Billboard Express Read online

  Sigmund Brouwer

  & Cindy Morgan

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2016 Sigmund Brouwer & Cindy Morgan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Brouwer, Sigmund, 1959–, author

  Billboard express / Sigmund Brouwer & Cindy Morgan.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1108-9 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1109-6 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1110-2 (epub)

  I. Morgan, Cindy, 1968–, author II. Title. III. Series: Orca limelights

  PS8553.R68467B55 2016 jC813'.54 C2016-900542-9

  C2016-900543-7

  First published in the United States, 2016

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016933645

  Summary: This high-interest novel for teen readers is set in Nashville, where Elle, a talented musician, tries to make it in the cutthroat music business.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Rachel Page

  Cover photography by iStock.com

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  19 18 17 16 • 4 3 2 1

  To those who feel the undeniable call of the arts.

  Let your light shine.

  Be true to the light and to yourself.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  One

  “Got a mirror or something?” Elle’s manager, Bernie, asked as they stepped out of the elevator for their meeting with the label execs. Execs, not executives. Bernie said it was important to know the lingo.

  Elle was holding a guitar case, switching hands frequently to keep the guitar between her and Bernie. Like a shield.

  He pointed at Elle’s hair. “Must have been the wind out there. You’ve got a few wild strands on the left side, and that black stuff is clumped a little on your eyes. Mascara or eyeliner? Either way, you need to fix it.”

  “Bernie,” Elle said. “My hair doesn’t sing. Or play guitar.”

  Elle tried not to inhale the smell of Bernie’s mouthwash. He was a close talker, always inside her personal space. That was bad enough, but Bernie qualified for senior-citizen discounts and looked like the creepy kind of guy who hung out in the lingerie section of Walmart. The smell of that mouthwash was laced with the whiff of booze. Ten thirty in the morning and Bernie had already had a little more than cream in his coffee. Apparently it was more important to know the lingo than to wait until the end of the workday to have a few shots of whiskey.

  “Huh?” Bernie said.

  Elle knew it would be juvenile to snap out a snarky comment about how at least she had hair that the wind could move around. Bernie’s thinning hair was greased down and combed sideways, probably capable of withstanding a hurricane. Yet somehow he managed to have flakes of dandruff on his black shirt with the oversize collar, a shirt from a time when cell phones were the size of toasters.

  Yeah. Juvenile. And far too easy. Much better to focus her snark on his lack of intelligence. How this guy could possibly be one of the best country music managers in the business was a mystery to Elle. She hoped she’d learn the answer at her first real meeting with the label execs.

  “You heard me,” Elle said. “Hair can’t sing. Or play guitar. So I’ll sing and play and let my hair take a break from all that work.”

  Bernie blinked a few times, absorbing her words, then lifted his arm. His shiny, cheap suit crinkled as he reached into a pocket, pulled out an envelope and handed it to Elle.

  She opened it and recognized her father’s handwriting on the letter inside.

  Trust him and follow every order, the note said. Bernie’s been in the biz for years, and word has it he’s got the connections to make things happen. For what he’s costing us on retainer, I don’t need you to second-guess what he does.

  “Daddy told me you had an attitude,” Bernie said, “which is why he gave me the note. Daddy also signs the checks. And I’ve already been paid enough that I can walk right now and it won’t bother me. Want to do it his way, which is also my way? Or want to go into that meeting alone while I go spend Daddy’s money?”

  It was Elle’s turn to blink. Her first label had folded early in the year, and in the weeks since then, she’d been in Nashville, looking for a new deal. And she was beginning to learn that talent alone wasn’t enough. Also, if she walked, she’d have to explain that to her father, and that wouldn’t be pretty.

  On the other hand, if she did it Bernie’s way, she’d essentially become his puppet. Elle wasn’t about to let that happen. Not a chance.

  “Go ahead, Bernie,” Elle said. “I’ll do this meeting myself and tell them that you stopped along the way to drink more whiskey. While you’re enjoying my daddy’s money, think about how much more you could have made by hanging around.”

  Elle headed down the hallway, holding her breath. She hated that she needed Bernie, but it felt good, leaving him there.

  Two

  Bernie caught up to her a few steps later. “Come on,” he said. “You need to fix that hair. How you look is a big deal in this biz.”

  Elle’s anger began to settle. He couldn’t be blamed for how she reacted when people tried to push her around.

  “Bernie,” Elle said, “didn’t anyone ever teach you to say please? Makes things a lot smoother.”

  “Sure,” he said. “I like that. Now about your hair.”

  He must have correctly understood the look that crossed her face. “Could you please fix it?” he said a moment later.

  “I’d be happy to do it,” Elle said.

  Bernie let out a loud sigh, as if he was having second thoughts about chasing her down the hallway.

  She almost said something about his sigh but decided she had already won this round. So she set down her guitar case, found a mirror in her tiny purse, searched for the stray hairs and smoothed them into place. Then she examined her eye makeup. The wind had made her eyes water, and her mascara had run. A quick swipe with a Q-tip took care of that.

  As they walked to the meeting room, she looked at all the framed gold records that lined the hall of this legendary Nashville building. This was good—better than good.

  Bernie was a pain, but Elle could deal with that. She had a development deal with a great label. She also had the full financial and emotional support of her father, whose chain of lumber stores in Minnesota was the foundation of a huge financial empire. Elle had a great voice, a strong work ethic. She had come a long way from when she was Charlene Adams, an overweight girl teased by her classmates and painfully self-conscious about her weight. But she’d always had tal
ent.

  She had a snake tattoo running up the inside of her wrist. It had been a reward to herself for finally fitting into a size 8 pair of jeans. Yeah, size 8 was big compared to what most of the tiny country stars wore, but she still drew a lot of attention for her looks. Small, curvy and dark-haired. Not your average Nashville bimbo.

  Yes. All the dieting and working out had been worth it. The change of name had been her first producer’s idea.

  She sure wasn’t Charlene Adams anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time. No more singing alone in her bedroom as a way to keep from crying in the lonely mansion in Minneapolis. No, she was Elle McWilliam now, and she was a few steps away from walking into a meeting with a bunch of top label execs who all had one goal.

  To make her a country star.

  Three

  When they reached the reception desk, there was a bank of video screens lining one wall, playing music videos of recent releases from the label’s biggest stars.

  The receptionist had golden hair and glossy lips and a Southern drawl. She wore dark-rinse skinny jeans and a loose, sheer top over a tight cami.

  Elle had heard that some girls took jobs as receptionists in hopes of getting close enough to the label execs to get a shot at playing them their own music. Some label execs, she knew, were interested in more than music. This girl looked a couple of years older than Elle—maybe nineteen or twenty—but she certainly looked the part of a country star. Hair extensions, fake tan, professionally whitened teeth.

  Bernie told the receptionist they were there to meet Eddy Manus.

  She picked up the phone and buzzed someone, shaking her mane of hair and smiling as she talked.

  “Okay, I’ll tell them,” she said. “Just have a seat right over there,” she said to Elle and Bernie. “Eddy will be out in a few minutes. His last meeting is running a little late.”

  “Typical Nashville,” Bernie said to Elle. “It doesn’t exactly run like clockwork.”

  Elle watched the videos as she waited, making a mental note that of the six videos rotating on the three screens, only one video featured a female artist. There was not, however, a lack of female presence.

  All the videos featuring male country stars were buzzing with girls in halter tops and tight shorts, girls who caressed bottles of beer and danced around in truck beds and frolicked on the beach in string bikinis and cowgirl hats. Their bodies were all so perfect, they looked as if they’d been airbrushed. Elle knew it was all lighting and makeup and carefully chosen camera angles. Elle glanced down at her outfit, wondering how she would ever look as sexy as those women without also looking trashy.

  There wasn’t anything about trucks or beer in any of Elle’s lyrics. She wrote and sang songs about wanting to be loved and accepted. Songs from her heart. She had been forced by Bernie to record one song (that she despised) about a cowgirl wanting to make a cowboy happy—by cooking him a great meal.

  Ugh. So fake.

  But Bernie’s advice to Elle and her father was that if Elle wanted to make it in Nashville, that’s what it would take.

  “There y’all are.” The loud Southern drawl came from a thirtysomething guy wearing worn jeans and a black button-down polo shirt. The kind that cost a hundred dollars a pop.

  Elle was surprised at how casually the man was dressed. Peeking out beneath the frayed bottom of his jeans was a worn-in, very expensive pair of Tony Lama cowboy boots. His teeth were perfectly straight and blindingly white. Hair trimmed neatly and, she guessed, dyed.

  He looked at Elle, holding her gaze for a moment before extending his hand. “And you must be Elle. I’m Eddy. Eddy Manus. Pleased to meet you. Y’all come on back.”

  This was a man who held her future in his hands. She should have been terrified, but she relied on her standard response to any threat: courage fueled by defiance. She’d show him what she could do with a guitar and her voice.

  They followed Eddy into a large room with a long black table surrounded by plush, gray high-back chairs. On one side was a wall of windows with a view of the impressive Nashville skyline. You could see everything—the arena where the Preds played, the Batman building, the Country Music Hall of Fame, Union Station. Elle knew how beautiful it was at night with the city lit up. Her condo had a similar view.

  On the other side of the room was a black leather bar with a fancy espresso machine and a large selection of liquor. Elle looked over and caught Bernie licking his cracked lips, probably at the thought of a little top-off for the meeting.

  Two other men followed them into the room. “Boys, y’all know Bernie, of course,” Eddy said. Was it Elle’s imagination, or was Eddy’s tone cool when he introduced Bernie?

  “And this lovely little thang,” Eddy continued, “is Elle. Elle, this is Tommy, our head of A&R, and this is Grant, the head of our marketing team. I thought it would be good for them to sit in on the meeting as well.”

  A&R. Elle knew that it stood for Artists and Repertoire. Tommy was the one who worked directly with the artists. He was shorter—and thinner—than Elle. Not a large man. Midthirties, maybe, with dark tortoiseshell geek-chic glasses framing eyes surrounded by subtle smile lines. He wore loose-fitting jeans and a brown-plaid button-down shirt. Target brand would be her guess. Much less than a hundred a pop.

  Grant, the marketing guy, was younger—mid-twenties. Hair buzzed short, the way guys often styled it when they were going bald early. He was dressed just like Eddy, and that told Elle something. Grant was Eddy’s guy. Tommy—not so much.

  Eddy offered everyone drinks. Elle asked for a bottle of water, and Bernie asked for coffee black. Good thing, Elle thought. Unless Bernie had a flask hidden in his suit jacket.

  Bernie started in about how when he first saw Elle sing at a local songwriters’ night he had a feeling about her. She was something special. He rambled on about the first time he saw Trisha Yearwood back in the day, said he had that same feeling about Elle. The other men nodded as if they understood that whether they liked this guy or not, he did have a knack for picking winners.

  Finally Bernie said, “But talk is talk, boys. Let’s do what we really came here to do. Let’s hear some music. And then you’ll know why this girl is headed on a ride I like to call the Billboard Express.”

  Four

  Bernie pulled out a CD and handed it to Eddy. Elle had been in Nashville long enough not to be surprised. No flash drives. No downloads from the cloud. Musical currency was still the shiny silver of a CD.

  “These are just some low-budget demos,” Bernie said. “Hope you’ll overlook some of the production issues.”

  Low budget since when, she thought. Bernie had insisted her demos be produced by an A-list Nashville producer with A-list musicians. The demos were meant to dazzle a label. Radio-ready, as they said. Radio-ready did not come cheap.

  Eddy walked over to a sound system and popped in the CD and turned it on. Elle watched for reactions as the three execs and Bernie listened with their eyes closed. Nodding now and again. Every time they got through a verse and a chorus, Eddy would fast-forward to the next song.

  Bernie had warned Elle that it was rare for music execs to listen to whole songs. Once they got the gist, they moved on. They were smiling and nodding now, which was encouraging, but Elle knew the pressure wasn’t off yet. She stared down at her guitar case, knowing the moment of truth was coming.

  Bernie had intentionally put the cowboy song last on the six-song demo. He had said the “radio candy” would leave them smiling.

  Elle’s voice came from the speakers, backed by the silkiest session guitarists in the world.

  Hey, cowboy, hang your hat on my heart and throw your boots under my bed.

  This love we’ve got has me in over my head…

  Bernie’s prediction proved correct. The execs seemed very into the cowboy song, looking at each other with knowing smiles. Elle felt the first nagging of worry. She was from a small town in Minnesota, but she had been raised in an upscale neighborhood where kids drove BMWs,
not horses, to her elite private school. The song was just so over-the-top and so absolutely not true to who she was as a person or a singer. They listened to the whole thing, and she was relieved when the song finally ended.

  Eddy was the first to speak. “Those are some great-sounding songs, Elle. Did you write those yourself?”

  The real answer was that she had worked on some of the lyrics with a Canadian guy her own age named Jim Webb, who was trying to make it in Nashville just like she was.

  “Well,” Elle began, thinking it would be a good time to mention his name and give him credit, “I—”

  Bernie interrupted. “Eddy, you know this isn’t a meeting about finding another songwriter for the label. You’re looking for a star, and here she is. Right in front of you.”

  Elle bit back anger at the interruption. Was she not allowed to speak for herself?

  Eddy laughed, and then Tommy, the A&R guy spoke up. “I notice you brought your guitar. Can you play it?”

  Here it was. The moment of truth. Bernie was nodding and smiling like he knew something they didn’t know. Bernie was definitely not her friend.

  Tommy went on. “How about playing us something new, so we can hear what you sound like live?”

  Elle nodded her head as she reached down to undo the latches on the case of her vintage 1956 Gibson LG. It was her pride and joy. She was so protective of it, her dad had insisted on buying a seat for it in first class when she flew from Minnesota to Nashville. She also loved to play her Fender electric, but the acoustic was any songwriter’s prize possession.

  Elle took a deep breath, and as she played the opening notes and started to sing, she got lost in the words and their meaning. It was as if her entire life had led to this moment. All the hours practicing in her room meant her fingers moved across the strings with ease. She had played this song a hundred times, and for a minute she felt like she was back in her room and not in this intimidating office, with her life’s dream on the line.

  She played the whole song. At the end, there was a gaping moment of silence. That could be good or bad. When she looked up, she had a feeling it was good. They all seemed speechless. Bernie was beaming.