Sweet Talk Me by Kieran Kramer

away from all the craziness.” Dan released a big sigh. “Hey, I can see why you drove her home. She’s a looker. But the guy made it very clear she’s taken.”
    “Sheesh. I know that. What’s it to you anyway?”
    “I need you to focus.”
    A black cloud in Harrison’s head started pouring buckets over his imaginary parade, which was already limping along pretty poorly. “Any particular reason you’re bringing this up now?”
    “You betcha,” said Dan with sickening good cheer.
    Harrison dreaded the answer. He knew the answer, but he’d pretend he didn’t. Why not buy himself a few more seconds of denial? “Yeah, well, maybe we can talk later. I’m kinda busy right now—”
    “The studio called,” Dan interrupted him. “ Again . They want to know when they can expect the first batch of songs.”
    Right. Songs. They needed more. Now . So why wasn’t Harrison writing any? He didn’t know. Which pissed him off. “I told them.” He jetted a breath. “ Soon .”
    “Soon isn’t good enough anymore,” Dan shot back. “You’ve been saying that for a year. You’re gonna lose momentum if you keep this up. Think of all the people who rely on you, buddy. We need product.”
    Harrison’s bristles went up. “You know how hard I work,” he said quietly. “I don’t need you tightening the screws. Leave that to the studio. And if you ever call my songs product again, I’ll be forced to kick your ass.”
    “Desperation drove me to it,” Dan protested. “I just don’t know how much longer I can hold them off.”
    “It’s what I’m paying you to do.”
    The sound of crackling paper came over the line. “You and I both know I’m the best in the business”—Dan was obviously eating a Big Mac or something like it—“but there’s a limit to my talent. Okay? I’m admitting that. Help me out here, Harrison, please—if you don’t want me to say the other P -word again.”
    Product.
    Harrison hated that designation. But it was true—he couldn’t keep playing the same songs forever, even if they were number one hits on the country charts and climbing the pop ones, too. “Okay,” he said. “I get it.”
    “Stay here in Biscuit Creek.” More crackling.
    “I was already going to stay a couple extra days. Help my brother find a new place to live.”
    “That’s good—good. But stay longer.”
    “No.” Harrison stared at the duct-taped wall. “That’s crazy.”
    “No, it’s not. You need to get out of your regular life. Biscuit Creek is where you wrote your first hit song.”
    “Wrong. I wrote that in a Motel 8 in Atlanta after I left home.” Brokenhearted and depressed. Thinking his life was over. That was what real country songs were about. Country singers might be crossing over into the pop realm, and now into the rap world with hick hop, but beneath a real country anthem there was always a broken heart.
    “Still. You got your inspiration in Biscuit Creek. Right?” Dan was persistent.
    “Yeah, I guess I did.” From True. From his mama’s eyes. And from the salty brown-green waters of Biscuit Creek itself.
    “Well, see if you can get it back. You been workin’ too hard, bro. Your soul is tired.”
    Harrison shut his eyes. Dan had hit the nail on the head. It was the main reason Harrison put up with him. “I’ll stay maybe a week.”
    “Come on, man. I’m willing to fend the studio off another month.”
    “I’ll think about it.” No way was he staying a month.
    “The music will come. It will.” Dan sounded serious but calm. “And from now on, I’m going to watch out for you better. We got caught up in the hype, the fun. But you need time and space to breathe.” Dan tried to sing the chorus of Faith Hill’s big hit, “Breathe.”
    “Your jokes suck.” Harrison was still looking for something to kick or punch. “And you can’t even sing.”
    “Hey,” Dan said, all peppy and annoying, “it was a hit for a reason. And so are your songs. See you later. I’m not