He hangs a right and disappears through a doorway. I stop when I reach the same spot. It’s a simple office. Wide, wooden desk with a phone. Bookcases with framed photos and various awards lined up. Not the flashy display you’d expect given the size of the house.
“Shut the door,” he says.
“Sure.” I push the heavy wood and it closes with a quiet snick.
“How are you feelin’ about the CMAs?” he asks.
How do I feel about them? I’m worried I’m going to stick out like a spider on a wedding cake. Might as well be honest. Dawson’s the best person to give me advice. “I don’t want to do anything to embarrass Shelby.”
Dawson nods almost like he’s relieved I didn’t try to put on a cocky front. “It’s a brutal business sometimes.” He tilts his head. “You gonna throw a punch if I get real with you?”
“You know me better than that by now.”
He motions for me to take the seat across from him. “It varies what everyone wears to these things. Some of the newer fellas will show up in a duck camo suit. While the old-time veterans of the biz will turn out in black tie.”
Jesus, talk about embarrassing. “Uh, I don’t want to do either of those.”
He smiles so wide, his eyes crinkle at the corners. “And you shouldn’t. Be yourself.”
“In that case—”
He holds up a hand. “Be yourself. But not too much. Since you’re an outsider—sorry, but you are—and Shelby’s so new to the game, I’d choose something safe. Something that’ll help you blend in.”
“I like the sound of that.” The last thing I want is reporters taking a special interest in my attendance.
“Nothing flashy,” he continues. “No cowboy hat—that’ll look like you’re trying too hard and it might come off as you mocking everyone, not trying to blend in.”
“Okay,” I answer slowly. This talk isn’t as helpful as I think he intended. “Suggestions?”
He studies me for a second. “Modern cowboy classic. Dark jeans—but clean, designer ones—nothing you’ve been riding in.”
“Got it. No dirty biker threads.”
He smirks. “Some sort of simple button-down dress shirt. Dark color—”
“The outlaw look.” I breathe out a sigh of relief. “I dig it so far.”
“Hoo-boy,” he mutters. “You gonna let me finish?”
“Please don’t say tie, bow tie, or anything that goes around my neck.”
“Nah, you’re a young stud.” He taps his chest. “You can get away with leaving a few top buttons open.”
“That’s not at all creepy, Dawson.”
He smirks as if this is exactly the way he expected our conversation to go. “You’re gonna make me regret helping you out, aren’t ya?”
I am being a bit of a dick considering he’s trying to do me a favor. Can’t help it, though. “Go on.”
“Some sort of black leather blazer to round it out.”
“I can do that. Sounds simple enough.”
“Awards night is all about the ladies anyway.” He waves his hand in front of his face. “Can’t have you upstaging Shelby.”
“Never.”
He puffs out a breath. “Don’t get twisted.” He leans over, disappearing behind the desk for a second before returning with a giant box. He plops it on the desk and shoves it toward me.
“Figured you might not have time to go shopping,” he explains. “I wanted you to have somethin’ for the show. Didn’t think it’d be the kind of item you’d have stashed in your closet.”
I flip open the lid and stare at the boots inside. The bottom, shoe part is a bumpy black leather. The shaft’s constructed of smooth leather with simple embossing and tight cording and stitching.
“The vamps are full quill ostrich leather,” he says, drumming his finger against the side of the box. “The rest is calf, so they got a traditional feel. The ostrich is nice ‘cause it’s durable but soft. Shouldn’t be hard to break in.”
“Thank you.” I’m not exactly in the habit of taking gifts from other guys—especially something personal like footwear. But for this occasion I appreciate his assistance. He’s right. Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in cowboy boots, but if I had to pick out a pair, this is exactly what I’d choose.
I stand and shake his hand. “Thanks, Dawson. I really appreciate this.” Also, kinda wish I hadn’t busted his balls so much when we first sat down.
“Just throwing this out there.” He stands and walks me to the door. “If you wanna low-key let your friend Chaser know I’m a decent guy next time you’re having a chat, I won’t mind a bit.”
I can only guess why he’s asking. “Uh, you’ve known Chaser longer than I have. Didn’t you just write an album with him?”
“Yeah, but that’s business. I have a feeling he’s more likely to take a biker’s word than a musician’s in certain matters.”
I scratch the side of my head, unable to stop myself from having a little fun. “Didn’t he invite you to ride to Florida with his club?”