Diva NashVegas (9 page)

Piper and I left, came home to find my new furniture being delivered, and while we were watching the movers, Car drove by in his Humvee. He came back ten minutes later with an invitation to a barbecue with his parents. One year ago this month. He was very charming, yet down to earth. Which for me and my romantic past was refreshing.

Scott: And the rest, as they say, is history?

AJ: And the rest, as they say, is history.

9

“I wish Melanie Daniels all the best in her endeavors.”

—Aubrey James, press release response to Melanie Daniels' article

Aubrey

As Zach drives east down West End Avenue toward Music Row and the
SongTunes offices, he peeks at me from the corner of his eye.

“Looks to me like somebody had a good time today.” Zach brakes as a green light switches to yellow.

I smile, watching a woman with five little dogs on leashes cross in front of us. “I loved it.” A trill escapes me. I slap my hand over my mouth.

Zach laughs. “What did you love about it?”

“Weird . . . everything. Even that boorish Scott Vaughn. He was professional, funny, sincere. It was exhilarating.” I laugh. “What a
diva
thing to say, right? ‘Loved talking about me.' ”

“It's been a private goal of mine to get you sitting for an in-depth interview.”

“Congratulations. You can die a happy man. You know, just expressing my heart over Melanie made me feel a gazillion times better. I'll go ahead and forgive her. What the heck.” I flick my hand in the air.

“How magnanimous of you. Very Christian too.” The light flashes to green.

“I didn't forget everything my parents taught me.” Resting my elbow on the car door, I watch Nashville go by. “I am looking forward to tomorrow, and Thursday, talking with Scott.”

“Good, good. Better than spending several days a week with someone you hate.”

“I never said I hated him.”

“What happened between you two, anyway?”

“We met once, last year. It didn't go well.”

“But he apologized and now you're over it?”

“More or less.”

Zach tips his head with a click of his tongue. “With all this forgiveness going on, we might start having church.”

Laughing, I punch at him, missing his arm, batting only the air. “Maybe we will. And maybe, just maybe, I'll go to church this Sunday . . . or the next. One of these Sundays.”

“Well, before lightening strikes, can I change the subject?”

“Go ahead.” Looking out the window, I picture Scott Vaughn sitting across from me this morning. He was quite charming and . . .

“Are you sure?”

Turning to Zach, I watch as he shifts in his seat, adjusting his seat belt, then drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. “About going to church? Why wouldn't—”

“No. About marrying Car.” Zach slows his Lexus as another yellow light catches us.

“Oh.” This explains his nervousness. Did I figure this question would come? If not from Zach, from Piper, or Connie. “Yeah, I'm sure. I mean, is anyone ever sure?”

“You've been down this road before with Jack and Derek.”

“Exactly, and that's in Car's favor. He's nothing like them. He's normal, works a regular job in a downtown office. Wears a suit, plays golf to win business deals. The Carmichaels are a well-established Nashville family.”

The red light is short, and we're on our way again. “In other words, he's safe.”

“Zach, I'm ready to settle down, be a part of a family. I'm not getting any younger.”

“Can I give you some advice your father might give if he were here?” he asks with a sideways glance. Zach never met Daddy, but this wouldn't be the first time he's advised me with Ray James wisdom. “Pray about it.”

Tears pool in my eyes. I bat them away. “Daddy would've given that same advice.”

“You pretend to be cut off from your religious roots, but I don't buy it.” He swerves down Demonbreun toward Music Row East. “No matter how hard you fight it, I'm convinced you're still a gospel girl at heart.” He parks on the street behind my lawyer Skyler Banks's car.

“It's been a long, long time, Zach.” Unbuckling my seat belt, I let the nylon material slide between my fingers.

He jerks his keys from the ignition. “I'm not the most faithful person of prayer, either, but Aubrey, please. Marriage is serious business.”

I study my hands, absently noting my fingernails are too long to play the guitar. “Maybe you don't understand, Zach, but sometimes the dream isn't a knight in shining armor, but a place to belong at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and on lazy summer nights.”

“You have a place to go for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Ami and I—”

“It's not the same.” Shaking my head, I search for the words to make him understand. “Like I'm always looking from the outside in. I'm the invited and even cherished guest, but I'm not family by blood or marriage.” I look at him. “I want to be the one who looks at Car on a Sunday afternoon and says, ‘Honey, call the folks. Let's barbecue.' ”

Zach props his arm on the steering wheel. “Not that you've ever barbecued in your life, but I understand the dream. My question isn't the dream or the knight in shining armor, but which knight.”

“At the moment, he's the only knight I know.”

“Aubrey, Zach, come in, come in. Good to see you.” Nathan Brack greets
us at his office door with a practiced voice, holding out his arms as if hosting a reality reunion show. His angular face is lined from too much time in the sun, and his sporty grin is white and capped. When I reach him, he links his elbow with mine and escorts me the length of a gleaming conference table. A glass of ice and chilled bottle of FRESH! awaits me.

“Good to see everyone,” Zach says, taking the chair next to mine, nodding to the SongTunes side of the table. Skyler Banks, my dear attorney, sits on the other side of Zach and looks amused.

Wonder what's up.

Smiling, I greet the SongTunes staff, their lawyer, Ian Carter, and the head of A&R, Aaron Littleton. For a few minutes the conversation around the table is casual—the great summer weather, May's ACM awards, the record number of fans attending June's CMA Fest, and speculation about the Titans football season.

At last, Nathan clears his throat and stands, his expression morphing from happy host to driven businessman. Under his piercing gaze, I shift in my seat, pour more FRESH! over my ice, and take a slow sip.

Nathan strolls behind his team on the other side of the table. “We're working on recasting our vision, redeveloping our objectives, putting SongTunes back on the map.

“When did SongTunes leave the map?” I ask. “You have five of the top artists in the business. Me, Emma Rice, Janie Leeds, Paul Kirkland. Never mind new artists like Mallory Clark.”

Nathan stops at the other end of the table, propping his hands on the edge. “Aubrey, I need an album from you.”

“Fine.” I glance over at Ian. “Finish our renegotiation.”

“Aubrey,” Ian starts, shifting in his seat. “We—”

“The negotiations are off,” Nathan interjects. “This company is in the red, and we're not giving any more money to artists already earning millions off of us.”

I rocket to my feet. “What about the millions you earn off of the artist? Off of me, Nathan? What about the money you earn off my back catalog? Songs you put on compilations that sell so cheap I don't see any money.”

Zach swivels toward Nathan with a glance at Ian. “Red bottom line or not, there's money being made from MP3 sales and back catalog, and Aubrey's not seeing any of that money.” He motions to Ian. “We just went over all of this. You agreed.”

Ian defers to Nathan. “We're putting renegotiations on hold until we see Aubrey's new project.”

“The new project is on hold until I see the money,” I say with fire. Zach stands, holding his palm up in my direction. “Aubrey—”

“Zach, we're not putting the negotiations on hold. It's his way of stealing from me. I don't care if SongTunes is in the red.” I glare at Nathan. “Which I find hard to believe.”

“You see me standing here instead of Greg Leininger, don't you?”

“Doesn't mean anything,” I say. “You probably went around telling lies about him.”

“Aubrey.” Now Skyler is on her feet. “Don't get personal.”

“Aubrey,” Nathan starts, “all I want is what's owed this company.”

“And all I want is what's owed me.”

Nathan crosses his arms and strolls my way. “Back to square one, are we?”

“Tell you what,” Skyler interjects. “Aubrey will deliver an album by . . .”

“September first.” Nathan fires the date as if he'd held it on the tip of his tongue.

“September first? That's two months away.” Pressure forms at the crown of my head.

Skyler's expression begs me to calm down. “At which time, you'll agree to open renegotiations, correct?”

Nathan hesitates with a look at Ian. “Certainly, we'll consider it.”

Skyler taps the table with her fingernails. “BMG would not be pleased if you held up a new Aubrey James release over a few back-catalog and MP3 dollars.”

“Perhaps they would not be pleased if Aubrey held up several million dollars over a few back-catalog and MP3 pennies.”

“Nathan,” I begin, “I can't do an album in two months. Dave and I need to talk about our concept, go over the songs we have on hold. I want to go in a new direction. The last two albums have been the same old, same old. Me belting out songs. There was no craft, no art—”

Nathan interrupts with a hard laugh. “Don't spout your artistic-integrity mumbo-jumbo to me, Aubrey. Be a tortured Van Gogh, if you want, but give me Andy Warhol. Neat little everyday Campbell's soup cans. I want standard Aubrey James. It's too late to reinvent yourself and expect the customers to follow.”

I study him for a moment. “Nathan, I have the best
fans
in the world. They will follow me. And for your information, I know this is a shocker, but music isn't always about the bottom line, branding, and marketing campaigns. Art can't be confined to black or red ink.”

He tugs the crease of his slacks and sits in his high-back leather chair. Rocking back, he scans the room, stopping at each face. First his team, then mine.

At last, me.

“September first, Aubrey. And, don't come in here with a compilation you just threw together. I want platinum Aubrey James.”

Out on the covered porch, watching Juan weed the garden, I sip from a
glass of Gina's iced tea. The six o'clock air is hot and stifling. The twilight sky is cloudless, and I decide we could use some rain.

“Still thinking about the meeting?” Piper comes out and sits next to me, hugging her knees to her chest. Her bare toes curl over the edge of the wicker sofa's cushion.

“Yes, trying not to be angry.”

“Right, sitting out here alone brooding will accomplish that.”

I laugh.

“You smiled a lot today while talking with Scott.”

“It was fun,” I admit.

“See, we told you.” She pats my leg playfully. “Scott's pretty cool, isn't he?”

Brushing her hand away, I shake my head with a snort. “If you like the arrogant jock type.”

“What happened between you two? How come I never heard about it?”

Juan is crawling into the garden on his hands and knees, picking weeds and stuffing them into a burlap bag slung over his shoulder.

“Just another incident in the life of Aubrey James.” I glance over at my friend of sixteen years. “Have I told you lately what a great friend and assistant you are? Thank you.”

She squeezes my hand. “Then dish about Scott. Come on.”

I situate myself sideways on the sofa, facing her. “We met last summer. On the Fourth of July. A year ago tomorrow. ”

“At Music City Park?”

“Yes, at the concert. He was doing his first piece on the Sandlotters.” I wipe the dew from my glass. “He strolled over with his cocky, I'm-a-jock-news-reporter swagger and introduced himself. He didn't even know who I was.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. After a few minutes he figured it out.”

“I suppose that's sort of refreshing. He wanted to talk to you for you, not because you're famous. By the way, where was I during all of this?” I shake my head, then remember. “You were on vacation last year, weren't you?”

“Oh yes, the family reunion from Oz. So, you met Scott Vaughn . . . fell in love, what?”

“No.” I shove at her with my foot. “He invited me to a Fourth of July party down in Brentwood. One of his football buddies. Jeff Moore worked security for me all day, so he drove me to the party and waited. When I gave him the okay signal, he went home. You think I'd know better.” Recounting the story creates a swirl of anxiety.

“What happened?”

“Scott and I were getting along fabulously. Too good. It seemed surreal, like one of those stories you hear old married couples talk about. ‘We just clicked.' ”

“So, you started feeling confident and jazzed.”

I make a face. “Yep.”

“You sang karaoke, didn't you?”

“Of course. And don't imply singing karaoke made Scott weird out. Something else bothered him that night.”

“Did you sing your own song? You know when you do that it looks like you're showing off.”

“What? No, it doesn't. They begged me to sing.”

“Anyway . . .” She swirls her hand, urging me to continue.

“We were talking and laughing, enjoying the party, slow dancing.” I still remember the feeling of his arm around me, the scent of his cologne, and the way he pressed his cheek against my hair.

“Then what went wrong?”