty, I promise," he says to Row. "Riley, you need to hustle her into makeup, yeah? You got that part, I'll take care of the rest." He's following the kid, talking on his phone, and still talking to me. "Vocal warm-up routine? Anything I need to get?"

"Some tea. A titch of brandy. It's in the Airstream," I realize I sound a little hollow. I feel a little hollow. Shock, I suppose. I hook my thumb toward the parking lot. "I'll—"

Leander grins and shakes his head. The tips of his frosted hair say just slightly. "No, man. Go get ready. Keys?"

Row tosses him the keys. "It's—"

"I'll find it. Be back with you two backstage in forty-five. Don't worry about anything. Except killing it."

"Wills. Leander here. Barker is about to call you. I need a OneStop shop videographer down here for the Ryman debut of your new act, R&R. Oh, you've seen 'em? Yeah. Good to hear. Asshole, they've been busting their ass for two years. It took us ninety seconds to sway Barker, you could have stepped up to the plate for them long before now. Glad you didn't though, cause now you get to pitch to me." He laughs, his hand on the shoulder of the merch kid, refusing to let the kid escape before our promo box is found.

I'm still standing there in shock as Leander walks away. Row begins to vibrate, and I know she's about two seconds from losing her shit—screaming, hollering, and probably flattening me in the process of releasing her joy. I grab her arm.

"Come with me."

I drag her to Adam's dressing room, barge in without knocking. Adam is getting styled. He and his stylist both gape at us from the makeup mirror.

"Okay," I said to Row, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. "Go ahead."

The expression on her face builds like a teakettle building steam, and then she erupts in a scream of celebration. She jumps up and down one, two, three times before leaping into my arms and plastering me with kisses, all while screaming. I laugh and brace myself against the wall with one hand, but she's already unlatched herself, and now she's simply leaping around the room screaming.

Adam whirls in his chair. "Okay, what now?" His voice, I note, is much improved. The injection worked quickly.

"We got Sean Faraday's manager, a record deal with in-house promotion, and a small venue tour! Woo-hoo! We're fucking awesome!!!!" Row screams, collapsing into Adam's lap and spinning the chair around. She peppers his face with kisses, but he hardly notices. He's staring at me.

"You haven't even performed yet!"

I shrugged. "I took your advice. I opened myself up to the right person."

"And I got stabbed in the throat for nothing!" He yells.

"Adam, don't yell, we still have to do this thing. OneStop is sending a bloke down to tape. Make sure you do a good job with our intro, yeah?" I say, grabbing the champagne from Adam's gift basket and popping the cork.

"Darling, will you stop kissing Adam and come celebrate with me?"

She rips the flute from my hand before I've finished pouring, downs it, and thrusts it back. I laugh at her, refill her glass and raise mine. "To you, my spectacular heather, for bringing your bad-assery to bear on old Briggs Barker, and landing us this deal."

She beams. "To you Ems. You did it. You got us where we needed to be."

"Good god I hope so, I'm fucking exhausted," I collapse on the couch, and Row leaps atop me, screaming once again in between gulps of her champagne.