Wreck the Halls

by Tessa Bailey

Genres: Holiday books; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

#1 New York Times bestselling author Tessa Bailey delivers a sexy, hilarious standalone holiday rom-com about the adult children of two former rock stars who team up to convince their estranged mothers to play a Christmas Eve concert…

Melody Gallard may be the daughter of music royalty, but her world is far from glamorous. She spends her days restoring old books and avoiding the limelight (one awkward tabloid photo was enough, thanks). But when a producer offers her a lot of money to reunite her mother’s band on live tv, Mel begins to wonder if it’s time to rattle the cage, shake up her quiet life… and see him again. The only other person who could wrangle the rock and roll divas.

Beat Dawkins, the lead singer’s son, is Melody’s opposite—the camera loves him, he could charm the pants off anyone, and his mom is not a potential cult leader. Still, they might have been best friends if not for the legendary feud that broke up the band. When they met as teenagers, Mel felt an instant spark, but it’s nothing compared to the wild, intense attraction that builds as they embark on a madcap mission to convince their mothers to perform one last show. 

While dealing with rock star shenanigans, a 24-hour film crew, brawling Santas, and mobs of adoring fans, Mel starts to step out of her comfort zone. With Beat by her side, cheering her on, she’s never felt so understood. But Christmas Eve is fast approaching, and a decades-old scandal is poised to wreck everything—the Steel Birds reunion, their relationships with their mothers, and their newfound love.  

Release date: October 3, 2023

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 368

Sample

Prologue

2009

The second Beat Dawkins entered the television studio, it stopped raining outside.

Sunshine tumbled in through the open door, wreathing him in a halo of glory, pedestrians retracting their umbrellas and tipping their hats in gratitude.

Across the room, Melody witnessed Beat’s arrival the way an astronomer might observe a once-in-a-millennium asteroid streaking across the sky. Her hormones activated, testing the forgiveness of her powder-fresh-scented Lady Speed Stick. She’d only gotten braces two days earlier. Now those metal wires felt like train tracks in her mouth. Especially while watching Beat breeze with such effortless grace into the downtown studio where they would be shooting interviews for the documentary.

At age sixteen, Melody was in the middle of an awkward phase—to put it mildly. Sweat was an uncontrollable entity. She didn’t know how to smile anymore without looking like a constipated gargoyle. Her milk chocolate mane had been carefully styled for this afternoon, but her hair couldn’t be tricked into forgetting about the humidity currently plaguing New York, and now it was frizzing to really accentuate the rubber bands connecting her incisors.

Then there was Beat.

Utterly, effortlessly gorgeous.

His chestnut-colored hair was damp from the rain, his light blue eyes sparkling with mirth. Someone handed him a towel as soon as he crossed the threshold and he took it without looking, rubbing it over his locks and leaving them wild, standing on end, amusing everyone in the room. A woman in a headset ran a lint brush down the arm of his indigo suit and he gave her a grateful, winning smile, visibly flustering her.

How could she herself and this boy possibly be the same age?

Not only that, but they’d also been named by their mothers as perfect complements to each other. Beat and Melody. They were the offspring of America’s most legendary female rock duo, Steel Birds. Since the band had already broken up by the time Beat and Melody were born, their names were bestowed quite by accident, without the members consulting each other. Decidedly not the happiest of coincidences. Not to mention, children of legends with significant names were supposed to be interesting. Remarkable.

Obviously, Beat was the only one who was meeting expectations.

Unless you counted the fact that she’d chosen teal rubber bands.

Which had seemed a lot more daring in the sterility of the orthodontist’s office.

“Melody,” someone called to her right. The simple act of having her name shouted across the busy room caused Melody to be bathed in fire, but okay. Now the backs of her knees were sweating—and oh God, Beat was looking at her.

Time froze.

They’d never actually met before.

Every article about their mothers and the highly publicized band breakup in 1993 mentioned Beat and Melody in the same breath, but they were locking eyes for the very first time IRL. She needed to think of something interesting to say.

I was going to go with clear rubber bands, but teal felt more punk rock.

Sure. Maybe she could cap that statement off with some finger

 guns and really drive home the fact that he’d gotten all the cool rock royalty genes. Oh God, her feet were sweating now. Her sandals were going to squeak when she walked.

“Melody!” called the voice again.

She tore her attention off the godlike vision that was Beat Dawkins to find the producer waving her into one of the cordoned-off interview suites. Just inside the door was a camera, a giant boom mic, a director’s chair. The interview about her mother’s career hadn’t even started yet and she already knew the questions she would be answering. Maybe she could just pop in very quickly, recite her usual responses, and save everyone some time?

No, I can’t sing like my mother.

We don’t talk about the band breakup.

Yes, my mother is currently a nudist and yes, I’ve seen her naked a startling number of times.

Of course, it would be amazing for fans if Steel Birds reunited.

No, it will never happen. Not in a million, trillion years. Sorry.

“We’re ready for you,” sang the producer, tapping her wrist.

Melody nodded, flushing hotter at the suggestion she was holding things up. “Coming.”

She snuck one final glance at Beat and walked in the direction of her interview room. That was it, she guessed. She’d probably never see him in person again—

“Wait!”

One word from Beat and the humming studio quieted, ground to a halt.

The prince had spoken.

Melody stopped with one foot poised in the air, turning her head slowly. Please let him be talking to me, otherwise the fact that she’d stopped at his command would be a pitiful mistake. Also, please let him be talking to someone else. The train tracks in her mouth were approximately four hundred pounds per inch, and the teal dress she’d worn—oh God—to match her rubber bands didn’t fit right in the boob region. Other girls her age managed to look normal. Good, even.

What was it TMZ had said about her?

Melody Gallard: always a before picture, never an after.

Beat was talking to her, however.

Not only that, but he was also jogging over in this athletic, effortless way, the way a celebrity might approach the mound at a baseball game to throw out the ceremonial first pitch, the crowd cheering him on. His hair had arranged itself back to a perfect coif, no evidence of the rain that she could see, his mouth in a bemused half smile.

Beat slowed to a stop in front of her, rubbing at the back of his neck and glancing around at their rapt audience, as if he’d acted without thinking and was now bashful about it. And the fact that he could be shy or self-conscious with charisma pouring out

of his eyeballs was astounding. Who was this creature? How could they possibly share a connection?

“Hey,” he breathed, coming in closer than Melody expected, that one move making them coconspirators. He wasn’t overly tall, maybe five eleven, but her eyes were level with his chin. His sculpted, clean-shaven chin. Wow, he smelled so good. Like a freshly laundered blanket with some fireplace smoke clinging to it. Maybe she should switch from powder fresh Speed Stick to something a little more mature. Like ocean surf. “Hey, Mel. Can I call you that?”

No one had ever shortened her name before. Not her mother, classmates, or any of the nannies she’d had over the years. A nickname was something that should be attained over time, after a long acquaintance with someone, but Beat calling her Mel somehow seemed totally normal. Their names were counterparts, after all. They’d been named as a pair, whether it had been intentional or not.

“Sure,” she whispered, trying not to stare at his throat. Or inhale him. “You can call me Mel.”

Was this her first crush? Was it supposed to happen this fast? She usually found members of a different sex sort of . . . uninspiring. They didn’t make her pulse race, the way this one did. Say something else before you bore him to death.

“You stopped the rain,” she blurted.

His eyebrows shot up. “What?”

I’m dissolving. I’m being absorbed by the floor. “When you walked in, the rain just . . . stopped.” She snapped her fingers. “Like you’d turned it off with a switch.”

When Melody was positive that he would cringe and make an excuse to walk away, Beat smiled instead. That lopsided one that made her feel funny everywhere. “I should have thought of switching it off before walking two blocks in a downpour.” He laughed and exhaled at the same time, studying her face. “It’s . . . crazy, right? Finally meeting?”

“Yeah.” The word burst out of Melody and quite unexpectedly, her chest started to swell. “It’s definitely crazy.”

He nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off her face.

She’d heard of people like him.

People who could make you feel like you were the only one in the room. The world. She’d believed in the existence of such unicorns, she just never in her wildest dreams expected to be given the undivided attention of one. It was like bathing in the brightest of sunlight.

“If things had been different with our mothers, we probably would have grown up together,” he said, blue eyes twinkling. “We might

even be best friends.”

“Oh,” she said with a knowing look. “I don’t think so.”

His amusement only spread. “No?”

“I don’t mean that to be offensive,” Melody rushed to say. “I just . . . I tend to keep to myself, and you seem more . . .”

“Extroverted.” He shrugged a single shoulder. “Yeah. I am.” He waved a hand to indicate the room, the crew who were still captivated by the first—maybe only—meeting of Beat Dawkins and Melody Gallard. “You might think I’d be into this. Talking, being on camera.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “But it’s always the same questions. Can you sing, too? Does your mother ever talk about the breakup?”

“Will there ever be a reunion?” Melody chimed in.

“Nope,” they said at the same exact time—and laughed.

Beat turned serious. “Look, I hope this isn’t out of line, but I notice the way the tabloids treat you. Online and off. It’s . . . different from how they treat me.” Fire scaled the sides of her neck and gripped her ears. Of course he’d seen the cringe-inducing critiques of Melody. They were usually included in articles that profiled him, as well. The most recent one had whittled her entire existence down to the line, In the case of Trina Gallard’s daughter, the apple didn’t just fall far from the tree, it’s more of a lemon. “I always wonder if it bothers you. Or if you’re able to blow that bullshit off.”

“Oh, I mean . . .” She laughed, too loudly, waved a hand on a floppy fist. “It’s fine. People expect those gossip sites to be snarky. They’re just doing their job.”

He said nothing. Just watched her with a little wrinkle between his brows.

“I’m lying,” she whisper-blurted. “It bothers me.”

His perfect head tilted ever so slightly to one side. “Okay.” He nodded, as if he’d made an important decision about something. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Nothing.” His gaze ran a lap around her face. “You’re not a lemon, by the way. Not even close.” He squinted, but not enough to fully hide the twinkle. “More of a peach.”

She swallowed the dreamy sigh that tried to escape. “Maybe so. Peaches do have pretty thin skin.”

“Yeah, but they have a tough center.”

Something grew and grew inside of Melody. Something she’d never felt before. A kinship, a bond, a connection. She couldn’t come up with a word for it. Only knew that it seemed almost cosmic or preordained. And in that moment, for the first time in her life, she was angry with her mother for her part in breaking up the band. She could have known this boy sooner? Felt . . . understood sooner?

Someone in a headset approached Beat and tapped his shoulder. “We’d like to get the interview started, if you’re ready?”

Unbelievably, he was still looking at Melody. “Yeah, sure.”

Did he sound disappointed?

“I better go, too,” Melody said, holding out her hand for a shake.

Beat studied her hand for several seconds, then gave her a narrow-eyed look—as

 if to say, don’t be silly—and pulled her into the hug of a lifetime. The hug. Of a lifetime. In a millisecond, she was warm in the most pleasant, sweat-free way. All the way down to the soles of her feet. Light-headedness swept in. She’d not only been granted the honor of smelling this boy’s perfect neck, he was encouraging her with a palm to the back of her head. He squeezed her close, before brushing his hand down the back of her hair. Just once. But it was the most beautiful sign of affection she’d ever been offered, and it wrote itself messily all over her heart.

“Hey.” He pulled back with a serious expression, taking Melody by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Mel. You live here in New York, I live in LA. I don’t know when I’ll see you again, but . . . I guess it just feels important, like I need to tell you . . .” He frowned over his own discomposure, which she assumed was rarer than a solar eclipse. “What happened between our mothers has nothing to do with us. Okay? Nothing. If you ever need anything, or maybe you’ve been asked the same question forty million times and can’t take it anymore, just remember that I understand.” He shook his head. “We’ve got this big thing in common, you and me. We have a . . .”

“Bond?” she said breathlessly.

“Yeah.”

She could have wept all over him.

“We do,” he continued, kissing her on the forehead hard and pulling Melody back into the second hug of a lifetime. “I’ll find a way to get you my number, Peach. If you ever need anything, call me, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered, heart and hormones in a frenzy. He’d given her a nickname. She wrapped her arms around him and held tight, giving herself a full five seconds, before forcing herself to release Beat and step back. “Same for you.” She struggled to keep her breathing at a normal pace. “Call me if you ever need someone who understands.” The next part wouldn’t stay tucked inside of her. “We can pretend we’ve been best friends all along.”

To her relief, that lopsided smile was back. “It wouldn’t be so hard, Mel.”

A bell rang somewhere on the set, breaking the spell. Everyone flurried into motion around them. Beat was swept in one direction, Melody in the other. But her pulse didn’t stop pounding for hours after their encounter.

True to his word, Beat found a way to provide her with his number, through an assistant at the end of her interview. She could never find the courage to use it, though. Not even on her most difficult days. And he never called her, either.

That was the beginning and the end of her fairy-tale association with Beat Dawkins.

Or so she thought.

 

Chapter One

December 1

Present Day

Beat stood shivering on the sidewalk outside of his thirtieth birthday party.

At least, he assumed a party was waiting for him inside the restaurant. His friends had been acting mysterious for weeks. If he could only move his legs, he would walk inside and act surprised. He’d hug each of them in turn, like they deserved. Make them explain every step of the planning process and praise them for being so crafty. He’d be the ultimate friend.

And the ultimate fraud.

When the phone started vibrating again in his hand, his stomach gave an unholy churn, so intense he had to concentrate hard on breathing through it. A couple passed him on the sidewalk, shooting him some curious side-eye. He smiled at them in reassurance, but it felt weak, and they only walked faster. He looked down at his phone, already knowing an unknown caller would be displayed on the screen. Same as last time. And the time before.

Over a year and a half had passed since the last time his blackmailer had contacted him. He’d given the man the largest sum of money yet to go away and assumed the harassment was over. Beat was just beginning to feel normal again. Until the message he’d received tonight on the way to his own birthday party.

I’m feeling talkative, Beat. Like I need to get some things off my chest.

It was the same pattern as last time. The blackmailer contacted him out of the blue, no warning, and then immediately became persistent. His demands came on like a blitz, a symphony beginning in the middle of its crescendo. They left no room for negotiation, either. Or reasoning. It was a matter of giving this man what he wanted or having a secret exposed that could rock the very foundation of his family’s world.

No big deal.

He took a deep breath, paced a short distance in the opposite direction of the restaurant. Then he hit call and lifted the phone to his ear.

His blackmailer answered on the first ring.

“Hello again, Beat.”

A red-hot iron dropped in Beat’s stomach.

Did the man’s voice sound more on edge than previous years?

Almost agitated?

“We agreed this was over,” Beat said, his grip tight around the phone. “I was never supposed to hear from you again.”

A raspy sigh filled the line. “The thing about the truth is, it never really goes away.”

With those ominous words echoing in his ear, a sort of surreal calmness settled over Beat. It was one of those moments where he looked around and wondered what in the hell had led him to this time and place. Was he even standing here at all? Or was he trapped in an endless dream? Suddenly the familiar sights of Greenwich Street, only a few blocks from his office, looked like a movie set. Christmas lights in the shapes of bells and Santa heads and holly leaves hung from streetlights, and an early December cold snap turned his breath to frostbitten mist in front of his face.

He was in Tribeca, close enough to the Financial District to see coworkers sharing sneaky cigarettes on the sidewalk after too much to drink, still dressed in their office attire at eight P.M. A rogue elf traipsed down the street, yelling into his phone. A cab drove by slowly, wheels traveling over wet sludge from the brief afternoon snowfall, “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” drifting

out through the window.

“Beat.” The voice in his ear brought him back to reality. “I’m going to need double the amount as last time.”

Nausea lifted all the way to his throat, making his head feel light. “I can’t do that. I don’t personally have that kind of liquid cash and I will not touch the foundation money. This needs to be over.”

“Like I said—”

“The truth never goes away. I heard you.”

Silence was heavy on the line. “I’m not sure I appreciate the way you’re speaking to me, Beat. I have a story to tell. If you’re not going to pay me to keep it to myself, I’ll get what I need from 20/20 or People magazine. They’d love every salacious word.”

And his parents would be ruined.

The truth would devastate his father.

His mother’s sterling reputation would be blown to smithereens.

The public perception of Octavia Dawkins would nose-dive, and thirty years of the charitable work she’d done would mean nothing. There would only be the story.

There would only be the damning truth.

“Don’t do that.” Beat massaged the throbbing sensation between his eyes. “My parents don’t deserve it.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I didn’t deserve to be thrown out of the band, either.” The man snorted. “Don’t talk about shit you don’t know, kid. You weren’t there. Are you going to help me out or should I start making calls? You know, I’ve had this reality show producer contact me twice. Maybe she would be a good place to start.”

The night air turned sharper in his lungs. “What producer? What’s her name?”

Was it the same woman who’d been emailing and calling Beat for the last six months? Offering him an obscene sum of money to participate in a reality show about reuniting Steel Birds? He hadn’t bothered returning any of the correspondence because he’d gotten so many similar offers over the years. The public demand for a reunion hadn’t waned one iota since the nineties and now, thanks to one of the band’s hits going viral decades after its release, the demand was suddenly more relevant than ever.

“Danielle something,” said his blackmailer. “It doesn’t matter. She’s only one of my options.”

“Right.”

How much had she offered Beat? He didn’t remember the exact amount. Only that she’d dangled a lot of money. Possibly seven figures.

“How do we make this stop once and for all?” Beat asked, feeling and sounding like a broken record. “How can I guarantee this is the last time?”

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

Beat was already shaking his head. “I need something in writing.”

“Not happening. It’s my word or nothing. How long do you need to pull the money together?”

Goddammit. This was real. This was happening. Again.

The last year and a half had been nothing but a reprieve. Deep down, he’d known that, right? “I need some time. Until February, at least.”

“You have until Christmas.”

The jagged edge of panic slid into his chest. “That’s less than a month away.”

A humorless laugh crackled down the line. “If you can make your selfish cow of a mother look like a saint to the public, you can get me eight hundred thousand by the twenty-fifth.”

“No, I can’t,” Beat said through his teeth. “It’s impossible—”

“Do it or I talk.”

The line went dead.

Beat stared down at the silent device for several seconds, trying to pull himself together. Text messages from his friends were piling up on the screen, asking him where he was. Why he was late for dinner. He should have been used to pretending everything was normal by now. He’d been doing it for five years, since the first time the blackmailer made contact. Smile. Listen intently. Be grateful. Be grateful at all times for what he had.

How much longer could he pull this off?

A couple of minutes later, he walked into a pitch-black party room.

The lights came on and a sea of smiling faces appeared, shouting, “Surprise!”

And even though his skin was as cold as ice beneath his suit, he staggered back with a dazed grin, laughing the way everyone would expect. Accepting hugs, backslaps, handshakes, and kisses on the cheeks.

Nothing is wrong.

I have it all under control.

Beat struggled through the inundation of stress and attempted to appreciate the good around him. The room full of people who had gathered

 in his honor. He owed them that after all the effort they’d clearly put in. One of the benefits of being born in December was Christmas-themed birthdays, and his friends had laid it on thick. White twinkling lights were wrapped around fresh garland and hanging from the rafters of the restaurant’s banquet room. Poinsettias sprung from glowing vases. The scent of cinnamon and pine was heavy in the air and a fireplace roared in the far corner of the space. His friends, colleagues, and a smattering of cousins wore Santa hats.

As far as themes went, Christmas was the clear winner, and he couldn’t complain. As far back as he could remember, it had been his favorite holiday. The time of year when he could sit still and wear pajamas all day and let his head clear. His family always kept it about the three of them, no outsiders, so he didn’t have to be on. He could just be.

One of Beat’s college buddies from NYU wrestled him into a playful headlock and he endured it, knowing the guy meant well. God, they all did. His friends weren’t aware of the kind of strain he was under. If they did, they would probably try to help. But he couldn’t allow that. Couldn’t allow a single person to know the delicate reason why he was being blackmailed.

Or who was behind it.

Beat noticed everyone around him was laughing and he joined in, pretending he’d heard the joke, but his brain was working through furious rounds of math. Presenting and discarding solutions. Eight hundred thousand dollars. Double what he’d paid this man last time. Where would he come up with it? And what about next time? Would they venture into the millions?

“You didn’t think we’d let your thirtieth pass without an obnoxious celebration, did you?” Vance said, elbowing him in the ribs. “You know us better than that.”

“You’re damn right I do.” A glass of champagne appeared in Beat’s hand. “What time is the clown arriving to make balloon animals?”

The group erupted into a disbelieving roar. “How the hell—”

“You ruined the surprise!”

“Like you said”—Beat saluted them, smiling until they all dropped the indignation and grinned back—“I know you.”

They don’t know you, though. Do they?

His smile faltered slightly, but he covered it up with a gulp of champagne, setting the empty glass down on the closest table, noting the peppermints strewn among the confetti. The paper pieces were in the shape of little B’s. Pictures of Beat dotted the refreshment table in plastic holders. One of him jumping off a cliff in Costa Rica. Another one of him graduating in a cap and gown from business school. Yet another photo depicted him onstage introducing his mother, world-famous Octavia Dawkins, at a charity dinner he’d organized recently for her foundation. He was smiling in every single picture.

It was like looking at a stranger. He didn’t even know that guy.

When he jumped off that cliff in Central America, he’d been in the middle of procuring funds to pay off the blackmailer the first time. Back when he could manage the sum. Fifty thousand here or there. Sure, it meant a little shuffling of his assets, but nothing he couldn’t handle in the name of keeping his parents’ names from being dragged through the mud.

He couldn’t manage this much of a payoff alone. The foundation had more than enough money in its coffers, but it would be a cold day in hell before he stole from the charity he’d built with his mother. Not happening. That cash went to worthy causes. Well-deserved scholarships for performing arts students

who couldn’t afford the costs associated with training, education, and living expenses. That money did not go to blackmail.

So where would he get the funds?

Maybe a quick call to his accountant would calm his nerves. He’d invested in a few start-ups last year. Maybe he could pull those investments now? There had to be something.

There isn’t, whispered a voice in the back of his head.

Feeling even more chilled than before, Beat forced a casual expression onto his face. “Excuse me for a few minutes, I just need to make a phone call.”

“To whom?” Vance asked. “Everyone you know is in this room.”

That was not true.

His parents weren’t here.

But that was not who his mind immediately landed on—and it was ridiculous that he should still be thinking about Melody Gallard fourteen years after meeting her one time. He could still recall that afternoon so vividly, though. Her smile, the way she whisper-talked, as if she wasn’t all that used to talking at all. The way she couldn’t seem to look him in the eye, then all of a sudden she couldn’t seem to look anywhere else. Neither had he.

And he’d hugged thousands of people in his life, but she was the only one he could still feel in his arms. They were meant to be friends. Unfortunately, he’d never called. She’d never used his number, either. Now it was too late. Still, when Vance said Everyone you know is in this room, Beat thought of her right away.

It felt like he knew Melody—and she wasn’t here.

She might know him the best out of everyone if he’d kept in touch.

“Maybe he needs to call a woman,” someone sang from the other side of the group. “We know how Beat likes to keep his relationships private.”

“When I find a woman who can survive my friends, I’ll bring her around.”

“Oh, come on.”

“We’d be on our best behavior.”

Beat raised a skeptical brow. “You don’t have a best behavior.”

Someone picked up a handful of B confetti and threw it at him. He flicked a piece off his shoulder without missing a beat, satisfied that he’d once again diverted their interest in his love life. He kept that private for good reason. “One phone call and I’ll be back. Don’t start the balloon animals without me. I’m going to see if the artist can create me a sense of privacy.” He gave them all a grin to let them know he was joking. “It means a lot that you organized this party for me. Thank you. It’s . . . everything a guy could hope for.”

That sappy moment earned him a chorus of boos and several more tosses of confetti until he had to duck and cover his way out 

of the room. But as soon as he was outside, his smile slid away. Back on the sidewalk like before, he stood for a full minute looking down at the phone in his hand. He could call his accountant. It would be a waste, though. After five years of having the blackmailer on his back like a parasite, he’d wrung himself dry. There simply wasn’t eight hundred thousand dollars to spare.

You know, I’ve had this reality show producer contact me twice.

Maybe she would be a good place to start.

His blackmailer’s words came back to him. Danielle something. She’d contacted Beat, too. Had a popular network behind her, if Beat recalled correctly. His assistant usually dealt with inquiries pertaining to Steel Birds, but he’d forwarded this particular request to Beat because of the size of the offer and the producer’s clout.

Instead of calling his accountant, he searched his inbox for the name Danielle—and he found the email after a little scrolling.

Dear Mr. Dawkins,

Allow me to introduce myself. I’m your ticket to becoming a household name.

Since Steel Birds broke up in ninety-three, the public has been desperate for a reunion of the women who not only cowrote some of the world’s most beloved ballads, but inspired a movement. Empowered little girls to get out there, find a microphone, and express their discontent, no matter who it pissed off. I was one of those little girls. ...