Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

The voice? You mean my voice?

The songs? As in my songs?

The appearance? Like the way I look?

He’s talking about me like I’m a loaf of bread on sale at the grocery store, not a real person.

“Demo?” Jeremy inquires.

The television comes to life, and a camera recording from the studio plays. I hadn’t even realized they were recording there, other than the audio tracks.

Miller coaches me on the growl, and it plays back the updated version. If I say so myself, it sounds great. Then there’s Miller’s praise.

One of the guys from Friday night pipes up, “Miller said this was one of the best voices we’ve sent him in years. And he’s coachable. He’s all in with the changes we went over.”

I’d love to work with Miller more, but what changes?

“What else?”

Blue Blouse, who ironically is wearing another blue shirt today though this one is pale cornflower, raises her hand. “I’ve got raw images from Rory. These two are my selections.” She types on her phone, then points to the screen where two images of me are displayed side by side. In the first, I’m sitting and snarling at the camera. In the second, my shirt is off and the light through the window creates shadows over my chest and jawline.

Not bad, Tannen.

I’m cocky enough to know those pictures look damn good.

Jeremy nods, humming. “So, we’re all in agreement on the direction we’re going?”

Everyone else smiles and nods back, mimicking the boss man. Except for me. I lean forward, hands folded over one another on the table. “Excuse me, but what the fuck are y’all talking about?” I growl.

Blue Blouse flinches again. I think I scare her. But Jeremy grins as he points at me. “That. That’s what we’re aiming for.”

I glare, still confused.

I think this weekend has gone well. It felt like it did to me. But I do not like feeling like the only stupid idiot in the room not in on the joke. They’ve got ‘directions’ and ‘changes’ they’ve discussed, and I don’t know a damn thing about any of it.

Jeremy’s chuckle irritates the fuck out of me this time, getting under my feathers and scratching deep. “Let me explain how this all works, Bobby. I forget sometimes that regular people don’t know this side of the industry like we do.” He gestures to the people at the table, not including me in his little clique. “Step one, I have to feel that you have something special. That unique thing that makes me want to know more. Step two, basically . . . this weekend. I’m good, but I have people I trust to help me make these decisions. Like Miller and Rory. Step three, if I think you’re good enough, moldable enough” —he looks me in the eye— “and lucrative enough, then we make a deal. That’s the goal, right? A record deal, your name in lights, crowds chanting your name and singing your songs?”

I get the feeling he’s given this speech before, but just because it’s practiced doesn’t make it any less true. He’s right, and he damn well knows it.

That is what I imagined all those years ago.

I take a breath, forcing myself to settle and hear him out. Not because he’s right but because he has something I want, and flying off the handle isn’t the way to get it.

“Good,” he coos, and I grit my teeth at his tone. “As I was saying, I do think you’re good enough. Your voice is special, Bobby. One in a million, instantly identifiable with that first note but with that shock of surprise when you push or break.”

Shit’s getting deep in here. Part of me wants to preen at the praise and part of me wants some waders to keep my boots clean because this is slimier than pig shit.

“Thank you.” Mom and Mama Louise would be proud of my manners. Hell, Judge Myson would be too, considering my past.

“As for lucrative, I think you could be. It’ll take a team, marketing to radio, planning appearances, vetting endorsements, and choosing songs, but together, I think we could change your life in a major way. What’s something you’ve always wanted? Think big, Bobby. Anything at all . . . cars, boats, house. What is that thing for you that would truly signal success?”

I feel that fishhook wiggling and swim right after it, wanting in that boat.

“Tannen Farm,” I answer easily. There’s not even a question. That’s what I want more than anything, to own our land again. We’ll figure something out with the Bennetts because we’re pretty integrated now, and dividing it back up would be hard as hell. But we could do it.

“I can make that happen, Bobby.”

Jeremy’s smile is predatory. He thinks he’s the hunter and I’m the prey. Truth be told, I’m hunting him and what he’s hoarding . . . that record deal. My record deal. It’s the means to an end for me. It’ll let me buy the farm, support Willow and me, and give me an outlet to quiet this monster inside me the only way I’ve ever been able to, with singing on stage.