Hillbilly Rockstar (2 page)

"I wasn't going to ask about my position. I'd like some clarification of what you just said about the office staff. You said in our current positions 'for now.' Could you elaborate?"

Boyd lifted his head and looked her in the eyes, but Lisa didn't back down. She had worked too long, too hard at Cahill-Waters Management -- Charlie's company, she'd always thought of it -- and she wasn't going to let anyone ruin it.

"Exactly what I said, Miss Jenkins. For now, everyone will stay in their current positions. I have an audit team coming in to check our work flow, our records, our bookkeeping and various other aspects of the business. Once I receive their report, then I will know what further changes are needed. I assume that's what you were asking?" His voice was cold, his tone letting her know questions wouldn't be welcome.

"Yes, it was." Lisa answered him, hearing her own voice turn icy.

"As for your position, as Charlie is no longer with us, you will now be my personal assistant. I would like to meet with you today at two o'clock to discuss the changes in your duties here. Now, gentlemen, ladies, it's time to get back to work." Boyd stood, gathering his binder and preparing to leave.

Personal assistant? To him? No way in hell.  

Lisa stood along with the rest of the staff, but didn't move towards the door. "Mr. Waters, there's a mistake. Charlie was promoting me the next time a management position came open. We discussed it recently, in detail."

Boyd had picked up pen as she started speaking. His hand froze in midair. One look at the scowl on his face and the other employees quickened their pace, scurrying back to their offices and cubicles. It was clear no one wanted to get in the middle of this mess. When they were alone, Boyd faced her. Lisa hadn't moved. She was still standing at the table, her chair behind her, her notepad and pen on the table.

"Miss Jenkins, you are never to speak to me regarding your duties here unless we are alone. I hope that's clear. As for Charlie's offer, yes, he did mention he was training you as a manager. He believed you had the talent and skills needed to work with our more demanding clients. I don't share his belief, so for the time being, if you choose to continue your employment here, you will remain working in an administrative capacity. Now, I will see you at two o'clock."

He left, his hefty body swaying as he walked out of the conference room and turned towards his office. Lisa sank down into her chair, letting everything wash over her. She glanced at her watch and realized less than an hour had passed since the meeting began. One emotion after another flowed through her - fear, disbelief, anger. Anger at Charlie for dying and not being there to help them. Anger at herself for not fighting for a promotion earlier. Anger at Boyd Waters for being a pompous jackass. Lisa's head sank down, resting on her arms as if she were a child laying their head down at school. She felt as if all of her energy had been sapped from her body.

Lisa closed her eyes. "Charlie," she said, "I hope you can hear me. I'm sorry, but I can't stay here. I can't work for him. I did what I could to handle his arrogant, jackass self while you were here, but I can't do this. It's time for me to let this place go." She took a deep breath, gathered herself together before standing. She collected her things and left the conference room, walking toward the office she and Charlie had shared. It took all Lisa had to look calm and in control, but her nerves were jumping and bouncing inside her skin. She began making a mental note of the headhunters and job agencies she knew in the area. By the time two o'clock rolled around, Lisa was determined that her resume would be in the hands of every talent agency within thirty miles of Nashville.

Chapter Two

"Thanks for doing this, Tanya. I needed a girl's night."

"It's not a problem, Lisa. What are best friends for, anyway?"

It was Friday night, the first week after Charlie's funeral, and the end of longest week of Lisa's life. The two women sat on the floor in Lisa's living room wearing their most comfortable cotton pajamas, a romantic comedy DVD on the television with the volume low, cucumber-melon masks caked on their faces and their freshly colored hair, still damp, up in a towel. They each had a glass of white wine sitting on the refinished coffee table Lisa had found cheap at a local flea market.

"I can't stand the man, Tanya. I don't like working for him
at all
. He brought this auditing company in and they're checking the books, the clients, the office workflow. If I could quit right now I would. I was hoping to have heard back from some of the resumes I put out last week by now."

"You haven't heard anything at all? Even from the headhunter?" Tanya swiped a brush covered in pink nail polish over a bare toe.

"No, and I was especially wanting to hear back from him. He said he had a lead but that was days ago."

"I can't believe he said no to giving you a management job, just like that." Tanya finished painting the baby toe on her left foot. She blew on it to help the polish dry.

"I'm not surprised. Do you realize that all the managers there are men and all the office help are women? I swear the man is stuck in 1955." Lisa took the bottle of Pink Passion from Tanya and began to paint pink dots on her already dry red toes.

"I don't know how you got through the week there. So, based on what this auditing company said, Mr. Waters had you call a bunch of clients and tell them they were being dropped? That sucks."

"I know. One actor actually cried. Then
I
started crying and had to hang up. The auditor said he hadn't done anything in a couple of years and we couldn't keep him on the books."

"But that's not his fault, it's his agent's fault." Tanya grabbed the bottle back and started painting the toes on her right foot.  

"His agent probably dropped him too. I had to call a few that no longer had agent representation. I think Boyd is considering Charlie's death as good for the bottom line. Now that he's the sole owner, he's trimming whatever he considers to be fat. If he can keep the client list going with the two managers he has left, he probably won't hire anyone else."

"I wouldn't put it past him."

"There are a couple of people on my list that I couldn't reach. One is Trace Harper."

"Oh, I love him." Tanya jumped up from the floor and climbed on the flowered-chintz ottoman, holding her hairbrush like a microphone and began to sing Trace's popular song. "Since I found you, I'll never be alone again. Since I found you, my heart has healed."

"Tanya, stop." Lisa laughed at her friend. "Neighbors will hear and think we're twenty-something instead of our mid-thirties."

"You're only as young as you feel, Lisa, dear. So, why couldn't you reach Trace Harper?" Tanya stepped off the ottoman and settled on the floor beside Lisa, placing a neon orange and green throw pillow against the bottom of the couch. She leaned back against it and reached for her wine glass.

"The phone number we have is disconnected. I called his agent, got voicemail, and he hasn't returned my call. I guess I'll have to send a certified letter and hope it gets forwarded."

"I think he's performing somewhere pretty soon. I heard about it on the radio." Tanya reached for her phone, opened the browser and did a quick search. "Yes, he's performing tomorrow night at Six Guns and Sour Mash on Broadway. Hey," Tanya looked up from her phone. "We should go see him. After his performance, you can talk to him."

"Tanya, I can't go see a client after hours, in a club, to talk about business. That's unprofessional."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Tanya punched a button on her phone, putting it back to sleep, and set it on the table next to her glass. She grabbed one of the magazines Lisa had lying on the table and was about to flick it open when she lifted her head, her eyes wide, and looked over at Lisa.

"Uh, oh." Lisa said. "I know that look. What?"

"What if you spoke to him, but not as you? Well, as you, but not as a secretary. What if you spoke to him as a manager?"

"What difference would it make? I'm telling him he's being dropped."

"No, you're not. You're going to tell him you're his new manager. You're Charlie's replacement."

For a heartbeat Lisa considered the idea. Why not go out on her own, maybe save at least one of the business' former clients for her own. Why wait on a headhunter to call her back or for a phone call for an interview? Why not start her own company, work for herself?

The second she thought about it, a cold-icy fear wrapped around her heart, squeezing it tight, and she felt shivers run across her back. I can't, she thought, not wanting to say it out loud. I can't do that.

"Lisa? What do you think?"

Tanya's question broke through her daze. She couldn't go through with it, but how could she explain it to Tanya?

"That wouldn't be right, Tanya. I can't misrepresent the agency." Lisa sipped some wine, trying to steady her nerves.

"You're not misrepresenting if you're self-employed, right? You can tell him you work there, but you don't have to actually say that you're a manager there. You could be a freelancer. You're looking for a new job anyway."

"That's still not right."

"Okay, then say you work
with
Cahill-Waters. Freelancers work for you guys, right? Tell him that you tried to reach him and his agent to introduce yourself as his new manager
working with
Cahill-Waters. You have your first solo client and no one at the agency knows anything."

"It's all semantics, Tanya. Working with, working for, it all implies that I am attached to the agency as a manager. Besides, how would I 'manage' him when I'm tied up at work five days a week between eight and five?"

"Don't pester me with details. We're going to check him out tomorrow night, and I'm not taking no for an answer."

###

A line snaked around the club when Lisa and Tanya arrived. They secured their places, but Lisa kept checking her watch, feeling more frustrated as time ticked by, worried she would miss Trace's nine o'clock set.   

"How am I going to talk to him?" she asked Tanya.

"Don't know. You'll figure it out."

That was helpful, Lisa thought. She'd lost Tanya anyway, she realized, as her friend swayed along with the music thumping through the outside speakers and talked to the others standing in line.  

A half-hour had passed before they reached the entrance. Two bouncers were there, checking ID and collecting the cover charge. Lisa fished her ID from her purse and handed it to the large black man at the door.

"Would I be able to speak to Trace Harper for a moment after his set?" she asked as he stamped her hand with a fluorescent symbol.

"Sorry, nope. No one but staff backstage."

"I'm from his management agency. Here's my business card." She handed him one of the generic cards from the front desk at Cahill-Waters.

"Well, this is new. Usually fans tell me they're family members or something. But don't worry about it. Trace may just come find you."

"What does that mean?"

"You're a pretty girl and Trace likes pretty girls, so here's a tip. If you want to meet him, try to get up front around the end of his act, when he does 'Since I Found You.' Get up there then, and you might get a chance."

"Okay, thanks." Lisa took her change and headed inside after making sure Tanya was behind her. She stood for a moment near the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Lisa took Tanya's hand and they meandered through the crowded club, searching for a table. Keeping the bouncer's tip in mind, Lisa wanted one near the stage. The second time they wandered through the crowd, she caught sight of a group gathering their things and leaving their table open.

"Come on," Lisa yelled over the loud music, motioning for Tanya to follow her. They made their way to the four-top as quick as they could, squeezing past couples dancing, friends talking, the throng of Nashville locals and tourists having a good time on a Saturday night. After pushing through the crowd, Lisa was glad she hadn't let Tanya talk her into wearing a fancy dress and heels like her friend was wearing. Her casual bootcut jeans, layered t-shirt and tank and cowboy boots worked just fine in this group.

The four-top wasn't as close to the stage as Lisa would have liked, but since she knew the Trace's last song, she was just going to have to make her way up to the stage and do her best to speak to him. The server appeared as soon as they sat down.

"White wine," Lisa ordered.

"Long Island Iced Tea," Tanya said. The server wrote the orders on her pad and headed towards the bar.

Now that she was settled, Lisa looked up at the stage, trying to figure out the best path through the packed crowd. Either Trace was still pretty popular or Nashville just really enjoyed coming to Six Guns. She noticed a few country music stars in the crowd, hanging out with family or friends. It wasn't new to her, seeing performers in person. She'd met a lot of celebrities during her time at Cahill-Waters.

Their drinks were delivered and the server wandered off, heading to another table. Lisa sipped her wine but before Tanya could taste her Long Island Iced Tea a handsome, dark-haired man walked up to their table.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked Tanya, offering his hand.

"Sure," Tanya said, her smile lighting up her face. She jumped up from her seat and headed off to the dance floor, waving at Lisa as she walked off, hand-in-hand with the cowboy.

Lisa sipped her wine and watched Tanya dance, her dress twirling around her legs, her feet in perfect step during a line dance, even though she wore three-inch heels instead of boots like many of the dancers. When Tanya and her new friend were lost on the crowded dance floor, Lisa leaned back in her seat and waited for Trace's set to start.

Chapter Three

Awful was not the word for the set Trace Harper performed. Horrible, depressing, deplorable, unpleasant, ugly -- these words were closer to the truth.

It was obvious Trace was drunk. Not tipsy, not buzzed, but high-as-a-kite
drunk
. He went through the set, forgetting words to songs he'd made famous only a few years before. He stumbled over the stage, laughing at his mistakes. When it came to his final ballad, the most famous of his career, he butchered the chorus that everyone else in the bar knew so well. No one seemed to mind, especially the women in the audience, in particular a bleached blonde in a halter top that barely covered her large breasts. She was standing below the stage, staring up at Trace as if he were a god to be worshipped -- and he seemed pretty happy to accept whatever worship came his way.