“Please, Hank, let’s do another record together.”  Lena’s desperation permeated the studio, patchouli, interwoven with menthol cigarettes and sour sweat. 

Hank hated seeing her this way, reduced to begging. Their shared history ran deeper than a river-his first gold record, first whiskey hangover, first love, and first heartbreak. In her day, she’d been a real beauty and a bigger talent. But talent and fame didn’t always intersect. And beauty was fickle currency. Even the brightest spotlight eventually dimmed.

“Fresh songs.” She pressed a worn leather notebook into his hands. “Duets for me and a few of your newer artists.”

Hank chewed his lip. Classic Lena. She always had an angle.

“Baby, I need this.” Her honeyed voice dripped into his ears. 

Hank wouldn’t deny her. He never could. In the morning, he’d call in every chit and favor to give her one more shot at her dream. No price was too steep.

Fame was her drug of choice.

She was his.