“I’m my own man. I don’t like anyone hemming me in.”
“Is that why there’s talk you may be shopping for a new label soon?” I lifted my eyebrows innocently at his pointed look. “I’m a curious kitty, what can I say?”
“If I wanted to be on Ripper, Van would take me on in a heartbeat. He’s been wooing me for years.”
“I’m not sure I can picture Van in full woo. Does it involve oil and a loincloth?”
Flynn snorted and knocked back the rest of his coffee. “Thanks for that picture, bro. Let’s just say he’s given me the full R
ipper Records spiel.”
“Yet you aren’t interested because he wants to hem you in.”
“He wants me more rock than I’ve ever been. He thinks that’s the untapped side of me I need to lean on more to make it in this market. Country hybrid is where it’s at. Outlaw country? Gone the way of the dodo bird.”
“Well, twang really isn’t appealing on any—” I cleared my throat as he narrowed his eyes. “My, it’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
“I can see why Scott said you were an asshole.”
“Being an asshole doesn’t make me wrong. But on a different note, I really recommend the tiramisu.”
Cocking his head, he forked up banana cake and chewed thoughtfully. “You’re happy at Ripper?”
“I am. I’m quite new, of course. I don’t have the foggiest what I’m fucking doing, but my rep is a ball-buster and that suits me.”
“She’s rough on you, and you like it?”
“She doesn’t handhold. I don’t want that. I want someone to tell me straight like it is, and she has every time. Though she’s been squawking about making an album, and Christ, the studio seems so…”
“Boring?”
Relieved he’d said it so I didn’t have to, I nodded. “I know it shouldn’t. It’s all about making music and reaching the most fans. But the energy of a live show is so electric. Sitting in a little box doing fifty takes seems anticlimactic.”
“Get yourself a good producer who understands what you’re going for and the kind of sound you want and you won’t be stuck doing fifty takes.”
“Oh, yeah? And how do I find myself one of those? I’m too new for anyone to want to take me on.” At least I assumed. I really didn’t understand how the whole process worked.
But the tiramisu? Incredible. And now my plate was empty, and I was tempted to lick up the last dusting of cocoa.
Maybe once Flynn and I knew each other a little better.
Because we would. I didn’t make friends easily—okay, mostly not at all, as evidenced by my awkwardness with every studio musician I’d worked with. But something about talking with Flynn felt natural to me. He was a no-bullshit sort of guy, and in a world of fake glitz and glamour, I appreciated that.
“I know a guy.”
“That sounds encouraging.”
“No, really.” He leaned back in his chair, kicking out his legs again. “He likes to take on oddball cases.”
I frowned. “Really, don’t be so effusive.”
“You have to know you’re unusual. It’s why you’ve found success so fast.”
“Is that why it is? I thought it was my big…hands.”
He didn’t so much as blink. “Your brother’s success partly came from the fact that he was the quintessential rockstar. Almost too pretty to be male, talented, made to be a pinup on someone’s wall. You’re all those things with an added element of what the fuck.”
“You forgot the accent.”