Diamond in the Dust (Lost Kings MC 18)

“Good. Focus on your writing session with Dawson.”

“Honestly, I’m worried about that too.”

He opens his mouth, to give me some reassuring words, no doubt, but I hold up my hand.

I lower my voice—because Lord knows, Dawson could have this fancy-pants place wired and be listening to every word—” I’m worried our styles won’t…mesh. He’s the bigger artist. I’m still basically a nobody. What he writes is more commercial, mainstream stuff. Arena-style country rock.”

“I’m aware.” Rooster heaves a long-suffering sigh. “I was there for it.”

“I’m not dogging his style. Obviously, it’s successful.” I flap my hands around, indicating the house. “But my style isn’t as slick. I write folksier, from-the-heart stuff. I don’t hire songwriters, you know?” I tap my chest. “Everything comes from inside, as rough or unpolished as it may be.”

“I understand it’s intimidating to work with someone at his level. I really do. But he’s not doing it for charity. There’s a reason he wants to work with you, Shelby. Your strength is that rougher, unpolished vibe because it’s relatable.” He gestures toward the window overlooking the massive in-ground pool. “You think he can connect with people working a nine-to-five anymore? Think he knows what their struggles are?”

“Shoot. Probably not.”

“Your song about the waitress…when is the last time you think Dawson worked in food service?”

“Late Nineties?”

“Right. You know your audience cares about more than beer, parties, and girls shaking their asses. He may be bringing his connections and experience to the table, but you’re bringing your voice and talent.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Don’t thank me.” He reaches over and rubs his fingers over mine. “Kick ass. Don’t let the fear rule you.”

Before my afternoon session with Dawson, Rooster takes me to one of the big-box stores to grab any last minute necessities I might need. I don’t want to depend on Dawson’s drivers to take me anywhere.

“You can drive the truck if you need to,” Rooster assures me.

I glance out the back window. “I’ve never driven anything this big. In an unfamiliar place…honestly, after being on the road for the last few months, I just want to stay put for a while and focus on writing.”

“Fair enough. But you have your set of keys just in case. And you can always rent a car if you decide you want more freedom.”

A big, black shiny SUV is pulling up to Dawson’s house when we return.

“More bodyguards?” I joke.

Rooster slows the truck. “No, I think Chaser’s here.”

“Shoot. Dawson said two o’clock.”

“I’m sure they want to meet and go over stuff first.”

We empty the truck, dropping everything in the kitchen. “I don’t even know where to put all this stuff.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He nudges me toward the staircase. “Go get ready.”

Don’t let fear rule you.

Rooster’s words keep repeating in my head.

No lie, I’m intimidated as hell sittin’ in Dawson’s fancy basement studio with him and Chaser Adams.

Chaser’s relaxed, kicked back in his chair, and friendly as the three of us work. Maybe that’s because Rooster walked over with me to say hi to him and Dawson. The three of them chatted for a while before Rooster took off.

Chaser’s give-no-flocks attitude could also be due to him not actually having any fucks to give. From what I understand, songwriting isn’t his main focus anymore. He’s here because Dawson made him a sweet offer.

I’m here because my career depends on it.

“How about…um…for that last part.” I strum a few notes before singing, “And when I said I felt like a used T-shirt on your floor…you picked me up and put me on some more…”

Dawson’s cocked head and intense stare drowns out the rest of the lyrics on my tongue.

“Seems more comforting than passionate,” he says.

Now it’s my turn to stare. “No. Like, ‘putting someone on’ when someone deceives you. Like a guy…a player who doesn’t care about your feelings. He just wants to say the right words to shut you up and get in your pants.”

“Oh. Shoot, that’s kinda dark, Shelby.”

Life is kinda dark too, isn’t it?

“I was thinking something like this,” he says, picking up his own guitar. “From my side and then yours.”

He strums a simple chord progression and croons a few lines. “Smog’ll cloud yer eyes. Pretty city girl dancin’ in the moonlight. Hop up in my truck, let’s go for a ride. I’ll show you the countryside.”

It’s a struggle to keep my face smooth and not gag.

My gaze skips to Chaser who flashes a quick smile and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling.

How am I supposed to criticize someone who has more platinum albums than I can ever hope to earn? But dammit, I’d rather go back to waitin’ tables than stick my name on some drippy bro-anthem and be reduced to the side chick ridin’ shotgun with her butt cheeks hanging out of denim shorts.

“Your voice always that smooth in the middle of the day?” I drawl, deciding to go with syrupy sweet flattery before objecting to Dawson’s lyrical choices. At least the man has that golden voice going for him. No electronic manipulation needed. God blessed him with a set of pipes designed to melt panties, no question.