Fic: Taking Flame Over Burning Out; Popstar/Nashville AU
Author: rivlee
Title: Taking Flame Over Burning Out
Rating: PG-13 due to Hoosier and Runner’s love of the f-word.
Characters: Runner, Gibson, Chuckler, Hoosier, and Haldane. Runner/Chuckler; Hillbilly/Haldane implied.
Summary: A typical day at Coconut & Rhyme. Part of the Ridic Popstar/Nashville AU.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect is meant. Title from Sara Bareilles’ Uncharted.
A/N: Unbeated. This is more my way of writing a character history/trying to fit people into the ‘verse. No real point or plot here.
Being a music label worker in Nashville was like being a lawyer or banker in New York City, there were at least three buildings full of them on each side of the street. All it took was one act to make a label’s future, and ever since Taylor Swift somehow managed to outsell everyone even vaguely associated with the genre, the big labels were taking chances on the indie label acts.
Not that Runner Conley or Ronnie Gibson could convince their star act to sign with a major label. Well, second star act. Merriell Shelton was a gold mine, but he made record executives cry. Lewis “Chuckler” Juergens was a completely different matter.
“You ain’t getting rid of me that easy,” Lew said through a mouth full of M&Ms.
“You do get that you're turning down the chance to be a millionaire,” Ronnie Gibson said, holding his head in his hands.
“I’m not giving up my freedom for a higher tax bracket,” Lew said.
“Chuckler,” Runner said, “you have a chance to be big, Kenny Chesney or Brad Paisley big.”
“I don’t look good in hats,” Lew answered.
“What about Keith Urban?” Gibson tried.
“He’s Australian, default cool to the fans.”
“Dierks Bentley?” Runner asked.
“Has that dog in all his videos. People love dogs.”
“Rascal Flatts?” Gibson said.
Lew shrugged. “On the soundtrack to Cars so the kids and their parents have a built-in fan base.”
“We could marry you off to some Carrie Underwood wannabe and make you the next Tim McGraw,” Gibson threatened.
“Only if I get to do at least one crossover song with an of-the-moment rapper,” Lew said. He started humming Nelly and Tim McGraw’s Over & Over.
Runner laid his head down on his desk. “God, I don’t even know why we try with you anymore. What’s the point of signing even to an indie label if you don’t want to develop?”
“I want to develop,” Lew said, suddenly serious. “I want to be a better musician, to actually learn the art of writing a good song, not just Beach Country Let’s-Get-Drunk Anthems. I’d just rather do it here than signing my life away to the Man.”
“Alright, fine,” Gibson said. He waved Lew away. “We’ll stop bugging you for this month, just get your ass out of here and stop distracting us.”
“Why you got something better to do than entertain me?” Lew asked.
Runner pointedly shook one of the many cardboard boxes currently piled up around their new office. He almost missed Gibson’s basement, their former headquarters, if only because Mama Gibson usually brought down some ginger snaps and iced tea by this time of day.
“I can help,” Lew said. He’d moved on to the Red Vines now, continuing his mission of eating through the candy basket Shifty Powers sent them.
Runner knew this was Shifty’s payback for the last time he took Q-Tip out for a night of tequila shots.
“You break those money-making fingers and I will shoot you,” Gibson said.
“Look at the little man all full of the big attitude since he moved into a new office,” Lew said. “I used to be the head of security for 3B, I know how to get my job done without major injury.”
Gibson shook his head. “I still don’t know how you ever got that job.”
Lew sat back in his chair and held his hands out. “I’m good at what I do,” he said, gesturing with a piece of red licorice. “Besides, by the time I joined up, their spotlight dimmed and the crowds were smaller.”
“And yet Lip and Hoosier still found the time to turn you into their little musical project,” Gibson said.
“Well, we all needed something to occupy the time between Nix puking his guts out and Joe getting into bar fights,” Lew said. “Somehow teaching me to play the guitar just seemed the safer hobby.”
“Imagine that,” Gibson muttered. He looked at all the boxes and grimaced. “Hoosier’s bartending at Allison’s today, right?”
“Yeah,” Runner answered.
Lew laughed and threw down his Red Vines. “Let’s get the hell out of here then.”
********
“You know why he stays, don’t you?” Hoosier asked. He put down a bowl of pistachios in front of Runner.
“Who?” Runner asked, prying the shells open.
“Chuckler, Lew, your money-making musical cow.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Runner asked.
Hoosier sighed, his head dropping down. “You’re so fucking clueless sometimes, Conley,” he muttered. “He stays because of you, he doesn’t want to leave you behind.”
“Bullshit.”
“He’s certainly not staying for Gibson’s wonderful business practices.”
“He always manages to get people paid on time, that says more about him than half the major labels here. And he lets the talent develop at their own pace,” Runner defended his boss.
Hoosier tapped his fingers on the bar. “Lena’s really pushing Chuckler to move.”
“We’re pushing Chuckler to move. We figured between both his manager and his label saying something, he’d sign any of the three deals waiting for him, but he just won’t budge. And they’re decent deals, Hoosier, none of that 360 bullshit they try to give new artists.”
Hoosier smirked. “If anyone’s dumb enough to try and pass a 360 deal to one of Lena Basilone’s clients, they deserve to get what’s coming.”
“Word,” Runner said, stacking up his pistachio shells.
360 deals were becoming the norm for new artists. The deals had good and bad aspects, but since they potentially brought more money to the label, every single one tried to pass them out. The deals basically made the labels own the artist for life, getting part of the artist’s lifetime income, music sales, and merchandise sales. All record deals were essentially loans with really high interest the artist had to pay back, with labels covering everything from the cost of studio time and tours to promotion and production, but 360 deals could mean a serious lack of profit for the talent. Especially when you talked about indie musicians and rock acts, who made most of their money off the merch they produced and sold by themselves. Labels would find any way to stay profitable and there was a reason why an artist could be a multi-platinum seller and still bankrupt. The 360 deal could look good on paper, but it always had a fuckton of loopholes that could stifle creativity and production. Much like how the Nashville music machine worked, 360 deals led themselves to sticking to what brought in the most money as opposed to anything with innovation.
Gibson was barely breaking even with Coconut & Rhyme, but that’s more than a lot of people could say.
Hoosier gestured to the stage where Eddie was tuning his banjo for the afternoon set.
“I guess if a quiet musician’s life is good enough for Eddie Jones, it’ll be good enough for Lew Juergens,” he said.
“I wouldn’t exactly call Eddie’s life quiet,” Runner said. “A visit to him is turning into some sort of new musician’s pilgrimage or some shit.”
Hoosier smirked. “The guru on the stage, huh? We should market that.”
“Andy would kill you. Slowly,” Runner said.
“I’d probably still make a killing before I died,” Hoosier snarked. He pushed back from the bar. “As much as I enjoy staring at your ugly mug, got to get ready for the after-work rush.”
Runner laughed and flicked a pistachio shell at his back.
He turned around on his barstool to watch the stage. Runner’s job involved nights spent in hole-in-the-wall clubs and music spots, days at muddy state fairs and music festivals, and more than a few hours spent scouring up-and-coming acts' YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter pages trying to find their next artist. He’d seen every type of musician come from every genre, even if Coconut & Rhyme was focused on Beach Country music, they had acts spanning all styles.
It was a rare treat to see a musician liked Eddie Jones. He didn’t have the best voice in the world, but he really wasn’t there to sing anyway. Eddie let his instruments sing for him, and putting anything with strings on it into his hands turned out amazing. He’d even seen the guy rock a mandolin more than once. Andy loved the Spanish Guitar so Eddie played that a lot, breaking out the lap harp for Hoosier and the cello for Gibson.
Eddie was one of those performers you couldn’t help but watch. He drew people to him, when he got on that stage and under those lights. Off the stage, in his beat up jeans and raggedy white t-shirts, you wouldn’t spare him a second glance. Put him under a spotlight with a guitar in his hand and no one ever turned away. It was rare to find that in a musician, true, honest-to-god, stage presence. It was the thing that kept people flocking to see Eddie at Allison’s over the years. It was the same quality that Runner saw in Chuckler the first time he performed on some country fair stage in the middle of Nebraska.
The afternoon show wouldn’t start for another half hour, so the only thing to see was the sound check. Ray Person, some kid out of Missouri, ran the soundboard and all the technical crap. The kid had a mouth on him but was a genius with machines. He always ran his mouth while Eddie went through his sound check, smiling at Ray’s rants while absently plucking out a tune. The house lights were up, so you could see everyone wandering off and on the stage, securing cords, checking speakers, mics, and amps, doing all the set-up work people rarely realized went into a show.
“I don’t know what it is, but I’ve always liked the sound check best,” Andy Haldane said as he sat down next to Runner.
Haldane, like so many of them, came from elsewhere. He went to the University of Tennessee for his Master’s and met Eddie in Knoxville, before following him to Memphis and finally settling in Nashville. Runner always felt the both of them were made for Memphis but Eddie claimed they just liked being contrary.
Runner always liked Andy, happy to meet someone else from the Northeast who shared his love for Drake’s Devil Dogs and Utz Crab Chips. Andy was full of quiet and calm confidence. He could do frat boy bravado one minute and the next be full of shy smiles and back home stories. He knew nothing about music really, just knew what he liked. He couldn’t play worth a damn, even though Eddie’d been trying for at least five years to teach him the main chords used in Cross Road Blues. Andy still sucked at it, but at least he stopped breaking the guitar strings.
“I think it’s because Eddie usually lets you live out your rock star dreams during sound check,” Runner said.
“Not exactly,” Haldane said. “I think it’s more, seeing what’s behind the curtain and all? I was always that kid that wanted to know how the magic tricks worked, couldn’t just let the illusion stay. It drove my father insane, my need to know things, but my mother loved it. She could drop me off at the library and I’d have as much fun there as a toy store.”
“But you played football.”
“And I loved mapping the game plays.”
“Still you ended up here.”
“Whoever knew my minor in Business Management would get me so far,” Andy said. “Is Lew going to play?” he asked, gesturing to the stage.
“He’s already in the stock room testing out fiddles. When did you decide to make the afternoon shows a Bluegrass special?”
“Last week when Eddie said that if he played one more honkytonk afternoon set he was leaving for good.”
Runner smirked and raised his glass. “Bluegrass it is.”
********
A storm was rolling through the area that night, and while Runner probably should’ve been worrying about flooding, or the roof being torn off his home, or something else house insurance related, all he could worry about was the man sleeping next to him.
“Christ, Will, you think any louder you’ll wake the neighbors up,” Lew muttered into his pillow. He only used Runner’s real name when he was pissed off or being cautious.
“Their dog keeps them up half the night anyway,” Runner said.
“Not the point,” Lew said. He rolled over and looked up at Runner. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you staying with the label because of me?” he asked.
“You always excel at the pillow talk,” Lew said. He stretched his arms out, long limbs reaching just past the edges of the bed. “Is that what’s kept you up all night?”
“It was something Hoosier said.”
“Oh, here we go,” Lew muttered. “Look, did it ever occur to you, Gibson, Lena, and Hoosier that I like where I am. Why is it that no one pushes Eddie into signing a major deal, even though he gets an offer every other night.”
“Because everyone knows Eddie just wants to play for a living, he doesn’t want to be a star.”
“And I can’t have that same wish?” Lew asked.
Runner tangled his fingers in Lew’s curly hair. “Not when we all think you’re compromising yourself.”
“Will, country music barely excepts open liberals among its talent, do you really think they’re going to take an openly gay one?”
“Chely Wright, she’s out,” Runner said.
“And?” Lew asked. “Do we really need to have the Country Music Privilege Lessons 101 again?”
“No,” Runner said. “You just hope things change over time.”
“The fact that Darius Rucker is in the Top Ten is already a major advancement.”
“And he’s got the power of previous success behind him, I know,” Runner said.
“I like being able to just play, where no one bothers me about my personal life or asks me what I’m wearing. Where I can still get into a fight and my label boss won’t reprimand me.”
“Since you usually get into bar fights by getting Gibson out of them.”
“Alternative and Indie Country is on the brink but it’s going to have to come out of the musicians themselves, because we are going against the tried and true machine. I don’t want to write and sings songs about losing my dog, my wife leaving me and my pick-up getting crushed under a tree. I don’t want to perform bubble gum country. There’s a time and a place for it, but I’d rather write songs about getting away, discovering who I am, and stumbling across the love of my life at a tractor pull in Nebraska.”
“You didn’t have to actually stumble over me.”
“You’re short and I love it. Lena calls you pocket-sized.”
“Lena’s the only one allowed to do that.”
“Come here,” Lew said, pulling him down.
Runner may have squawked but he’d never admit it.
“I stay with your label because Gibson’s a decent person who pours his blood and soul into his work, because as a side business, we have an all-access pass to anything coming out of Screaming Eagle Publishing and Currahee Studios, and because as long as I stay, you’ll stay.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Runner asked.
“You have to know Curb and Mercury both have headhunters out for you,” Lew said.
“Did you drink Old Elmo’s Gin again? I told you that shit is moonshine.”
Lew propped himself up on his elbow. “You really don’t know that half the labels in this town are gunning after you for their next A&R man?”
“Uh, no, nobody’s said anything to me.”
“You discovered Merriell Shelton, right now all the music executives think you’re a god. They’re just waiting to see who you find next.”
“You sound bitter,” Runner said. “Are you bitter that I’ve been spending most of my time pre-move working with Renée? Lew, she’s here on a work visa, we need results fast.”
“She’s very pretty.”
“And so is Vera but you’ve never been bothered by her.”
“She’s a college professor and married. Neither one of those things is a turn-on for you,” Lew scoffed.
“They could be.”
“Old books cause your asthma to act up.”
“Oh, who’s good at the pillow talk again?”
Lew dropped his head down onto Runner’s shoulder. “I’m happy where I am. Aren’t you?”
“I still think the world should hear your music.”
“There’s this magical thing called the internet. You might’ve heard of it. Al Gore invented it or something.”
“I vaguely recall seeing something about that five years ago. Still around, huh?”
“Somehow managed to survive. It connects things. Globally.”
“Wow,” Runner intoned. He pressed a kiss into Lew’s hair. “So neither one of us is going anywhere.”
“Well, me might get flooded out of the house again and sent down the Mississippi, but for right now I’m good.”
“I’ll call off Gibson and Lena,” Runner said.
“And Papa Olaf?” Lew asked.
Runner flinched. He honestly thought he’d got away with that one. “And Papa Olaf,” he agreed, “though he’s still hoping you’ll reconsider hockey as a career change.”
Lew laughed quietly for a moment but it faded off into a light snore. It was one of the first things Runner found charming about him, the ability for Lew Juergens to fall asleep anywhere once he decided all was right with his world. Quite an advantage for a traveling musician that everyone envied.
Runner stared at the ceiling, continuing to twirl his fingers through Lew’s hair. He had to sort his next day, find a new tour manage for Merriell, and get Renée in the recording studio all before night’s end.
Just another day for the workers of Coconut & Rhyme.
Title: Taking Flame Over Burning Out
Rating: PG-13 due to Hoosier and Runner’s love of the f-word.
Characters: Runner, Gibson, Chuckler, Hoosier, and Haldane. Runner/Chuckler; Hillbilly/Haldane implied.
Summary: A typical day at Coconut & Rhyme. Part of the Ridic Popstar/Nashville AU.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect is meant. Title from Sara Bareilles’ Uncharted.
A/N: Unbeated. This is more my way of writing a character history/trying to fit people into the ‘verse. No real point or plot here.
Being a music label worker in Nashville was like being a lawyer or banker in New York City, there were at least three buildings full of them on each side of the street. All it took was one act to make a label’s future, and ever since Taylor Swift somehow managed to outsell everyone even vaguely associated with the genre, the big labels were taking chances on the indie label acts.
Not that Runner Conley or Ronnie Gibson could convince their star act to sign with a major label. Well, second star act. Merriell Shelton was a gold mine, but he made record executives cry. Lewis “Chuckler” Juergens was a completely different matter.
“You ain’t getting rid of me that easy,” Lew said through a mouth full of M&Ms.
“You do get that you're turning down the chance to be a millionaire,” Ronnie Gibson said, holding his head in his hands.
“I’m not giving up my freedom for a higher tax bracket,” Lew said.
“Chuckler,” Runner said, “you have a chance to be big, Kenny Chesney or Brad Paisley big.”
“I don’t look good in hats,” Lew answered.
“What about Keith Urban?” Gibson tried.
“He’s Australian, default cool to the fans.”
“Dierks Bentley?” Runner asked.
“Has that dog in all his videos. People love dogs.”
“Rascal Flatts?” Gibson said.
Lew shrugged. “On the soundtrack to Cars so the kids and their parents have a built-in fan base.”
“We could marry you off to some Carrie Underwood wannabe and make you the next Tim McGraw,” Gibson threatened.
“Only if I get to do at least one crossover song with an of-the-moment rapper,” Lew said. He started humming Nelly and Tim McGraw’s Over & Over.
Runner laid his head down on his desk. “God, I don’t even know why we try with you anymore. What’s the point of signing even to an indie label if you don’t want to develop?”
“I want to develop,” Lew said, suddenly serious. “I want to be a better musician, to actually learn the art of writing a good song, not just Beach Country Let’s-Get-Drunk Anthems. I’d just rather do it here than signing my life away to the Man.”
“Alright, fine,” Gibson said. He waved Lew away. “We’ll stop bugging you for this month, just get your ass out of here and stop distracting us.”
“Why you got something better to do than entertain me?” Lew asked.
Runner pointedly shook one of the many cardboard boxes currently piled up around their new office. He almost missed Gibson’s basement, their former headquarters, if only because Mama Gibson usually brought down some ginger snaps and iced tea by this time of day.
“I can help,” Lew said. He’d moved on to the Red Vines now, continuing his mission of eating through the candy basket Shifty Powers sent them.
Runner knew this was Shifty’s payback for the last time he took Q-Tip out for a night of tequila shots.
“You break those money-making fingers and I will shoot you,” Gibson said.
“Look at the little man all full of the big attitude since he moved into a new office,” Lew said. “I used to be the head of security for 3B, I know how to get my job done without major injury.”
Gibson shook his head. “I still don’t know how you ever got that job.”
Lew sat back in his chair and held his hands out. “I’m good at what I do,” he said, gesturing with a piece of red licorice. “Besides, by the time I joined up, their spotlight dimmed and the crowds were smaller.”
“And yet Lip and Hoosier still found the time to turn you into their little musical project,” Gibson said.
“Well, we all needed something to occupy the time between Nix puking his guts out and Joe getting into bar fights,” Lew said. “Somehow teaching me to play the guitar just seemed the safer hobby.”
“Imagine that,” Gibson muttered. He looked at all the boxes and grimaced. “Hoosier’s bartending at Allison’s today, right?”
“Yeah,” Runner answered.
Lew laughed and threw down his Red Vines. “Let’s get the hell out of here then.”
********
“You know why he stays, don’t you?” Hoosier asked. He put down a bowl of pistachios in front of Runner.
“Who?” Runner asked, prying the shells open.
“Chuckler, Lew, your money-making musical cow.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Runner asked.
Hoosier sighed, his head dropping down. “You’re so fucking clueless sometimes, Conley,” he muttered. “He stays because of you, he doesn’t want to leave you behind.”
“Bullshit.”
“He’s certainly not staying for Gibson’s wonderful business practices.”
“He always manages to get people paid on time, that says more about him than half the major labels here. And he lets the talent develop at their own pace,” Runner defended his boss.
Hoosier tapped his fingers on the bar. “Lena’s really pushing Chuckler to move.”
“We’re pushing Chuckler to move. We figured between both his manager and his label saying something, he’d sign any of the three deals waiting for him, but he just won’t budge. And they’re decent deals, Hoosier, none of that 360 bullshit they try to give new artists.”
Hoosier smirked. “If anyone’s dumb enough to try and pass a 360 deal to one of Lena Basilone’s clients, they deserve to get what’s coming.”
“Word,” Runner said, stacking up his pistachio shells.
360 deals were becoming the norm for new artists. The deals had good and bad aspects, but since they potentially brought more money to the label, every single one tried to pass them out. The deals basically made the labels own the artist for life, getting part of the artist’s lifetime income, music sales, and merchandise sales. All record deals were essentially loans with really high interest the artist had to pay back, with labels covering everything from the cost of studio time and tours to promotion and production, but 360 deals could mean a serious lack of profit for the talent. Especially when you talked about indie musicians and rock acts, who made most of their money off the merch they produced and sold by themselves. Labels would find any way to stay profitable and there was a reason why an artist could be a multi-platinum seller and still bankrupt. The 360 deal could look good on paper, but it always had a fuckton of loopholes that could stifle creativity and production. Much like how the Nashville music machine worked, 360 deals led themselves to sticking to what brought in the most money as opposed to anything with innovation.
Gibson was barely breaking even with Coconut & Rhyme, but that’s more than a lot of people could say.
Hoosier gestured to the stage where Eddie was tuning his banjo for the afternoon set.
“I guess if a quiet musician’s life is good enough for Eddie Jones, it’ll be good enough for Lew Juergens,” he said.
“I wouldn’t exactly call Eddie’s life quiet,” Runner said. “A visit to him is turning into some sort of new musician’s pilgrimage or some shit.”
Hoosier smirked. “The guru on the stage, huh? We should market that.”
“Andy would kill you. Slowly,” Runner said.
“I’d probably still make a killing before I died,” Hoosier snarked. He pushed back from the bar. “As much as I enjoy staring at your ugly mug, got to get ready for the after-work rush.”
Runner laughed and flicked a pistachio shell at his back.
He turned around on his barstool to watch the stage. Runner’s job involved nights spent in hole-in-the-wall clubs and music spots, days at muddy state fairs and music festivals, and more than a few hours spent scouring up-and-coming acts' YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter pages trying to find their next artist. He’d seen every type of musician come from every genre, even if Coconut & Rhyme was focused on Beach Country music, they had acts spanning all styles.
It was a rare treat to see a musician liked Eddie Jones. He didn’t have the best voice in the world, but he really wasn’t there to sing anyway. Eddie let his instruments sing for him, and putting anything with strings on it into his hands turned out amazing. He’d even seen the guy rock a mandolin more than once. Andy loved the Spanish Guitar so Eddie played that a lot, breaking out the lap harp for Hoosier and the cello for Gibson.
Eddie was one of those performers you couldn’t help but watch. He drew people to him, when he got on that stage and under those lights. Off the stage, in his beat up jeans and raggedy white t-shirts, you wouldn’t spare him a second glance. Put him under a spotlight with a guitar in his hand and no one ever turned away. It was rare to find that in a musician, true, honest-to-god, stage presence. It was the thing that kept people flocking to see Eddie at Allison’s over the years. It was the same quality that Runner saw in Chuckler the first time he performed on some country fair stage in the middle of Nebraska.
The afternoon show wouldn’t start for another half hour, so the only thing to see was the sound check. Ray Person, some kid out of Missouri, ran the soundboard and all the technical crap. The kid had a mouth on him but was a genius with machines. He always ran his mouth while Eddie went through his sound check, smiling at Ray’s rants while absently plucking out a tune. The house lights were up, so you could see everyone wandering off and on the stage, securing cords, checking speakers, mics, and amps, doing all the set-up work people rarely realized went into a show.
“I don’t know what it is, but I’ve always liked the sound check best,” Andy Haldane said as he sat down next to Runner.
Haldane, like so many of them, came from elsewhere. He went to the University of Tennessee for his Master’s and met Eddie in Knoxville, before following him to Memphis and finally settling in Nashville. Runner always felt the both of them were made for Memphis but Eddie claimed they just liked being contrary.
Runner always liked Andy, happy to meet someone else from the Northeast who shared his love for Drake’s Devil Dogs and Utz Crab Chips. Andy was full of quiet and calm confidence. He could do frat boy bravado one minute and the next be full of shy smiles and back home stories. He knew nothing about music really, just knew what he liked. He couldn’t play worth a damn, even though Eddie’d been trying for at least five years to teach him the main chords used in Cross Road Blues. Andy still sucked at it, but at least he stopped breaking the guitar strings.
“I think it’s because Eddie usually lets you live out your rock star dreams during sound check,” Runner said.
“Not exactly,” Haldane said. “I think it’s more, seeing what’s behind the curtain and all? I was always that kid that wanted to know how the magic tricks worked, couldn’t just let the illusion stay. It drove my father insane, my need to know things, but my mother loved it. She could drop me off at the library and I’d have as much fun there as a toy store.”
“But you played football.”
“And I loved mapping the game plays.”
“Still you ended up here.”
“Whoever knew my minor in Business Management would get me so far,” Andy said. “Is Lew going to play?” he asked, gesturing to the stage.
“He’s already in the stock room testing out fiddles. When did you decide to make the afternoon shows a Bluegrass special?”
“Last week when Eddie said that if he played one more honkytonk afternoon set he was leaving for good.”
Runner smirked and raised his glass. “Bluegrass it is.”
********
A storm was rolling through the area that night, and while Runner probably should’ve been worrying about flooding, or the roof being torn off his home, or something else house insurance related, all he could worry about was the man sleeping next to him.
“Christ, Will, you think any louder you’ll wake the neighbors up,” Lew muttered into his pillow. He only used Runner’s real name when he was pissed off or being cautious.
“Their dog keeps them up half the night anyway,” Runner said.
“Not the point,” Lew said. He rolled over and looked up at Runner. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you staying with the label because of me?” he asked.
“You always excel at the pillow talk,” Lew said. He stretched his arms out, long limbs reaching just past the edges of the bed. “Is that what’s kept you up all night?”
“It was something Hoosier said.”
“Oh, here we go,” Lew muttered. “Look, did it ever occur to you, Gibson, Lena, and Hoosier that I like where I am. Why is it that no one pushes Eddie into signing a major deal, even though he gets an offer every other night.”
“Because everyone knows Eddie just wants to play for a living, he doesn’t want to be a star.”
“And I can’t have that same wish?” Lew asked.
Runner tangled his fingers in Lew’s curly hair. “Not when we all think you’re compromising yourself.”
“Will, country music barely excepts open liberals among its talent, do you really think they’re going to take an openly gay one?”
“Chely Wright, she’s out,” Runner said.
“And?” Lew asked. “Do we really need to have the Country Music Privilege Lessons 101 again?”
“No,” Runner said. “You just hope things change over time.”
“The fact that Darius Rucker is in the Top Ten is already a major advancement.”
“And he’s got the power of previous success behind him, I know,” Runner said.
“I like being able to just play, where no one bothers me about my personal life or asks me what I’m wearing. Where I can still get into a fight and my label boss won’t reprimand me.”
“Since you usually get into bar fights by getting Gibson out of them.”
“Alternative and Indie Country is on the brink but it’s going to have to come out of the musicians themselves, because we are going against the tried and true machine. I don’t want to write and sings songs about losing my dog, my wife leaving me and my pick-up getting crushed under a tree. I don’t want to perform bubble gum country. There’s a time and a place for it, but I’d rather write songs about getting away, discovering who I am, and stumbling across the love of my life at a tractor pull in Nebraska.”
“You didn’t have to actually stumble over me.”
“You’re short and I love it. Lena calls you pocket-sized.”
“Lena’s the only one allowed to do that.”
“Come here,” Lew said, pulling him down.
Runner may have squawked but he’d never admit it.
“I stay with your label because Gibson’s a decent person who pours his blood and soul into his work, because as a side business, we have an all-access pass to anything coming out of Screaming Eagle Publishing and Currahee Studios, and because as long as I stay, you’ll stay.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Runner asked.
“You have to know Curb and Mercury both have headhunters out for you,” Lew said.
“Did you drink Old Elmo’s Gin again? I told you that shit is moonshine.”
Lew propped himself up on his elbow. “You really don’t know that half the labels in this town are gunning after you for their next A&R man?”
“Uh, no, nobody’s said anything to me.”
“You discovered Merriell Shelton, right now all the music executives think you’re a god. They’re just waiting to see who you find next.”
“You sound bitter,” Runner said. “Are you bitter that I’ve been spending most of my time pre-move working with Renée? Lew, she’s here on a work visa, we need results fast.”
“She’s very pretty.”
“And so is Vera but you’ve never been bothered by her.”
“She’s a college professor and married. Neither one of those things is a turn-on for you,” Lew scoffed.
“They could be.”
“Old books cause your asthma to act up.”
“Oh, who’s good at the pillow talk again?”
Lew dropped his head down onto Runner’s shoulder. “I’m happy where I am. Aren’t you?”
“I still think the world should hear your music.”
“There’s this magical thing called the internet. You might’ve heard of it. Al Gore invented it or something.”
“I vaguely recall seeing something about that five years ago. Still around, huh?”
“Somehow managed to survive. It connects things. Globally.”
“Wow,” Runner intoned. He pressed a kiss into Lew’s hair. “So neither one of us is going anywhere.”
“Well, me might get flooded out of the house again and sent down the Mississippi, but for right now I’m good.”
“I’ll call off Gibson and Lena,” Runner said.
“And Papa Olaf?” Lew asked.
Runner flinched. He honestly thought he’d got away with that one. “And Papa Olaf,” he agreed, “though he’s still hoping you’ll reconsider hockey as a career change.”
Lew laughed quietly for a moment but it faded off into a light snore. It was one of the first things Runner found charming about him, the ability for Lew Juergens to fall asleep anywhere once he decided all was right with his world. Quite an advantage for a traveling musician that everyone envied.
Runner stared at the ceiling, continuing to twirl his fingers through Lew’s hair. He had to sort his next day, find a new tour manage for Merriell, and get Renée in the recording studio all before night’s end.
Just another day for the workers of Coconut & Rhyme.