Fic: Not Everyone Can Be Freddie Mercury; Nashville 'Verse
Author: rivlee
Title: Not Everyone Can Be Freddie Mercury
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Gibson, Runner, Q-Tip, Ensemble. Mentions of Gibson/Runner, Gibson/Q-Tip preslash.
Summary: Ronnie Gibson’s life undergoes some massive change over a half-year. Part of Nashville ‘verse.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title and cut-text from Frank Turner’s Eulogy.
A/N: Unbeated. Mostly character background and dialogue as per usual. Meme request ficlet for uniformly who wanted some of Gibson/Runner Friends with Benefits mentioned in an earlier ficlet. This, is, um, not quite that. It’s sort of that, but more Gibson background instead.
Ronnie Gibson had a love-hate relationship with his work place. He loved working in the music business, writing songs and going through demos of new talent. There was nothing like turning on the radio and hearing a song you spent hours creating, engineering, and perfecting. He just hated not having total control of the product. Lip was great as a boss, had more real business experience as a performer than any of them, but sometimes he didn’t make the best decisions to grow an artist. He almost refused to sign anyone from the Alternative Country scene, preferring to go toward folk artists instead. It was the one concession he made to their location, since most of the label was full of rap, hip hop, and pop acts. It just felt a little pointless, to work in Nashville and not, at the very least, work with bluegrass artists.
“You should just start your own label,” Runner told him, each day, over lunch.
Runner Conley was one of the first people Gibson met when he came back to Nashville. They both started out as new interns for Screaming Eagle Publishing. They’d been stuck with each other ever since, not that it was a hardship to hang out with Runner, even after their short foray into friend-with-benefits territory. Runner was still one of the only people he really connected with at the company. Ronnie worked with discovering talent, while Runner was more focused on development, but they both made time out for lunch and nights at Allison’s.
“If I had the start-up capital, I would,” he admitted. “Unless I get bumped up to something like album producer that’s not going to happen.”
“It might,” Runner said. “Shifty’s been talking about re-structuring and some shit about business models.”
“I thought he meant just hiring security personnel to run the front desk to keep the stalkers out.”
“That’s not what Burgie said.”
“Burgie’s only a songwriter.”
“Who spends a good portion of his time writing in the hallway outside Shifty’s office.” Runner speared one of the peaches on his plate. “I’m just saying, it’s possible that an opportunity will open up and it’s not going to be for me.”
“It might,” he said.
“Ronnie, I worked in a diner before coming here. You went to Berklee and organized music festivals in Cambridge, not even the same level.”
“You do the psychologist work so well.”
“Fuck you,” Runner said.
“Already did,” Ronnie replied. He tried not to laugh at Runner’s blush. Boston had definitely taught him more than just how to write a symphony and produce a pop song.
“It’s always the quiet ones who prey on the innocent and vulnerable.”
“You mean the drunk and horny?”
Runner snorted. “I was trying to be classy.”
“Keep trying.”
Runner threw a balled-up napkin at his head.
“Boys, please don’t burden the cleaning staff with a food fight again,” Lip said as he made a beeline for the coffee pot.
“Yes, Mr. Winters,” they replied in unison.
Lip shook his head with an amused smile. It had to pretty damn confusing, using two names professionally but only one personally. Technically speaking they were paid by C.C. Winters/Screaming Eagle Publishing/Currahee Studios, depending on the project, but Carwood Lipton was the man behind all those personas.
He just never reminded Ronnie of a pop star. He was like a school teacher, not a guy who once rubbed elbows with Axl and Slash.
“Word around the building is that we’re getting some new people,” Runner said.
Lip nodded. “We need a strong staff at the front desk, who can handle people without automatically getting violent. It’s never been my policy to have obvious security forces and I don’t intend to start now.”
“Do they have placement agencies for that kind of work?” Runner asked.
Lip smiled. “You’d be surprised, Conley. You boys don’t stay down here too long; Skinny’s coming back today with a case full of demos.”
“We’ll be back to work soon, Lip,” Runner said.
“Can’t keep the talent waiting,” he agreed.
Runner waited until Lip left before going back to his new favorite topic.
“I’m serious about the label thing. This label is missing out on a huge chunk of the market. Besides, you’re damn good at sensing talent.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” Ronnie said.
It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Runner got promoted to a major A&R position soon. Ron could usually feel out an act through their demos and performances but Runner, he knew how to develop them. He also didn’t have the kind of hang-ups Ronnie did. Runner didn’t go to college with a bunch of kids struggling to make it in the music business; he didn’t feel the need to waste time on an act that would never transition well to a life of touring and the stage. Runner could, and was, ruthless in a way Ronnie admired.
“I just don’t want you wasting away in your cubicle here,” Runner said. “Promise me you’ll actually think about it and not just do that bullshit placating thing your mother taught you.”
“I’ll think about it,” he dutifully answered.
It was a fool’s dream, but hell, maybe one day when he was old and grey he’d at the very least have his own song publishing group.
***************
Skinny Sisk was tasked with traveling around the country in order to find new songwriters and studio musicians. Occasionally he’d stumble across a new act that needed label support and he’d ask Lip to make the connection.
That was his official job, anyway. Unofficially he apparently kept Hoosier Smith, former band mate of Lip and current bartender, from killing himself with a fork. It had to be true love because Ronnie honestly didn’t know how anyone could put up with Hoosier on a regular basis and not try to kill him.
“I brought you a gift,” Skinny said, dropping a box on his desk. He smelled like cinnamon.
“Trying to quit again?” he asked.
Skinny nodded with a self-deprecating smile. His attempts to quit smoking were turning into office legend. Just when he seemed to finally ease off the addiction, Hoosier always did something monumentally stupid and Skinny was right back to a pack-a-day habit.
“I brought you some Americana and Bluegrass acts this time.”
Ron sighed. “Lip won’t like that.”
“Talk to him about it, convince him.”
“You talked to Runner, didn’t you? Stopped and saw him first. I’m insulted.”
Skinny shrugged. “He has the expensive mints and I had garlic for lunch. Either way, it doesn’t change my argument.”
He fiddled with one of the paperclips on his desk. It was something he desperately wanted but he refused to bother Lip.
“I’m not exactly the persuasive type.”
“Not according to Runner,” Skinny said. He wriggled his eyebrows and obnoxiously popped his gum. “Always the quiet ones.”
Ron glared up at him. “You’re not funny.”
“I am comedic gold. I also have faith in you.”
“It’s nice to know someone does.”
“We all do, Shifty certainly does or I wouldn’t be here. Just, talk to Lip. He doesn’t get it all the time, Mr. Rock Star, and that just because it’s Nashville doesn’t mean he can’t help Country and Bluegrass acts. Besides Sugar Hill and a handful of others, no company is going up to bat for these guys. They can’t all be Chris Thile, stupidly talented and doing Hollywood’s musical scores for the hell of it.”
Ron nodded in agreement. A lot of assumptions were made about Nashville. There was a system here, the machine, that had a way of producing songs and artists to make money. They’d found a way to make multiple acts crossover successes. The machine, however, didn’t always lend itself to an artist’s individual creative abilities. Trusted song writers and producers were used for a guaranteed money return. The way the business was going, major companies weren’t exactly clamoring for the next new thing; they weren’t looking for risks.
It was just hard to remember that a few years ago, signing a young girl like Taylor Swift and letting her write her songs was a major risk. That turned out ridiculously well for her company, but it wasn’t a guarantee. It was about timing and image as much as talent.
Right now at least the critics were on their side. Many reviewers were looking at Alt Country and seeing what they liked. The acts were becoming darlings, an almost new Southern Rock invasion on the airwaves. Bluegrass though, it was always more of a risk. Outside of themed music soundtracks and albums, it didn’t get much crossover or mainstream attention.
“Gibson, come back to the planet,” Skinny said.
He shook his head. “You honestly think Lip would listen?”
Skinny shrugged. He leaned over him and grabbed one of the lollipops out of the jar. “I say it wouldn’t hurt to gather your buddies in the war room and come up with a presentation.”
“Won’t that piss off the marketing crew?”
Skinny laughed. “Dirty Earl and Stella? Please. Those two have to be forced into the conference room at gunpoint.”
Skinny flicked his ear. “Just think about it, Gibson. All Lipton can do is say no. He’ll think about, he always does, but you make a good argument, support it with evidence, you’ll be golden. I just suggest you make friends with O’Keefe and Hamm in financials. You need to prove that your suggestion won’t bankrupt the business.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Skinny.”
Skinny gave him a thumbs-up as he walked towards the elevator.
Ron laughed at the very idea of it all. It would be his dream to head a division of his favorite genres, but it was a dream. He fished into the box Skinny dropped off and started to sort through the demos.
***************
Ronnie was browsing online blogs and MySpace for any potential new artists when Runner rolled over to his desk.
“Didn’t Shifty warn you that he wouldn’t replace the next chair you broke?”
Runner shrugged. “Popeye and I aren’t racing them down the halls anymore. At least not when the building’s full. Come on, surprise meeting.”
“What?” he said while clicking to his e-mail. There was nothing there or on the company wide internet chat service.
“Shifty figured I could collect you, he called down.”
Ronnie studied Runner, trying to figure if he was upfront or bullshitting. He’d been randomly kidnapped by him on more than one occasion.
Runner put a hand over his heart. “Telling the truth, Scout’s Honor.”
“You were never a Boy Scout.”
“Only because I didn’t want to sell popcorn that tastes like wallpaper paste. Come on, can’t you see everyone else wandering out of their offices. You don’t want us to be late. Lip will get that disappointed look.”
“Fine,” he said as he pushed himself up. “If you lied, I will shave your head this time.”
“You’d have to reach it first.”
“If I recall it correctly, you were the one who feel down on his knees first.”
Runner’s face turned bright red. Ronnie didn’t even bother to stop the grin from overtaking his face.
“Come on, boys,” Popeye said. “Meeting time.”
The conference room was crowded, every available seat, including the window sills and edges of tables were occupied. Screaming Eagle Publishing and Currahee Studios wasn’t a large staff, but it was still a claustrophobic nightmare fitting them all in the room. Every last employee on the day shift, cleaning staff and receptionists included.
“What the hell?” Runner asked.
Ronnie shrugged and craned his neck to see the front of the room. Smokey Gordon was there, holding court with Shifty and Stone, from Legal.
“Mr. Winters needs to speak, everyone shut the hell up,” Smokey said.
“Language, Smokey,” Lip said. He walked into the conference room with a lanky young man trailing behind him. He held himself like Shifty, never a moment away from a quick reaction.
“I hope everyone’s enjoying their day so far,” he said, smiling. He made sure to make eye contact in each direction of the room. Lip was good at that, ordering them all to attention without being a jackass about it.
“It’d be better if the coffee machine on the studio level worked,” Joe Liebgott, one of the sound engineers said.
“We’ve already order a new machine,” Shifty said. “I suggest you boys stop trying to slap it into submission. This is the fifth replacement in three months.”
“Make one that keeps up with demand,” Lieb said.
“Either deal with it or learn to love water,” Stone said.
Lip held up his hands before the conference room saw Stone vs. Liebgott, Round 75.
“Relax, boys. Shifty will get it all sorted.”
Shifty quietly nodded in agreement.
Lip beckoned the new guy forward. “Now that we’ve got the daily complaint out of the way. Staff, I’d like you to meet our newest member of security, Evan Stafford.”
Stafford waved his hand. His smile was welcoming, even if his clothes looked more like a street punk kid. Or your typical suburban boy trying to act like he came from the inner-city.
“We be pimpin',” Runner muttered under his breath.
Ronnie poked him in the side. “Didn’t you used to wear a Day-Glo jacket and hammer-pants? Was that before or after your Hawaiian shirt phase?”
“Didn’t you wear overalls at least once a week until college?”
“They’re comfortable.”
“Okay, Opie.”
“Something to share, boys?” Lip asked.
“Only reminiscing about past fashion tragedies, Sir,” Runner said.
Lip smirked. “At least yours don’t get a constant replay on VH1 Classic.” He gripped Evan’s shoulder. “Evan here is going to be at the receptionist desk on second shift. I know everyone with this company will help him settle in and show him the ropes.”
His words faded into the background as Ronnie closely studied the new employee. He seemed like a nice guy, all quirked lips and small smiles, head nodding humbly to the compliments Lip doled out. There was just a presence about him and Ronnie was definitely interested.
***************
Two weeks later Ron was trying to will his hangover away through the power of water and caffeine. He made the mistake of talking numbers with the Accounting guys over beers at Allison’s. He’d woken up on Andy Haldane’s couch with Eddie Jones hovering over him, aspirin bottle in hand and a sympathetic look on his face.
“Hoosier said you and Hamm started doing the can-can at one point,” Runner said in between monstrously loud bites of his apple. “Don’t break little Hamm’s heart, Gibson, he’s such a sweet boy.”
“Who can throw down shots like they’re water.”
Runner patted his shoulder. “You’re not that young anymore, you shouldn’t try to keep up with the kiddies.”
“Yeah, well, the kiddies are the ones I need to do off-the-books number wizardry.”
“You’re going to approach Lip?”
Ronnie nodded and then groaned as his head throbbed. “At the very least I plan to appeal to his need to mother everyone. All the young kids just arriving in town, ready to sign deals with the devil just for a piece of musical immortality, doesn’t Lip want to help save them?”
Runner snorted. “Good luck with that, Gibson.”
“I expect you to help write the proposal and the presentation.”
“Stupid people say what?”
Ronnie glared at him. “You’re the one who keeps pushing me to do this. You’re the one who talked to Skinny about it, and you know he never lets shit go. You are helping me.”
“Didn’t your fancy college teach you how to bribe music executives?”
“Wilbur,” he said.
Runner cringed at the sound of his real name. “Does your mother know how truly evil you are? Fucking fine. I’ll do it.”
**************
Evan drove a red pick-up, always with the windows down and music blaring from the speakers. You could both see and hear him coming from a mile away. His shift started at 2:00pm and without fail, come 1:55pm, Ronnie could see him pulling into the parking lot.
He wasn’t obsessed or anything, it was just one of the highlights of his day to see Evan. They were almost starting to become friends, sharing a similar taste in movies and making tentative plans to drive to Memphis for the barbeque.
It was difficult starting out at Currahee Studios and Screaming Eagle Publishing as a new kid. Everyone was so close knit, it truly was a family, and when you came in alone, it was hard not to feel like an outsider. Ronnie still thanked god every day that he and Runner started in the same week. He didn’t know if he would’ve succeeded without having someone else there along the way. Evan seemed to be handling it well so far, he was just an easy person to like.
Ronnie wanted more than just friendship with Evan. He could feel the start of something there, a deeper connection, he just didn’t know what the hell to about it. With Runner it had been easy. From their first meeting there was a connection and even though it never went beyond friends with benefits, Ron was just glad to have him in his life. Runner had a way with people, he always put them at ease. As nice as Evan was, there was still something dark lurking there, behind the smiles and quips.
It made a lot of sense, really, that of the people Evan talked to, Shifty was at the top of that list. Everyone knew Shifty’s past as an Army Ranger, it came up at least once a day in the lunch room. It was difficult for the new hires to fathom how someone as quiet as Shifty spent six years as a sniper, but they soon learned the difference. Shifty was quiet, humble, and ruthless when the situation called for it. Evan must’ve known a thing or two about that, having served with the Marines.
“Do you have that demo Skinny brought up from Baton Rouge?”
“What?” Ronnie asked, shaking his head and turning to Runner.
Runner stood up on his tip toes and looked out the window.
“Ahh, Q-Tip’s arrived. No wonder you’ve been over here breathing all heavy.”
Ronnie threw his stress ball at Runner’s head.
Runner laughed and held up his hands in surrender.
“God, will you just ask the guy out for a cup of coffee,” he said.
“I don’t think he drinks coffee.”
“He’s a marine; he has more coffee than oxygen in his blood.”
“Non-active,” Gibson corrected, “and god, Runner, I’m not that guy.”
“What, you only make a move when you’re drunk?”
“Or really, really sure.”
A soft look came over Runner’s face. His eyes were kind and understanding. Those eyes, they were the first things that drew Ron in, followed by the wide smile and wry humor. Runner would always be special to him, but they both deserved something more.
“Ronnie, he’s not going to say no,” Runner said. “Once anyone gets to know you, it’s pretty damn hard to say no.”
“Yeah?”
Runner nodded. “Trust me. I don’t just stick around for your momma’s casseroles.”
Ronnie shook his head and laughed. “You always know what to say.”
“It’s a gift. Now, that demo?”
“Right.” He dug it out of his desk, handing it over with caution. “I really like this guy, Runner. Do not lose that demo. A friend made it for him and rumor has it he sends most A&R guys running away screaming. He’s going to be a hard sell to Lip, but there is some raw talent there.”
“Country?” Runner asked.
“Zydeco folk. If there is such a thing.”
“A genre-bender, always interesting.”
It wasn’t often that labels went outside their local pool of musicians to offer deals, but Skinny was used to traveling. He’d follow up with his contacts garnered years ago from his 3B days to find anyone around the South who’d fit in with Screaming Eagle. Skinny collected names and demos, handing them off to Ronnie and Runner to sort through and make the tough decisions. It was hard as hell sometimes to make a decision when there was a damn talented musician they’d have to pass on because they wouldn’t fit with the label. It meant that occasionally they’d supply names to their competing A&R reps, but always with the understanding that it went both ways.
It just took part of Ronnie’s soul each time he had to pass on an artist or band he knew in his gut would be a star, but were too country for Lip.
“We really need to work on that presentation,” Ronnie said.
Runner nodded. “Swing by my place tonight. I have to go see the afternoon open mic set at Allison’s, but after that I’m free.” He gave a small wave before wandering back over to his side of the office.
Ronnie turned back to his computer and started editing his speech for Lip once again. They needed to do this, the label had to diversify to stay relevant. All the genres were blending together these days and it made no sense for them to be where they were and stick so close to a single vision. Lip was old school in that way, but his label was basically as large as indie got. If he didn’t want to branch out under the main name, maybe, just maybe, he’d agree with a smaller imprint label.
***************
Runner lived in a small house just outside of Nashville. His yard was easily twice the size of his home, and he was the only person Ronnie knew who liked mowing his lawn. Apparently a childhood spent in center city Buffalo and teen years in NYC meant an unhealthy obsession with a yard and various horticulture projects. It was dangerous to let Runner go into the gardening section at The Home Depot unsupervised.
“Anyone interesting at Allison’s?” he asked, gladly taking the beer Runner offered.
“Some new kid named John Julian. Not one for star quality but a hell of a guitar player. He’d be a great studio musician but his stage presence is lacking.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Alabama. Came up here to study at Belmont.”
“Good Christian boy then.”
“Behave,” Runner chided.
He settled down besides Ronnie on the couch. “I’m going to talk to Poke and his boys in the studio. They’ve been bitching about needing a couple of interns. At the very least I can give the kid an in to the life. Let him see if he’s really made for it.”
Ronnie nodded and leaned back into the far too comfortable couch. It’d been a long day, a long couple of weeks with the stress of getting the proposal ready, and it felt great to be at Runner’s, where no artifice or expectations were needed.
He closed his eyes and relaxed. He could hear Runner flipping through the written proposal. There was a click of a pen and the sound of it scratching paper. Gibson’s nose wrinkled as the smell of the ink wafted over. He took another deep breath and tried not to think about how badly this could all go. Shifty promised him a meeting next Thursday. The internal-geek was trying not to think about the world ending on Thursdays. He didn’t think Lip would appreciate it if Ronnie spent all his time pre-meeting muttering don’t panic under his breath.
“You might just convince him. I mean, it’s Lip, he’ll stew about it for a day or two, but hell, this is good, Ronnie.”
“Thanks, Runner.” He opened his eyes and smiled. “C’mere.”
Runner smirked. “You sure about this?” he asked, palming the back of Ronnie’s neck.
“Once more for old time’s sake?”
Runner was a familiar weight over him, a remembered taste on his tongue. This was a distraction for the both of them, he knew, a safe person and a safe place. They couldn’t keep doing this; they didn’t and wouldn’t work as a couple, but right now was not the time to turn away.
He reached a hand up, giving Runner’s hair a slight tug, smiling at the soft groan.
This would very likely be the last time and Ronnie was going to savor it.
***************
“I’m going to puke,” Ronnie said.
“Try not to do it all over the reception desk,” Evan said. He handed over a paper cup of water. “Drink that.”
Ronnie did as ordered.
“What kind of special evil does it take to make someone wait until the afternoon for a major meeting?”
“Don’t hyperventilate,” Evan said. He stood up, towering over Ronnie and patted him on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”
“Right, of course,” Ronnie said.
The ding of the elevator made him look across the lobby. Runner and Popeye came barreling out the door, presentation boards in their hands.
“Oh, thank you Jesus,” Ronnie said.
“Rumor had it you were down here having a breakdown,” Popeye said.
“I told you we’d get it done in time,” Runner said.
“The meeting is in fifteen minutes,” Ronnie said.
“You boys better get your asses upstairs then and set up,” Evan said. He pulled out a shopping bag from the desk. “Penk and I got you a veggie tray.”
“Oh, thanks guys,” Ronnie said.
Evan smiled while Penk just nodded his head.
“Upstairs, Gibson,” Popeye ordered.
Ronnie paced back and forth going over his speech while Runner, Popeye, and half their floor helped organize things. Rumor had spread fast over his proposal and it felt kind of silly having the meeting now when Lip, Stone, Smokey, and Shifty had to know everything.
Secrets didn’t last long in this company.
“You’ll be fine,” Lieb said, slapping him on the back so hard he actually stumbled forward.
“Thank you,” he gritted out between his clenched jaw.
“Just remember to lead with the cost-effective analysis,” O’Keefe said, leaning over to adjust Ronnie’s tie. “And remember to appeal to Lip’s sense of competition and fairness.”
“And for Christ’s sake, don’t puke on anyone,” Popeye said.
“Aim for the fern, at least,” Hamm said.
“Thank you, guys, really, for everything.”
“Couldn’t leave you to do this on your own,” Gwen said. She brushed off any lint from his suit and adjusted his collar. “Don’t you look professional.”
“Thanks for taking me shopping, Gwen.”
“It’s what us image consultants do.”
“Okay, everyone out,” Runner said. “I don’t think the meeting will start off well if Lip’s left wondering why no one is at their desk.”
“Oh, but you’re staying here?” Lieb asked.
“I’m moral support and a contributor to the project. Go back to your studio, Lieb, and leave the upper levels for those of us who bask in daylight.”
Popeye forcibly shoved everyone out of the room who wouldn’t leave. The only ones left were Hamm, to back up the financials; Burgie, to show that they already had people with country experience on staff; and Popeye and Runner for support.
He tried to remember to breathe as Lip, Shifty, Smokey, and Stone came inside and took their seats. Greetings were passed around and Ronnie waited until everyone had poured themselves a drink and enjoyed some of the veggie tray before he started.
He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the ringing in his ears. He knew his face had to be beet red, but as long as he kept his voice steady he could get through this. He believed in this project and most importantly, he believed in Lip.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “as you know at Screaming Eagle Publishing we specialize in promoting the work of talent in rap, hip hop, pop, and alternative rock. We’ve begun the expansion of our brand by signing some folk musicians in the past year and so far we’ve already seen returns on this new investment. I am proposing another movement for our brand and label. I think that, considering our city and geographical location, it would only be logical to tap the wealth of musicians in the bluegrass, country, alternative country, and other Americana genres. I believe our people here and our label’s goals in general could greatly benefit from this whole new pool of talent. If you would open your files, the first page contains a projection of profit if we decided to follow through with this idea.”
Ronnie continued on, glad that so far everyone was still smiling.
***************
It had been one hell of a nerve-wracking week for Ronnie as he waited Lip’s reply. The meeting had gone well; full of discussion, and no out right signs of an obvious refusal. Things had been quiet and even Popeye, with all his connections, didn’t know jack about the decision. Evan and Penk both admitted that some of the big-wig lawyers had been by, Buck Compton even flying in from L.A., but that could mean anything. They could be hiring a major act or trying to build a studio out in California.
“Hey, Gibson,” Skinny said, dropping a stack of demos on his desk, “Lip wants to see you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I just dropped Hoosier off at his office. He asked me to come get you.”
“Hoosier is awake before noon?”
Skinny laughed. “He promised to work with Poke’s newest protégé. So, let’s go.”
“This will probably end badly,” Ronnie admitted.
Skinny threw an arm around his shoulder. “Have faith in yourself, Gibson.”
The ride up to Lip’s office was terrifying it a way it never had been before. He couldn’t help but crack his knuckles, nervous habits and all.
Hoosier met them in the doorway. He was dressed in his typical black shirt and jeans, looking like such a stereotypical former rock star it was laughable. Especially since he spent his formative years dancing to pop tracks in neon orange. It was hard to believe Hoosier had ever been a in a boy band. He was too damn cynical for it.
“Good luck, Gibson,” he said.
Ronnie didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing for someone like Hoosier to be wishing him luck.
Lip was on the phone but gestured for him to sit down. He was in a good mood, at least. Lip got all serious and stone faced when he had to deliver bad news. He was probably just softening the blow though.
He hung up the phone and slid an envelope across the desk.
“I’ve got a proposal for you,” Lip said.
“Okay.”
“You’re right, we do need to dedicate ourselves more to artist development and we shouldn’t ignore large parts of the local talent pool because I want to give other genres a chance to flourish here. I’ve helped start up more than a few indie labels in the area, and now I want to start up one more.
I consider your years of employment here and your success as proof enough that you won’t squander my money. Still, it takes a lot of work, money, and time to start a label up. You’ll still need a day-job; I’m not quite ready to let you go yet.”
Ronnie took the envelope and opened it up to see a draft of a contract for an imprint label.
“Lip, I don’t even know what to say.”
“The business lawyers will look over the contracts, but Gibson, you’re right. That Louisiana kid you mentioned, Shelton? He’s got some talent and we can’t just let him slip through because it’s a genre I’ve never pursued.”
“I, this, is this real?”
Lip burst out laughing.
“Ronnie, you have a good gut instinct for this business and you’re willing to take calculated risks. We need that, with the way it’s going now. The old model doesn’t work. Labels aren’t guaranteed money makers anymore and we’re all lucky to be staying in the black. We stick with the business because we love it, and you know that. You’re well aware that nothing about this, starting up an imprint label, finding and discovering talent on your own, working towards artist development, it’s hard work that will take up all your time.”
“Lip, Jesus, just thank you.”
“You won’t be thanking me when you’ve just worked the better half of seventy-two straight hours trying to prepare your talent for an album drop.”
Lip held his hand out. “Glad to do business with you Mr. Gibson.”
He took his hand, trying to stop his own from shaking. “Always a pleasure.”
***************
Two months later Runner joined him for lunch at The Acropolis to discuss work both for Screaming Eagle and their own as-yet-unnamed label. They both stopped in the middle of their meal when Evan walked through the door.
“When will you just ask him out for a real date?” Runner asked, leaning his weight on Ronnie’s shoulder.
“I don’t want him to punch my face in.”
“He does not seem like that kind of guy,” Runner said. He stood up.
“Don’t you dare,” Ronnie hissed.
“Evan, come join us,” Runner yelled across the room.
“Hey guys,” Evan said. He had a gyro in one hand in a drink in the other. “Didn’t know you two liked Greek food.”
“We try to limit ourselves to one very large monthly indulgence,” Runner said.
Evan laughed. “I feel that.” He took the seat next to Ronnie. “Rumor has it you’re the head of Screaming Eagles newest imprint label. Got a name yet?"
“Thinking about it,” Ronnie said. “I want to work with some beach country acts so I might play on that theme.”
“You’re joining the label, too?” Evan asked Runner.
Runner nodded. “I’m on board as A&R. Other than that, we’ve got one act in Snafu Shelton.”
“Got to start somewhere,” Evan said.
“Truer words never spoken,” Runner said. He pulled out his cell phone. “Well, would you like at that, Lieb needs me in the studio.”
Ronnie glared daggers at him but Runner only smiled peacefully in response. The little shit knew they’d taken Runner’s car here, so Ronnie would have no choice but to ask Evan for a ride back to work.
“You okay?” Evan asked.
Ronnie nodded. “Just wondering why all my friends are devious little bastards.”
“You’re just lucky I guess.”
Ronnie laughed. “You know what, Evan? I really, truly am.”
Evan gave him a blinding smile in response before turning back to his lunch.
When Ronnie Gibson came back to Nashville from Berklee he wasn’t expecting any of this but hell, he had no reason to complain. Not anymore. New things were beginning and they all felt right and good. Perfect, just like it should be.
Title: Not Everyone Can Be Freddie Mercury
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Gibson, Runner, Q-Tip, Ensemble. Mentions of Gibson/Runner, Gibson/Q-Tip preslash.
Summary: Ronnie Gibson’s life undergoes some massive change over a half-year. Part of Nashville ‘verse.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title and cut-text from Frank Turner’s Eulogy.
A/N: Unbeated. Mostly character background and dialogue as per usual. Meme request ficlet for uniformly who wanted some of Gibson/Runner Friends with Benefits mentioned in an earlier ficlet. This, is, um, not quite that. It’s sort of that, but more Gibson background instead.
Ronnie Gibson had a love-hate relationship with his work place. He loved working in the music business, writing songs and going through demos of new talent. There was nothing like turning on the radio and hearing a song you spent hours creating, engineering, and perfecting. He just hated not having total control of the product. Lip was great as a boss, had more real business experience as a performer than any of them, but sometimes he didn’t make the best decisions to grow an artist. He almost refused to sign anyone from the Alternative Country scene, preferring to go toward folk artists instead. It was the one concession he made to their location, since most of the label was full of rap, hip hop, and pop acts. It just felt a little pointless, to work in Nashville and not, at the very least, work with bluegrass artists.
“You should just start your own label,” Runner told him, each day, over lunch.
Runner Conley was one of the first people Gibson met when he came back to Nashville. They both started out as new interns for Screaming Eagle Publishing. They’d been stuck with each other ever since, not that it was a hardship to hang out with Runner, even after their short foray into friend-with-benefits territory. Runner was still one of the only people he really connected with at the company. Ronnie worked with discovering talent, while Runner was more focused on development, but they both made time out for lunch and nights at Allison’s.
“If I had the start-up capital, I would,” he admitted. “Unless I get bumped up to something like album producer that’s not going to happen.”
“It might,” Runner said. “Shifty’s been talking about re-structuring and some shit about business models.”
“I thought he meant just hiring security personnel to run the front desk to keep the stalkers out.”
“That’s not what Burgie said.”
“Burgie’s only a songwriter.”
“Who spends a good portion of his time writing in the hallway outside Shifty’s office.” Runner speared one of the peaches on his plate. “I’m just saying, it’s possible that an opportunity will open up and it’s not going to be for me.”
“It might,” he said.
“Ronnie, I worked in a diner before coming here. You went to Berklee and organized music festivals in Cambridge, not even the same level.”
“You do the psychologist work so well.”
“Fuck you,” Runner said.
“Already did,” Ronnie replied. He tried not to laugh at Runner’s blush. Boston had definitely taught him more than just how to write a symphony and produce a pop song.
“It’s always the quiet ones who prey on the innocent and vulnerable.”
“You mean the drunk and horny?”
Runner snorted. “I was trying to be classy.”
“Keep trying.”
Runner threw a balled-up napkin at his head.
“Boys, please don’t burden the cleaning staff with a food fight again,” Lip said as he made a beeline for the coffee pot.
“Yes, Mr. Winters,” they replied in unison.
Lip shook his head with an amused smile. It had to pretty damn confusing, using two names professionally but only one personally. Technically speaking they were paid by C.C. Winters/Screaming Eagle Publishing/Currahee Studios, depending on the project, but Carwood Lipton was the man behind all those personas.
He just never reminded Ronnie of a pop star. He was like a school teacher, not a guy who once rubbed elbows with Axl and Slash.
“Word around the building is that we’re getting some new people,” Runner said.
Lip nodded. “We need a strong staff at the front desk, who can handle people without automatically getting violent. It’s never been my policy to have obvious security forces and I don’t intend to start now.”
“Do they have placement agencies for that kind of work?” Runner asked.
Lip smiled. “You’d be surprised, Conley. You boys don’t stay down here too long; Skinny’s coming back today with a case full of demos.”
“We’ll be back to work soon, Lip,” Runner said.
“Can’t keep the talent waiting,” he agreed.
Runner waited until Lip left before going back to his new favorite topic.
“I’m serious about the label thing. This label is missing out on a huge chunk of the market. Besides, you’re damn good at sensing talent.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” Ronnie said.
It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Runner got promoted to a major A&R position soon. Ron could usually feel out an act through their demos and performances but Runner, he knew how to develop them. He also didn’t have the kind of hang-ups Ronnie did. Runner didn’t go to college with a bunch of kids struggling to make it in the music business; he didn’t feel the need to waste time on an act that would never transition well to a life of touring and the stage. Runner could, and was, ruthless in a way Ronnie admired.
“I just don’t want you wasting away in your cubicle here,” Runner said. “Promise me you’ll actually think about it and not just do that bullshit placating thing your mother taught you.”
“I’ll think about it,” he dutifully answered.
It was a fool’s dream, but hell, maybe one day when he was old and grey he’d at the very least have his own song publishing group.
***************
Skinny Sisk was tasked with traveling around the country in order to find new songwriters and studio musicians. Occasionally he’d stumble across a new act that needed label support and he’d ask Lip to make the connection.
That was his official job, anyway. Unofficially he apparently kept Hoosier Smith, former band mate of Lip and current bartender, from killing himself with a fork. It had to be true love because Ronnie honestly didn’t know how anyone could put up with Hoosier on a regular basis and not try to kill him.
“I brought you a gift,” Skinny said, dropping a box on his desk. He smelled like cinnamon.
“Trying to quit again?” he asked.
Skinny nodded with a self-deprecating smile. His attempts to quit smoking were turning into office legend. Just when he seemed to finally ease off the addiction, Hoosier always did something monumentally stupid and Skinny was right back to a pack-a-day habit.
“I brought you some Americana and Bluegrass acts this time.”
Ron sighed. “Lip won’t like that.”
“Talk to him about it, convince him.”
“You talked to Runner, didn’t you? Stopped and saw him first. I’m insulted.”
Skinny shrugged. “He has the expensive mints and I had garlic for lunch. Either way, it doesn’t change my argument.”
He fiddled with one of the paperclips on his desk. It was something he desperately wanted but he refused to bother Lip.
“I’m not exactly the persuasive type.”
“Not according to Runner,” Skinny said. He wriggled his eyebrows and obnoxiously popped his gum. “Always the quiet ones.”
Ron glared up at him. “You’re not funny.”
“I am comedic gold. I also have faith in you.”
“It’s nice to know someone does.”
“We all do, Shifty certainly does or I wouldn’t be here. Just, talk to Lip. He doesn’t get it all the time, Mr. Rock Star, and that just because it’s Nashville doesn’t mean he can’t help Country and Bluegrass acts. Besides Sugar Hill and a handful of others, no company is going up to bat for these guys. They can’t all be Chris Thile, stupidly talented and doing Hollywood’s musical scores for the hell of it.”
Ron nodded in agreement. A lot of assumptions were made about Nashville. There was a system here, the machine, that had a way of producing songs and artists to make money. They’d found a way to make multiple acts crossover successes. The machine, however, didn’t always lend itself to an artist’s individual creative abilities. Trusted song writers and producers were used for a guaranteed money return. The way the business was going, major companies weren’t exactly clamoring for the next new thing; they weren’t looking for risks.
It was just hard to remember that a few years ago, signing a young girl like Taylor Swift and letting her write her songs was a major risk. That turned out ridiculously well for her company, but it wasn’t a guarantee. It was about timing and image as much as talent.
Right now at least the critics were on their side. Many reviewers were looking at Alt Country and seeing what they liked. The acts were becoming darlings, an almost new Southern Rock invasion on the airwaves. Bluegrass though, it was always more of a risk. Outside of themed music soundtracks and albums, it didn’t get much crossover or mainstream attention.
“Gibson, come back to the planet,” Skinny said.
He shook his head. “You honestly think Lip would listen?”
Skinny shrugged. He leaned over him and grabbed one of the lollipops out of the jar. “I say it wouldn’t hurt to gather your buddies in the war room and come up with a presentation.”
“Won’t that piss off the marketing crew?”
Skinny laughed. “Dirty Earl and Stella? Please. Those two have to be forced into the conference room at gunpoint.”
Skinny flicked his ear. “Just think about it, Gibson. All Lipton can do is say no. He’ll think about, he always does, but you make a good argument, support it with evidence, you’ll be golden. I just suggest you make friends with O’Keefe and Hamm in financials. You need to prove that your suggestion won’t bankrupt the business.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Skinny.”
Skinny gave him a thumbs-up as he walked towards the elevator.
Ron laughed at the very idea of it all. It would be his dream to head a division of his favorite genres, but it was a dream. He fished into the box Skinny dropped off and started to sort through the demos.
***************
Ronnie was browsing online blogs and MySpace for any potential new artists when Runner rolled over to his desk.
“Didn’t Shifty warn you that he wouldn’t replace the next chair you broke?”
Runner shrugged. “Popeye and I aren’t racing them down the halls anymore. At least not when the building’s full. Come on, surprise meeting.”
“What?” he said while clicking to his e-mail. There was nothing there or on the company wide internet chat service.
“Shifty figured I could collect you, he called down.”
Ronnie studied Runner, trying to figure if he was upfront or bullshitting. He’d been randomly kidnapped by him on more than one occasion.
Runner put a hand over his heart. “Telling the truth, Scout’s Honor.”
“You were never a Boy Scout.”
“Only because I didn’t want to sell popcorn that tastes like wallpaper paste. Come on, can’t you see everyone else wandering out of their offices. You don’t want us to be late. Lip will get that disappointed look.”
“Fine,” he said as he pushed himself up. “If you lied, I will shave your head this time.”
“You’d have to reach it first.”
“If I recall it correctly, you were the one who feel down on his knees first.”
Runner’s face turned bright red. Ronnie didn’t even bother to stop the grin from overtaking his face.
“Come on, boys,” Popeye said. “Meeting time.”
The conference room was crowded, every available seat, including the window sills and edges of tables were occupied. Screaming Eagle Publishing and Currahee Studios wasn’t a large staff, but it was still a claustrophobic nightmare fitting them all in the room. Every last employee on the day shift, cleaning staff and receptionists included.
“What the hell?” Runner asked.
Ronnie shrugged and craned his neck to see the front of the room. Smokey Gordon was there, holding court with Shifty and Stone, from Legal.
“Mr. Winters needs to speak, everyone shut the hell up,” Smokey said.
“Language, Smokey,” Lip said. He walked into the conference room with a lanky young man trailing behind him. He held himself like Shifty, never a moment away from a quick reaction.
“I hope everyone’s enjoying their day so far,” he said, smiling. He made sure to make eye contact in each direction of the room. Lip was good at that, ordering them all to attention without being a jackass about it.
“It’d be better if the coffee machine on the studio level worked,” Joe Liebgott, one of the sound engineers said.
“We’ve already order a new machine,” Shifty said. “I suggest you boys stop trying to slap it into submission. This is the fifth replacement in three months.”
“Make one that keeps up with demand,” Lieb said.
“Either deal with it or learn to love water,” Stone said.
Lip held up his hands before the conference room saw Stone vs. Liebgott, Round 75.
“Relax, boys. Shifty will get it all sorted.”
Shifty quietly nodded in agreement.
Lip beckoned the new guy forward. “Now that we’ve got the daily complaint out of the way. Staff, I’d like you to meet our newest member of security, Evan Stafford.”
Stafford waved his hand. His smile was welcoming, even if his clothes looked more like a street punk kid. Or your typical suburban boy trying to act like he came from the inner-city.
“We be pimpin',” Runner muttered under his breath.
Ronnie poked him in the side. “Didn’t you used to wear a Day-Glo jacket and hammer-pants? Was that before or after your Hawaiian shirt phase?”
“Didn’t you wear overalls at least once a week until college?”
“They’re comfortable.”
“Okay, Opie.”
“Something to share, boys?” Lip asked.
“Only reminiscing about past fashion tragedies, Sir,” Runner said.
Lip smirked. “At least yours don’t get a constant replay on VH1 Classic.” He gripped Evan’s shoulder. “Evan here is going to be at the receptionist desk on second shift. I know everyone with this company will help him settle in and show him the ropes.”
His words faded into the background as Ronnie closely studied the new employee. He seemed like a nice guy, all quirked lips and small smiles, head nodding humbly to the compliments Lip doled out. There was just a presence about him and Ronnie was definitely interested.
***************
Two weeks later Ron was trying to will his hangover away through the power of water and caffeine. He made the mistake of talking numbers with the Accounting guys over beers at Allison’s. He’d woken up on Andy Haldane’s couch with Eddie Jones hovering over him, aspirin bottle in hand and a sympathetic look on his face.
“Hoosier said you and Hamm started doing the can-can at one point,” Runner said in between monstrously loud bites of his apple. “Don’t break little Hamm’s heart, Gibson, he’s such a sweet boy.”
“Who can throw down shots like they’re water.”
Runner patted his shoulder. “You’re not that young anymore, you shouldn’t try to keep up with the kiddies.”
“Yeah, well, the kiddies are the ones I need to do off-the-books number wizardry.”
“You’re going to approach Lip?”
Ronnie nodded and then groaned as his head throbbed. “At the very least I plan to appeal to his need to mother everyone. All the young kids just arriving in town, ready to sign deals with the devil just for a piece of musical immortality, doesn’t Lip want to help save them?”
Runner snorted. “Good luck with that, Gibson.”
“I expect you to help write the proposal and the presentation.”
“Stupid people say what?”
Ronnie glared at him. “You’re the one who keeps pushing me to do this. You’re the one who talked to Skinny about it, and you know he never lets shit go. You are helping me.”
“Didn’t your fancy college teach you how to bribe music executives?”
“Wilbur,” he said.
Runner cringed at the sound of his real name. “Does your mother know how truly evil you are? Fucking fine. I’ll do it.”
**************
Evan drove a red pick-up, always with the windows down and music blaring from the speakers. You could both see and hear him coming from a mile away. His shift started at 2:00pm and without fail, come 1:55pm, Ronnie could see him pulling into the parking lot.
He wasn’t obsessed or anything, it was just one of the highlights of his day to see Evan. They were almost starting to become friends, sharing a similar taste in movies and making tentative plans to drive to Memphis for the barbeque.
It was difficult starting out at Currahee Studios and Screaming Eagle Publishing as a new kid. Everyone was so close knit, it truly was a family, and when you came in alone, it was hard not to feel like an outsider. Ronnie still thanked god every day that he and Runner started in the same week. He didn’t know if he would’ve succeeded without having someone else there along the way. Evan seemed to be handling it well so far, he was just an easy person to like.
Ronnie wanted more than just friendship with Evan. He could feel the start of something there, a deeper connection, he just didn’t know what the hell to about it. With Runner it had been easy. From their first meeting there was a connection and even though it never went beyond friends with benefits, Ron was just glad to have him in his life. Runner had a way with people, he always put them at ease. As nice as Evan was, there was still something dark lurking there, behind the smiles and quips.
It made a lot of sense, really, that of the people Evan talked to, Shifty was at the top of that list. Everyone knew Shifty’s past as an Army Ranger, it came up at least once a day in the lunch room. It was difficult for the new hires to fathom how someone as quiet as Shifty spent six years as a sniper, but they soon learned the difference. Shifty was quiet, humble, and ruthless when the situation called for it. Evan must’ve known a thing or two about that, having served with the Marines.
“Do you have that demo Skinny brought up from Baton Rouge?”
“What?” Ronnie asked, shaking his head and turning to Runner.
Runner stood up on his tip toes and looked out the window.
“Ahh, Q-Tip’s arrived. No wonder you’ve been over here breathing all heavy.”
Ronnie threw his stress ball at Runner’s head.
Runner laughed and held up his hands in surrender.
“God, will you just ask the guy out for a cup of coffee,” he said.
“I don’t think he drinks coffee.”
“He’s a marine; he has more coffee than oxygen in his blood.”
“Non-active,” Gibson corrected, “and god, Runner, I’m not that guy.”
“What, you only make a move when you’re drunk?”
“Or really, really sure.”
A soft look came over Runner’s face. His eyes were kind and understanding. Those eyes, they were the first things that drew Ron in, followed by the wide smile and wry humor. Runner would always be special to him, but they both deserved something more.
“Ronnie, he’s not going to say no,” Runner said. “Once anyone gets to know you, it’s pretty damn hard to say no.”
“Yeah?”
Runner nodded. “Trust me. I don’t just stick around for your momma’s casseroles.”
Ronnie shook his head and laughed. “You always know what to say.”
“It’s a gift. Now, that demo?”
“Right.” He dug it out of his desk, handing it over with caution. “I really like this guy, Runner. Do not lose that demo. A friend made it for him and rumor has it he sends most A&R guys running away screaming. He’s going to be a hard sell to Lip, but there is some raw talent there.”
“Country?” Runner asked.
“Zydeco folk. If there is such a thing.”
“A genre-bender, always interesting.”
It wasn’t often that labels went outside their local pool of musicians to offer deals, but Skinny was used to traveling. He’d follow up with his contacts garnered years ago from his 3B days to find anyone around the South who’d fit in with Screaming Eagle. Skinny collected names and demos, handing them off to Ronnie and Runner to sort through and make the tough decisions. It was hard as hell sometimes to make a decision when there was a damn talented musician they’d have to pass on because they wouldn’t fit with the label. It meant that occasionally they’d supply names to their competing A&R reps, but always with the understanding that it went both ways.
It just took part of Ronnie’s soul each time he had to pass on an artist or band he knew in his gut would be a star, but were too country for Lip.
“We really need to work on that presentation,” Ronnie said.
Runner nodded. “Swing by my place tonight. I have to go see the afternoon open mic set at Allison’s, but after that I’m free.” He gave a small wave before wandering back over to his side of the office.
Ronnie turned back to his computer and started editing his speech for Lip once again. They needed to do this, the label had to diversify to stay relevant. All the genres were blending together these days and it made no sense for them to be where they were and stick so close to a single vision. Lip was old school in that way, but his label was basically as large as indie got. If he didn’t want to branch out under the main name, maybe, just maybe, he’d agree with a smaller imprint label.
***************
Runner lived in a small house just outside of Nashville. His yard was easily twice the size of his home, and he was the only person Ronnie knew who liked mowing his lawn. Apparently a childhood spent in center city Buffalo and teen years in NYC meant an unhealthy obsession with a yard and various horticulture projects. It was dangerous to let Runner go into the gardening section at The Home Depot unsupervised.
“Anyone interesting at Allison’s?” he asked, gladly taking the beer Runner offered.
“Some new kid named John Julian. Not one for star quality but a hell of a guitar player. He’d be a great studio musician but his stage presence is lacking.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Alabama. Came up here to study at Belmont.”
“Good Christian boy then.”
“Behave,” Runner chided.
He settled down besides Ronnie on the couch. “I’m going to talk to Poke and his boys in the studio. They’ve been bitching about needing a couple of interns. At the very least I can give the kid an in to the life. Let him see if he’s really made for it.”
Ronnie nodded and leaned back into the far too comfortable couch. It’d been a long day, a long couple of weeks with the stress of getting the proposal ready, and it felt great to be at Runner’s, where no artifice or expectations were needed.
He closed his eyes and relaxed. He could hear Runner flipping through the written proposal. There was a click of a pen and the sound of it scratching paper. Gibson’s nose wrinkled as the smell of the ink wafted over. He took another deep breath and tried not to think about how badly this could all go. Shifty promised him a meeting next Thursday. The internal-geek was trying not to think about the world ending on Thursdays. He didn’t think Lip would appreciate it if Ronnie spent all his time pre-meeting muttering don’t panic under his breath.
“You might just convince him. I mean, it’s Lip, he’ll stew about it for a day or two, but hell, this is good, Ronnie.”
“Thanks, Runner.” He opened his eyes and smiled. “C’mere.”
Runner smirked. “You sure about this?” he asked, palming the back of Ronnie’s neck.
“Once more for old time’s sake?”
Runner was a familiar weight over him, a remembered taste on his tongue. This was a distraction for the both of them, he knew, a safe person and a safe place. They couldn’t keep doing this; they didn’t and wouldn’t work as a couple, but right now was not the time to turn away.
He reached a hand up, giving Runner’s hair a slight tug, smiling at the soft groan.
This would very likely be the last time and Ronnie was going to savor it.
***************
“I’m going to puke,” Ronnie said.
“Try not to do it all over the reception desk,” Evan said. He handed over a paper cup of water. “Drink that.”
Ronnie did as ordered.
“What kind of special evil does it take to make someone wait until the afternoon for a major meeting?”
“Don’t hyperventilate,” Evan said. He stood up, towering over Ronnie and patted him on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”
“Right, of course,” Ronnie said.
The ding of the elevator made him look across the lobby. Runner and Popeye came barreling out the door, presentation boards in their hands.
“Oh, thank you Jesus,” Ronnie said.
“Rumor had it you were down here having a breakdown,” Popeye said.
“I told you we’d get it done in time,” Runner said.
“The meeting is in fifteen minutes,” Ronnie said.
“You boys better get your asses upstairs then and set up,” Evan said. He pulled out a shopping bag from the desk. “Penk and I got you a veggie tray.”
“Oh, thanks guys,” Ronnie said.
Evan smiled while Penk just nodded his head.
“Upstairs, Gibson,” Popeye ordered.
Ronnie paced back and forth going over his speech while Runner, Popeye, and half their floor helped organize things. Rumor had spread fast over his proposal and it felt kind of silly having the meeting now when Lip, Stone, Smokey, and Shifty had to know everything.
Secrets didn’t last long in this company.
“You’ll be fine,” Lieb said, slapping him on the back so hard he actually stumbled forward.
“Thank you,” he gritted out between his clenched jaw.
“Just remember to lead with the cost-effective analysis,” O’Keefe said, leaning over to adjust Ronnie’s tie. “And remember to appeal to Lip’s sense of competition and fairness.”
“And for Christ’s sake, don’t puke on anyone,” Popeye said.
“Aim for the fern, at least,” Hamm said.
“Thank you, guys, really, for everything.”
“Couldn’t leave you to do this on your own,” Gwen said. She brushed off any lint from his suit and adjusted his collar. “Don’t you look professional.”
“Thanks for taking me shopping, Gwen.”
“It’s what us image consultants do.”
“Okay, everyone out,” Runner said. “I don’t think the meeting will start off well if Lip’s left wondering why no one is at their desk.”
“Oh, but you’re staying here?” Lieb asked.
“I’m moral support and a contributor to the project. Go back to your studio, Lieb, and leave the upper levels for those of us who bask in daylight.”
Popeye forcibly shoved everyone out of the room who wouldn’t leave. The only ones left were Hamm, to back up the financials; Burgie, to show that they already had people with country experience on staff; and Popeye and Runner for support.
He tried to remember to breathe as Lip, Shifty, Smokey, and Stone came inside and took their seats. Greetings were passed around and Ronnie waited until everyone had poured themselves a drink and enjoyed some of the veggie tray before he started.
He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the ringing in his ears. He knew his face had to be beet red, but as long as he kept his voice steady he could get through this. He believed in this project and most importantly, he believed in Lip.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “as you know at Screaming Eagle Publishing we specialize in promoting the work of talent in rap, hip hop, pop, and alternative rock. We’ve begun the expansion of our brand by signing some folk musicians in the past year and so far we’ve already seen returns on this new investment. I am proposing another movement for our brand and label. I think that, considering our city and geographical location, it would only be logical to tap the wealth of musicians in the bluegrass, country, alternative country, and other Americana genres. I believe our people here and our label’s goals in general could greatly benefit from this whole new pool of talent. If you would open your files, the first page contains a projection of profit if we decided to follow through with this idea.”
Ronnie continued on, glad that so far everyone was still smiling.
***************
It had been one hell of a nerve-wracking week for Ronnie as he waited Lip’s reply. The meeting had gone well; full of discussion, and no out right signs of an obvious refusal. Things had been quiet and even Popeye, with all his connections, didn’t know jack about the decision. Evan and Penk both admitted that some of the big-wig lawyers had been by, Buck Compton even flying in from L.A., but that could mean anything. They could be hiring a major act or trying to build a studio out in California.
“Hey, Gibson,” Skinny said, dropping a stack of demos on his desk, “Lip wants to see you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I just dropped Hoosier off at his office. He asked me to come get you.”
“Hoosier is awake before noon?”
Skinny laughed. “He promised to work with Poke’s newest protégé. So, let’s go.”
“This will probably end badly,” Ronnie admitted.
Skinny threw an arm around his shoulder. “Have faith in yourself, Gibson.”
The ride up to Lip’s office was terrifying it a way it never had been before. He couldn’t help but crack his knuckles, nervous habits and all.
Hoosier met them in the doorway. He was dressed in his typical black shirt and jeans, looking like such a stereotypical former rock star it was laughable. Especially since he spent his formative years dancing to pop tracks in neon orange. It was hard to believe Hoosier had ever been a in a boy band. He was too damn cynical for it.
“Good luck, Gibson,” he said.
Ronnie didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing for someone like Hoosier to be wishing him luck.
Lip was on the phone but gestured for him to sit down. He was in a good mood, at least. Lip got all serious and stone faced when he had to deliver bad news. He was probably just softening the blow though.
He hung up the phone and slid an envelope across the desk.
“I’ve got a proposal for you,” Lip said.
“Okay.”
“You’re right, we do need to dedicate ourselves more to artist development and we shouldn’t ignore large parts of the local talent pool because I want to give other genres a chance to flourish here. I’ve helped start up more than a few indie labels in the area, and now I want to start up one more.
I consider your years of employment here and your success as proof enough that you won’t squander my money. Still, it takes a lot of work, money, and time to start a label up. You’ll still need a day-job; I’m not quite ready to let you go yet.”
Ronnie took the envelope and opened it up to see a draft of a contract for an imprint label.
“Lip, I don’t even know what to say.”
“The business lawyers will look over the contracts, but Gibson, you’re right. That Louisiana kid you mentioned, Shelton? He’s got some talent and we can’t just let him slip through because it’s a genre I’ve never pursued.”
“I, this, is this real?”
Lip burst out laughing.
“Ronnie, you have a good gut instinct for this business and you’re willing to take calculated risks. We need that, with the way it’s going now. The old model doesn’t work. Labels aren’t guaranteed money makers anymore and we’re all lucky to be staying in the black. We stick with the business because we love it, and you know that. You’re well aware that nothing about this, starting up an imprint label, finding and discovering talent on your own, working towards artist development, it’s hard work that will take up all your time.”
“Lip, Jesus, just thank you.”
“You won’t be thanking me when you’ve just worked the better half of seventy-two straight hours trying to prepare your talent for an album drop.”
Lip held his hand out. “Glad to do business with you Mr. Gibson.”
He took his hand, trying to stop his own from shaking. “Always a pleasure.”
***************
Two months later Runner joined him for lunch at The Acropolis to discuss work both for Screaming Eagle and their own as-yet-unnamed label. They both stopped in the middle of their meal when Evan walked through the door.
“When will you just ask him out for a real date?” Runner asked, leaning his weight on Ronnie’s shoulder.
“I don’t want him to punch my face in.”
“He does not seem like that kind of guy,” Runner said. He stood up.
“Don’t you dare,” Ronnie hissed.
“Evan, come join us,” Runner yelled across the room.
“Hey guys,” Evan said. He had a gyro in one hand in a drink in the other. “Didn’t know you two liked Greek food.”
“We try to limit ourselves to one very large monthly indulgence,” Runner said.
Evan laughed. “I feel that.” He took the seat next to Ronnie. “Rumor has it you’re the head of Screaming Eagles newest imprint label. Got a name yet?"
“Thinking about it,” Ronnie said. “I want to work with some beach country acts so I might play on that theme.”
“You’re joining the label, too?” Evan asked Runner.
Runner nodded. “I’m on board as A&R. Other than that, we’ve got one act in Snafu Shelton.”
“Got to start somewhere,” Evan said.
“Truer words never spoken,” Runner said. He pulled out his cell phone. “Well, would you like at that, Lieb needs me in the studio.”
Ronnie glared daggers at him but Runner only smiled peacefully in response. The little shit knew they’d taken Runner’s car here, so Ronnie would have no choice but to ask Evan for a ride back to work.
“You okay?” Evan asked.
Ronnie nodded. “Just wondering why all my friends are devious little bastards.”
“You’re just lucky I guess.”
Ronnie laughed. “You know what, Evan? I really, truly am.”
Evan gave him a blinding smile in response before turning back to his lunch.
When Ronnie Gibson came back to Nashville from Berklee he wasn’t expecting any of this but hell, he had no reason to complain. Not anymore. New things were beginning and they all felt right and good. Perfect, just like it should be.