“Addison said you were wanting a month-to-month,” he said.
“Is that okay?”
“Absolutely. You’re family, Coco,” he said.
“Less than two weeks and you’ll be stuck with me as a sister forever,” I said, nudging his arm.
“I endured you as a sister for a whole month last year,” he teased. “Anyway, you’re not half as bad as you think you are.”
He wasn’t a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve, but he didn’t need to. I saw it in the way he looked at my sister and the way he held her and all the ways he encouraged her and believed in her. Wilder was loyal and gracious, determined and compassionate, and Addison was lucky as hell.
“All right, mister,” I said, mentally photographing the space that would soon become my new home for a yet-to-be determined amount of time. It had been a long time since my immediate future was nothing but a glaring question mark. Glancing at my watch, I calculated just four more hours to go before seeing Beau again. “Movers are delivering my things this afternoon, so I need to get the key over there. Anyway, I better get going. Busy day ahead of me.”
“Right this way, Mr. Mason.” A perky, fresh-out-of-college girl with a clipboard and headset led me down a long hallway toward a dressing room with my name on the door. “Hair and makeup are on their way and someone will be in shortly to mic you.”
I nodded a thank you as I took a seat across from the lighted vanity as a team of MBC badge wearing men and women flooded my space.
“Beau,” a man’s voice said from the doorway. Glancing into the mirror, I saw the reflection of a man with dark salt and pepper hair and steel blue eyes. Dressed in a navy suit with a red tie, he offered a thin smile, his jaw clenched. “I’m Harrison Bissett. I’m producing this interview.”
He walked toward me, extending his hand, and when I met his handshake, he squeezed the hell out of my mitt.
“Nice to finally meet you,” I lied.
“Likewise,” he probably lied.
“Are we ready?” Dakota appeared just behind Harrison, her eyes dancing between our faces with apprehension.
A staffer came in and hooked a mic pack under my shirt and clipped a tiny mic on my collar before we all shuffled like a herd of stampeding cattle down the long corridor toward a studio. The set resembled a living room with a spotlight shining down on two overstuffed chairs and a table where two waters rested in coffee mugs.
Dakota took a seat, staring down at the notes in her lap while a young woman powdered her nose and scurried off. If she was nervous about her big interview, she sure did a good job of hiding it.
“Are we rolling?” a voice called out from behind two cameras. Everyone was dressed in black. The director. The cameramen. The rest of the crew. They all faded into the dark background, and all I could see was her.
God, had she ever been more beautiful? Completely in her element and on point, she crossed her shapely legs and lifted her eyes to meet mine.
“Beau Mason,” she said in her best Midwestern accent, in a voice that came from her belly. “Thirty years old. Retiring from a successful country music career. What led you to this decision?”
“It was time,” I said, sitting back in my chair. “Time to settle down. Time to start living. Life on the road is rough.”
“Let’s talk about life on the road.”
I raked my hand across my jaw, trying to conjure up a way of explaining how shitty and dark those years were without offending my fans. After a brief phone call that morning with my publicist, he’d given me a list of canned responses, telling me to tell my fans only what they wanted to hear. “Life on the road was fun, but it was also a little lonely. After the roar of the crowd dies down and everyone goes home for the night, it was just me, my guitar, and a tiny little bedroom in the back of a tour bus. Gives a man a lot of time to think.”
Dakota glanced down at her notes and shifted in her seat. “You’ve sold over one hundred million albums in the last decade. That’s got to feel surreal for you.”
“It does,” I said. “Most days I don’t feel like I deserve the kind of success that’s followed me all over the world, but there’s no denying it. It’s a part of me now.”
She rattled off a few more statistics and named some specific platinum songs I’d had before re-crossing her legs and leaning into me. “What does a man who’s had more success than he’s ever dreamed of do when he’s reached the top? What’s next for you?”
“I’d like to think I’m on a slow decline back to normal. I plan on writing songs and fading into the background. My heart’s my compass, and my compass is pointing back home to Darlington, Kentucky.” I placed my hand over my chest. “The quiet life awaits me.”