Pretty Baby

Chapter 1

The last chords of the tour still echo in my ears as I step out of the cab and onto the familiar gravel path leading up to my Nashville home. The house stands proud, a little weathered over the years, but it's got character—the kind you can't build, only earn. I've earned everything in my life. Almost forty-years-old and always on tour. My hair's a bit gray, and I've got a casual beard. I'm wearing my favorite old band shirt, a leather jacket, and jeans that fit just right. My boots have seen a lot of miles, and my wristbands remind me of all the shows I played the past few months.

I haven’t spent more than a week or two at once in the house since I bought it. Being on tour for the past twenty years will do that to a man.

Xavier, my manager, is right on my heels, his phone already buzzing with the next big thing. "Zac, man, you killed it out there! Every night, a full house. We gotta go bigger next time—stadiums, maybe even arenas."

Xavier is forty-four, bald, with smooth dark skin, and clearly takes care of himself. His build is lean but strong; broad shoulders and toned arms showing years of effort without being overdone. His eyes are dark and sharp, with an easy confidence that draws people in without him having to say much.

I shove my hands into my pockets, feeling the weight of the keys to the front door. "Bigger isn't always better, Xavier. Maybe I want to see the faces in the crowd next time, not just a sea of lights."

The door swings open, and the scent of flowers and aged wood greets me. The housekeeper must have just left. I drop my duffel bag by the staircase, the thud echoing off the high ceilings and gold records hanging on the walls. Every corner sings with memories of the road. My living room's a cozy haven, with a leather couch that's seen better days and a fireplace where my favorite guitar leans, ready to strum. The walls are a gallery of my life's soundtrack—vinyl displayed with pride.

Xavier follows me in, still not letting up. "C'mon, Zac. You're at the top of your game. This is the time to capitalize, not downsize. When do you think you'll start on the new album?"

I head to the kitchen, the heart of the house, and pour myself a glass of bourbon. The amber liquid glints in the light as I take a sip, savoring the burn. The kitchen's where melodies mix with the aroma of coffee; it's open, inviting, with a table that's part lyric book, part diner.

"I'm thinking of taking a few weeks off. Let the road dust settle. I need to live a little before I have anything new to say."

Xavier leans against the counter, eyeing me with a mix of frustration and understanding. "Alright, take your break. But not too long, okay? The world's waiting for what Zac Fulton’s got to say next."

I nod, my gaze drifting to the backyard where the grass has grown a little too high. The fireflies are starting to dance. "They can wait a little longer. I've got some living to do first,” I tell myself as I walk through the kitchen.

The afternoon sun filters through the blinds, casting stripes of light across the hardwood floor of my home studio. The studio, my soul—a clutter of guitars, a piano that echoes and mics waiting to catch the next hit. This house isn't just wood and stone. It's a living, breathing piece of my journey, pulsing with the beat of Nashville's heart that I can’t get enough of.

I pick up my guitar and put it on my lap, lost in thought, when Xavier follows me.

"Okay, Zac, hear me out," Xavier starts, pacing back and forth. "I've been thinking about the new album, and I've got some great studio musicians lined up. They're the best—can really add that extra layer of polish to the tracks."

I strum a chord, the sound hanging in the air between us. "X, I appreciate it, but I don't know if I want 'polish’. My songs... they come from here," I say, tapping my chest. "They need to feel real, raw. Not like they've been passed through a dozen hands before they reach the listener."

Xavier stops pacing and leans against the mixing console. "I get it, I do. But this is the big leagues, man. You're not in some garage band anymore. This is how the pros do it."

I set the guitar aside and stand up to face him. "Maybe I don't want to do it like the pros. Maybe I just want to make music that means something to me—and to the people who listen to it."

“Or maybe you’ll let me sing a few lines, yah know, be the ebony to your ivory?” Xavier laughs.

There's a moment of silence as Xavier considers my words. Then his phone buzzes, and he's back in manager mode. "Alright, we'll table the studio musician talk for now. But there's something else—we've got interviews lined up. The press is dying to know about the tour, the sold-out shows, your next step..."

I rub my temples, feeling the onset of a headache. "Xavier, I just got back. I need some time to breathe; to be a person, not a headline. Can we push the interviews back a few weeks?"

He looks at me, his expression softening. "Zac, you know I only want what's best for you. But the world wants Zac Fulton, and they want him now."

I walk over to the window, watching the leaves rustle in the breeze. "Let the world wait. I'm not their puppet. I need to rest; to find the music again. It's not just about what they want."

Xavier nods, finally understanding. "Okay, I'll reschedule. Take your time, man. We'll do it your way."

As he leaves the room, I pick up my guitar again, feeling the strings under my fingers. This is where I belong, where the music lives. And for now, that's all I need. Sometimes I feel like I’m better off alone anyway.

~ ~ ~

The evening light casts a warm glow over the living room as I run my fingers along the spines of all my vinyl records stacked haphazardly on the shelves. Each one holds a lifetime of memories, dreams, and experiences captured in the grooves.

My eyes land on So Long Suburbia, my first solo effort after leaving my hometown. The faded cover art is a lonesome highway stretching towards a crimson sunset. I remember the rush of freedom I felt hitting the road, leaving the chaos of home behind at eighteen. Those songs were my catharsis, pouring out the heartbreak and hunger for something more even at such a young age. High school love just hits harder sometimes.

Next to it sits Whiskey Truths , the album that almost broke me. Dark, brooding tracks drenched in the amber haze of too many long nights. Each verse drips with the bitter self-loathing and destructive tendencies I was struggling with at the time. But there was a raw honesty there that still resonates.

I smile as I pull out Standards, the bright, almost garish cover clashes with the melancholy that preceded it. This was my renaissance - an embrace of the rich musical heritage of my new Nashville home. Upbeat roots rock and introspective Americana tales of losing and finding oneself again. It was my Sgt. Peppers.

As I flip through the albums, I'm reminded of how music has been the common thread woven through all my wanderings and phases of life. Each record is a mile marker on the long, winding road that led me here - battered but unbroken with a lifetime of stories to tell.

Xavier's voice breaks the silence, his tone casual but probing.

"So, Zac, it's been what? Nine months since you last saw... what's her name? The painter, right?"

I close the albums, a slight frown creasing my brow. "Yeah, nine months. And it's Chloe. But that's history now."

Xavier leans against the doorframe, his eyes searching mine. "You think she'll come back around? You two always had a way of finding your way back to each other."

I shake my head, a decisive gesture. "Not this time. I'm not looking to be held down by anyone, man. I've got music... that's enough for me. We were too on and off. Everything would be fine when I wasn’t touring, but as soon as my suitcase came out, she’d lose it.”

He nods, though I can tell he's not entirely convinced. "Alright, man. Just remember, people change, things change. You might want different things down the road."

I stand up, stretching my arms above my head. "Maybe. But for now, I'm doing my own thing. No complications, no expectations. Just life, one day at a time."

Xavier claps me on the shoulder, a silent show of support. "Fair enough. Just don't close yourself off completely, you hear?"

I offer him a half-smile, the closest thing to a promise I can muster. "I hear you. Now, let's talk about something else. How about that new whiskey bar downtown? Heard it's got a killer selection."

~ ~ ~

The heavy wooden door swings open, releasing a thick plume of blue smoke that swirls around us as we step into the dimly lit interior of The Ryeman. This staple of downtown Nashville has an unmistakable edge, from the scarred hardwood floors and brick walls to the eclectic mix of vintage neon signs and contemporary street art adorning the space.

The low rumble of conversation and the clink of glasses blends with the gritty rock pouring from the speakers. I lead the way, my worn leather jacket and scruffy beard giving the air of a man who's seen and done it all in the music world.

We slide into a curved, burgundy vinyl booth in the corner, the cracked material creaking beneath us. "Two bourbon neats," Xavier barks at the tattooed bartender, not even glancing at the impressive array of top-shelf liquors lining the back bar.

As the tumblers are set down, I inhale the deep, oaky aroma before taking a sip, letting the smooth amber liquid linger on my tongue. A pleasant burn spreads through my chest as I lean back, surveying our edgy new surroundings.

"This is one helluva place you found back in the day, man. We haven’t been here in forever,” I say.

Xavier smirks, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Had to get you out of those same old haunts for once. Big news like this calls for a big celebration." He raises his glass in a mock toast.

I know exactly what he's referring to. The record deal offer that could change everything. But the thought of leaving Mason Records and the close-knit family I've had for years fills me with unease. I hate the feeling.

"Look, I appreciate you setting up that meeting with Sony, but I'm not sure about signing with a major label. I've gotta stay loyal to the crew at Mason who've been with me through thick and thin."

Xavier lets out an exaggerated groan, running a hand over his bald head. "When are you gonna get that sentimental crap out of your system, Zac? This is the big leagues we're talking about here. Time to cash in on that pretty face and talent of yours while you can."

Shaking my head adamantly, I protest, "It's not just about the money, man. Mason has been like a real family, the entire ragtag group of misfits. We've been through the ringer together, from the dive bar days to finally hitting it big. I don't want to lose that close-knit vibe and personal connection just for a bigger paycheck."

"Yeah, yeah, I get the appeal of having your own little private club house." Xavier drains his glass in one long pull and signals the bartender for another round with a flick of his fingers. "But think how much further your songwriting and live shows could go with the industry muscle and deep pockets of a major label behind you. You're sitting on a goldmine here, man."

“Can we take a break from this talk for the millionth time and talk about something different?” I beg.

“For the millionth time, yes, but you know I’m going to circle back to this, like usual,” Xavier laughs

As fresh drinks are dropped in front of us, the pungent aromas of caramel and charred oak wafting up, my mind drifts to the endless parade of nameless groupies and chance encounters from the last tour. There was that raven-haired poetry slam champion in Austin, with her wicked smile and tongue piercing that drove me wild. And the raunchy, wild child with the dark red hair at that afterparty in Chicago who moved with the frenetic energy of a woman possessed.

Xavier’s elbow connecting with my ribs jolts me back to the present. "You zoning out there, day-dreaming about all those young things that threw themselves at you on the road?" He lets out a raspy chuckle, clearly picturing the debauchery.

I can't help but grin at the memories. "Hey, a man's allowed to get lost in nostalgia every now and then, right? Plenty of insanity to reminisce about. Do you think the headline ‘40-year-old dates 20-year-old’ will ever get boring?” I grin.

"Just don't let yourself get so distracted by the ghosts of groupies past that you make a dumbass decision about this career-changing record deal." Xavier’s expression turns serious, the deep creases in his forehead becoming more pronounced. "I'm just looking out for you here, Zac. Don't let your bleeding heart and misplaced sense of loyalty hold you back from the big time success you deserve."

Our glasses clink together as the ice cubes slowly dilute the bourbon. I ponder his words, feeling the persistent pull of my roots warring with the allure of new heights to scale. Maybe it is time to take the leap and see just how far this lifelong dream can soar. But some part of me will always crave the comfort and familiarity of those familiar streets I've known for so long.

Xavier drains the last few drops of bourbon from his glass and sets it down on the nicked wood table with a dull thud. "So when this new album finally drops, we're hitting the road hard," he states matter-of-factly. "Gotta strike while the iron's hot. Whether it's with the full force of Sony's promo machine behind you, or just Mason's bare bones crew holding it together."

I nod, the familiar tingle of pre-tour anticipation already electrifying my veins. As much as I live for the creative thrills of writing and recording, there's an unmatched adrenaline rush that comes from performing live, channeling the raw noise and kinetic energy of an audience into pure, primal musical catharsis.

"Just try to keep your shit together better than the last couple massive clusterfucks you called tours," Xavier states, draining his glass and signaling the bartender for another round. He lets out a laugh, no doubt reliving my seemingly endless string of debaucherous antics from the road. "Remember that unhinged groupie in Baton Rouge who damn near clawed your eyes out when she caught you balls-deep in her friend? Christ, I thought we were gonna have to call the damn SWAT team to extract your ass."

How could I possibly forget? The claw marks had barely faded by the time we hit Dallas a week later. I can only laugh at the memory. "Aw, come on. You know that's just part of the game, man. Those girls practically throw themselves at you the second you step off stage. Like they're in a trance or something,” I say.

"Yeah, well, one of these days that reckless dick of yours is gonna dig you a hole so deep, you won't be able to talk or charm your way out of it." Xavier eyes me sternly as the bartender drops fresh drinks in front of us. "I'm just saying, man, you need to keep little Zac zipped up nice and tight this time around, for the good of making this a smooth, successful album cycle."

I open my mouth to respond with a trademark smart-ass quip, but something catches my eye over Xavier’s shoulder. A stunning vision in a tight red mini-dress that I’m sure has seen countless free drinks from potential suitors emerging from the crowd around the bar. From her tanned legs to her tousled beach blonde waves and dangerously short hemline, she's every inch the stereotypical dream girl… and exactly the kind of trouble I seem to constantly find myself in. She’s barely an inch over five feet from what I can tell, the perfect height.

I can't resist. "Xavier, get a load of the blonde, Cali-dream, vixen in red over there. Now that's what I call -" Before I can finish, Xavier’s elbow drives hard into my ribs, driving the air from my lungs with an unceremonious, "Ooof!"

"For fuck's sake, man!" he growls, his already craggy face contorting with irritation. "We're in the middle of a serious conversation about your goddamn music career here, and you're eye-wandering after the first piece of ass that walks by? Why do I even bother trying to talk sense into you?"

The blonde turns at the sound of Xavier’s raised voice, glancing first at him with disdain, then locking eyes with me. Her ruby red lips curl into the faintest hint of a smile as she looks me over appraisingly. She knows the effect she has.

"Uh, sorry man," I mutter, trying to tear my eyes away from her and refocus on Xavier. I clear my throat. "You were saying something about keeping my eye on the prize this upcoming tour?"

He glares at me, a vein bulging prominently in his tanned forehead. "I was saying you need to keep your dick on lockdown and your head out of the clouds if you want this album cycle to actually be a success for once. One more strike of you pulling your typical burn-it-down antics, and the labels, whether it's the big dogs at Sony, or those Mason jackasses, are gonna take their ball and go home, Zac."

The weight of his words hit me. Maybe Xavier is right. Maybe it is time to truly knuckle down and handle my business professionally this time around, without the endless stream of distractions that have threatened to derail everything before.

Then again, the blonde is still shooting me that little grin from across the bar, daring me with her eyes to make a move. And when has a little fun ever kept me from making great music in the end ? I ask myself.

I down my bourbon in one big gulp, savoring the smoky burn. "You know what? You're right, man. I'm gonna stay laser-focused this time." My gaze drifts back to the blonde, who gives me a playful little wave. "Mostly."

Xavier just shakes his head in a mixture of exasperation and resignation. "Why do I even bother with you, man? So, we walkin’ home, or limo? ”