After telling the sound engineer to take a break, Nate Tucker lay down on the couch in the control room of West Coast Records’ LA headquarters. Closing his eyes, he listened to the playback of the song he’d just recorded. Over the years he’d trained his ears to pick up every nuance of a performance. His mind then went to work adjusting the frequencies, boosting or cutting EQ, feathering in a touch of reverb to improve the natural sound.
Nothing, however, could fix what Nate was hearing in his own voice. Proof that he’d pushed too hard on the final leg of his twelve-month tour.
He’d hoped that three weeks of rest might have allowed his vocal cords to fix themselves, but his reduced range and the hoarseness that plagued him weren’t going away. The vocal cord surgery he’d scheduled for tomorrow was unavoidable. Nate’s curses echoed through the room. One more damned thing he didn’t have time for.
Since returning to his home in Las Vegas after touring all over the world with his band, Free Fall, he’d been inundated with work. Thank goodness he’d been able to do some songwriting while on the road, because he was all out of space and energy to compose for Free Fall’s next album. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. With his voice out of commission he wasn’t going to be singing anytime soon.
His phone began to ring. Nate checked the screen before levering himself off the couch. In the last three days he’d made a half dozen calls to Trent Caldwell, his business partner and friend. In addition to being partners in Club T’s, the premier Las Vegas nightclub that Nate, Trent and Kyle Tailor owned, Nate and Trent were partners in Nate’s label, Ugly Trout Records in Las Vegas, as well as West Coast Records, the company Trent had recently bought from his family.
Dropping into the control booth’s comfortable leather chair, Nate silenced the music pouring from the speakers and answered the call.
“It’s about time you checked in.” Nate wasted no time with pleasantries. “Where have you been?”
“Savannah starts shooting next week, so I took her and Dylan to a spa hotel up in Washington.” Trent sounded more relaxed and happy than ever. Being engaged to the love of his life obviously agreed with him. “We both turned off our phones for a few days.”
Ever since Trent had rekindled his romance with his former lover and found out he was a father, he’d become a whole new person. Nate understood the transformation, after what had happened between him and Mia. It was easy to be cynical and even suspicious about stuff like that until it happened to you.
“Sounds nice.” Really nice.
Envy shot through Nate. It wasn’t like him to want something another man had. He already had fame and wealth. They didn’t drive him. Nate loved what he did and didn’t really care if he made tons of money. The music mattered.
And then he’d watched his friend and business partner fall hard for Savannah, and suddenly making music wasn’t enough anymore.
“I got your messages about the meeting with Ivy Bliss,” Trent said. “Have you lost your mind?”
“What do you mean?” Nate knew perfectly well what Trent was referring to, but decided to pretend he’d been motivated purely by business.
Ivy Bliss was a former child actress turned pop princess with an impressive four-octave range. Five years ago she’d signed with West Coast Records and released two albums. They’d done okay. Thanks to the label’s poor management, the production work on the albums hadn’t been stellar and the release dates had been pushed back so many times that fans had lost interest.
That was before Trent and Nate had taken control of his family’s label the previous month. They intended to turn the record company around and make it a huge success. Ivy Bliss’s new album was a great place to start.
But that wasn’t the reason Nate had reached out to Ivy’s manager-father about producing her new album.
“You did nothing but complain about her the entire eight weeks she was on tour with you.”
“Oh, that.”
“Oh, that?” Trent mimicked. Nate could hear a baby babbling in the background. “Just a second.” There was a pause. “Dylan, Daddy’s on the phone with Uncle Nate. Do you want to sing him your new song?”
Nate couldn’t ignore the growing ache in his chest as he listened to Dylan jabber along with his father’s soft singing. Ever since Nate had decided on a career in music, every bit of his energy had been focused on writing, performing and producing. Now, he enjoyed all the money and success he’d dreamed about and yet something gnawed at him.
“That was terrific,” Nate said when the song was done.
“He’s barely a year and already starting to say a few words.”
“Have you been teaching him the signs I showed you?” Nate had learned American Sign Language as a kid so he could communicate with his hearing impaired mother, and had taught Trent a few signs Dylan could use to communicate, for words such as more, done, eat, play, finish and tired.
“Yes, he’s really taking to it. Now, back to Ivy. Why would you want to produce her new album?”
Nate sighed. “I don’t need to remind you that she’s a huge talent and poised to break out. She just needs one great album.”
“She’s a twenty-five-year-old nightmare.”
“Yes, well...she’s not that bad.” Nate winced at the bald lie.
Seven years earlier, when she was seventeen and starring in a Broadway musical after her show on KidZ Channel was canceled, she’d gotten Nate’s phone number and for four months she’d sent him impassioned texts and sexy pictures of herself. At first he’d responded with polite rebuffs and then silence. At last he’d contacted her father and warned him that this wasn’t going to play well if it got out. All contact stopped.
“She’s a little silly and spoiled,” Nate continued, “but superstars can get that way sometimes.”
Trent ignored his friend’s self-deprecating jab. “Why don’t you point her toward Savan or Blanco?” Both had worked with her on collaborations with other artists and produced hits.
Nate didn’t need to remind Trent that Ivy Bliss had a reputation for being “challenging” in the studio. She didn’t take suggestions, and criticism sent her into hysterics. Neither of the producers Trent mentioned would want to work with her again.
“I’m doing this for West Coast Records.” Another lie. There were a couple dozen guys who could produce the heck out of Ivy Bliss and make an album that would rocket to the top of the charts.
“I’m not buying it.” Trent hadn’t made a major success of every one of his business ventures by being dense. “Wait a second, are you into her? Damn. That’s crazy, but my sister said you fell for someone on the tour. I never in a million years thought it was Ivy Bliss.”
“It wasn’t.” With a shudder, Nate changed topics before Trent could press further. “The other reason I called is that I’m going in for surgery tomorrow.”
“Surgery.” Trent’s tone sharpened. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve
