But unlike the neon-glowing party of Music Row, the offices of the industry’s major record labels weren’t meant to inspire. They were designed to intimidate, to remind starry-eyed artists that music was a business, first and foremost.
If Nashville was a party, these buildings were the chaperones.
And today, Colton had the sinking feeling he was about to be dragged off the dance floor by his shirt collar.
The staff in the lobby greeted Colton as they always did—with warm deference. He was, even still, one of their top-selling artists, after all. Photos of him and his album covers decorated the walls of the lobby, the hallways, even the goddamned bathrooms. An escort—maybe an intern from the nearby Belmont School of Music or, more likely, some executive’s nephew—met him at the door and offered him a bottle of water before showing him to the elevators that would take him to the top-floor suites where the label’s executive offices were located. The young man bade him goodbye as Colton entered the elevator, and another one was waiting for him as he got out—a young woman this time, who smiled and called him “Mr. Wheeler” in a way that made him want to duck into the restroom to check for gray hair.
She led him to the large conference room where his dreams had come true all those years ago. Back then, he’d walked in to find everyone already there, waiting for him with smiles and congratulations.
Today, the room was empty. “Am I the first one here?”
“You are,” the girl said, still smiling.
That was a first. Rock star time, and all that. But anxiety had a way of violating the speed limit. Colton declined the young woman’s offer of a beverage from the well-stocked mini-fridge and instead strode to the bank of windows overlooking the city. The first time he’d looked at this view, he’d seen nothing but opportunity, fame, fortune. It was different this time, filtered through the lens of age and experience. Now, he saw all the cracks in the pavement, the roofs in need of repair, the tired cab drivers in need of a break. He still saw the city’s shine. But he also saw its dirt.
“I thought you superstars were always late.”
Colton turned around. His A&R guy, Archie Lovett, walked in with a cocky grin and a Starbucks cup. A&R stood for artist and repertoire, and it was the division at every record label that handled the artists and their music. Archie had been his A&R guy from the start, and it was his job to act as a liaison between Colton’s team and the label.
“Good to see you, brother,” Archie said. They shared a backslapping half hug. “I just about forgot how ugly you are.”
Colton flipped him off, and Archie laughed as Colton knew he would. Their relationship had always been like this—as much a friendship as a professional one. It was one of the things Colton had always loved about this label. It felt like a family. The downside of that kind of relationship was that Colton felt like he was disappointing a friend when he didn’t live up to their expectations.
His manager, Buck Bragg, walked in next, with a smile that conveyed calm confidence but a grip on a bottle of antacids that said he’d had a rough day so far. He quickly greeted Archie before joining Colton at the windows. “I don’t think you’ve ever beaten me here since that first contract.”
Colton shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I haven’t been this nervous since then.”
“We’re going to get things worked out,” Buck said. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry? What the hell does that mean?”
Buck shrugged. “It means Don’t worry.”
“Except you’ve never told me not to worry before, so now I’m officially shitting my pants.”
The drumbeat of footsteps behind them brought them both around to stare at the door as label executives walked in single file, each carrying leather folios, cellphones, and iPads. The last to walk in was the most important, Vice President Saul Shepard. A former college wrestler, Saul had stumbled into the music industry after a brief career as an entertainment attorney. He was intimidating without trying, gave nothing away with his expressions, and shook hands with more force than was necessary. The man was three inches shorter than Colton, but Colton always felt like he had to look up when speaking to him. Today, he seemed like a giant.
“Good to see you,” Saul said, shaking Colton’s hand with a finger-crushing squeeze. “Glad you could make it in to get this thing figured out.”
Nervous sweat pooled under Colton’s arms. Get this thing figured out? What the hell did that mean? Before he could ask, though, Saul directed everyone to sit with a stern, “Let’s get started.”
Buck gave Colton a reassuring pat on the back as they walked to the table, but it had the opposite effect. As soon as they sat down, Colton held out his palm. “Give me some of those.”
Buck dumped a half-dozen chalky tablets into Colton’s hand.
Saul cleared his throat. Everyone else sat. Executives opened their notebooks. Archie projected something onto the screen behind Saul. And not a single one of them met Colton’s eyes.
“Just so we’re on the same page as we get started, let’s review where we stand,” Saul said.
The twinge of alarm became a knot in his stomach. That wasn’t the kind of language someone used when they were about to congratulate an artist for their future chart-topper.
“Archie, take us through Colton’s latest contract and where we’re at.”
What? Why the hell were they reviewing his contract? Colton’s eyes narrowed as the screen displayed a bullet point of the major terms of his last deal. “I’m sorry, but what the hell is happening here?”
“I’m sorry?” Saul asked.
“I’m well aware of the particulars of my contract, and so is everyone else in this room. What are you leading up to?”
Archie cleared his throat. Saul leaned back in his chair and smoothed his tie. “Colton, we are all invested in your success.”
Invested in your success. A phrase that somehow conveyed the opposite. “Stop dancing around the damn point. Did you like the new stuff or not?”
“No.”
The word was like a broken string in the middle of a song. A sour note followed by the sting of the thin wire against your arm. Next to him, Buck shot him a practiced look of Don’t freak out.
Too late. How the fuck was he supposed to not freak out over that? Colton’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he wished he’d taken them up on their repeated offers of water. “Would you mind telling me what you don’t like?”
Buck tried to interject. “Can I have a minute to talk to Colton—”
“It’s boring,” Saul said.