Broken Strings

Twenty

Brock kind of had. That was how he saw Bailey – a humble powerhouse of an artist who turned out hit after hit without much strain or stress. She was that good from what he'd seen of her these past few days. Her ability to turn a phrase into a memorable piece of music was astounding.

His silence was answer enough for Travis as a chuckle befell his mouth.

"Trust me," Travis said, "it took a long time for Bailey to figure out how to write decent music. I can't even begin to tell you how many shitty songs I had to pretend to like when we were in grade school and middle school and high school. She figured it out, of course, but even some of her best hits were written in between garbage tracks she'll never do anything with. I listen to all of her music before it goes out so trust me when I say that it takes time."

A breath whispered past Brock's lips and he turned a rueful smile on the man lying next to him. "I guess I sound like a bit of an ass, right? Assuming that I should be good at this stuff right away."

"Do you want my honest opinion or my default overly-sensitive-celebrity-pat-on-the-back opinion?"

It amused Brock that Travis had two options so readily available to dole out but he said, "The honest one."

Slowly, Travis sat up. His lengthy arms draped across his knees and he blinked into the harsh bright light of the day as he said, "I think you sound like someone who wants to prove to the world that you can make it on your own without your label, Tallahassee, or Trace Strickland holding you back. I think that you're so desperate to show everyone that your career isn't over yet that you want things to happen overnight but life doesn't work that way. Usually, it takes a bit of time to work it all out."

The words rang through Brock's head and as they began to settle and take root, he realized that Travis was right in some respects. From the moment his contract had been bought by Eclipse Records, he'd felt an innate drive to prove that he wasn't washed up. His career wasn't over. Sure, it had been a little while since he'd put out new music and after this move to a new label, what he did next would be more heavily scrutinized than anything he'd done since leaving Tallahassee.

It felt like the world was watching him and him alone. But maybe it wasn't.

Maybe the only one watching him right now was Travis. Perhaps all he needed to focus on was staying in the moment and giving himself some space to breathe and grow as he figured out all of this songwriting stuff. As he learned what kind of artist he wanted to be right now instead of the one that Frontier had forced him to be.

"So you're a selfless troublemaker slash horse trainer slash rodeo cowboy with a voice of reason...You're a conundrum, Travis Grant," Brock commented. His fingers brushed through his hair, mussing it up, as he settled his guitar back in its case.

Travis chuckled, quiet and soft. "I wouldn't say conundrum."

"No?"

"Nah. I'm just a guy who wears a lot of hats and who knows what it feels like you're being packaged into a box you want to get out of."

"And what box do you want to get out of?"

A pensive look flashed across Travis's face and for a brief moment, Brock watched hesitation race across the other man's face. Finally, Travis said, "I don't know. The one everyone else expects me to be in, I guess."

That's about as clear as mud, Brock thought with a raised brow. He said as much and Travis huffed a laugh.

"That's how it feels to me most days, too." Travis fidgeted, dislodging his hat a little as he went to brush a hand through his hair. Eventually, he leaned back onto his elbows and said, "Sometimes it feels like my whole life is already planned out. As if I have no say in where I go from here."