So why do I feel like I’m about to sell my soul?
Probably because you’re holding hands with a demon in pink rhinestone cowboy boots… and she’s leading you straight into hell.
The unsettled feeling in my stomach only grows stronger when we sit down at a small high-top across from the scouts. They’re both somewhat generic looking guys with trendy wire-rimmed glasses and spray tans that scream LA. It’s immediately clear they’re not looking for a country artist to nurture here in Nashville — they’re seeking a wild rose they can uproot and transplant to the west coast, hoping it can take the heat in a hostile new environment.
“Hey, you must be Ryder. I’m Clay Barnes, with Red Machine.” The older of the two extends a hand. “This is my assistant, Chris.”
The assistant nods, never looking up from typing into his phone.
I grip Clay’s hand in a firm shake. “It’s an honor to meet you. Thanks for taking the time to come out tonight.”
“My pleasure. The two of you were great. Your girl here has just been telling us about your partnership.”
Partnership?
The term sets off alarm bells, but I try to keep calm.
“Well, ourbandfunctions as a seamless unit,” I stress. “I’m sure Lacey mentioned our other bandmates — Lincoln and Aiden. They’re around here somewhere.”
“Oh, sure.” His smile is blindingly white, almost robotic in nature. “But what I’d really like to talk about right now is you. Specifically — thetwoof you. What I saw up on stage tonight made me very excited about your future. Hopefully, that future involves Red Machine.”
“You have no idea how great it is to hear you say that, Clay.”
“I mean it. I loved the set. I want to know more. What’s the process here? Obviously you can both sing. Do you co-write as well?”
“Nah, that’s all Ryder,” Lacey chimes in. “He’s amazing. He writes all my songs.”
Clay nods, watching me carefully. I feel like a specimen in a laboratory. “That was a pretty tight set. You definitely have the makings of a record there.”
I suck in a breath. “You think?”
“Depends. Do you have any more songs? We need at least twelve for a full album, but ideally fourteen or fifteen so we have some spares to cut if necessary.”
“I’ve got ten solid songs I’ve built around Lacey, and a few half-written that I could have polished and ready to go in the next few weeks. The rest of my songs are a bit off-brand for pop-country. They wouldn’t fit Lacey’s…” I trail off, searching for a tactful way to say it. “Her…look.”
She giggles.
Clay’s brows lift. “I wasn’t aware you wrote other stuff as well.”
“Nothing worth hearing, just yet.”
A wrinkle of concern appears between his eyes. “I’ve got to be honest here, we like our musicians to commit toonesound. Especially at the beginning. It’s more marketable, for starters, and less confusing for listeners as they’re getting to know you.”
“My focus is on this band, this sound, this album,” I assure him. “You’ve got my word on that. The rest is just a side hobby.”
He’s silent for a moment, studying us. “I’ll tell you what. I like you two as a package. I liked what I heard tonight. And I’d like to hear more — soon.” His eyes sparkle. “How would you feel about a trip out to LA? A little showcase for the board. Nothing too formal. Just a short sample to give them an idea of what you can deliver before we talk about any sort of official deal.”
Lacey squeals excitedly. “Um, that sounds ah-mazing.”
She’s right. It does.
“Great!” Clay exclaims, rising to his feet. “I’ll have my assistant send over a few different date alternatives. With any luck, we can find a time to fly you out sometime in the next month.”
My mouth is dry. My palms are damp. This seems too good to be true.
Is this what it feels like when you finally catch up to the dream you’ve been chasing? Half-nauseous, half-elated?
“Clay… all I can say is thank you.” My voice is hoarse.