Wishing On A Star (A Shooting Stars Novel Book 3)

by Terri Osburn

  Virginia examined the signature from her upside-down view. “Oh my gosh. Mom is never going to believe this without a picture. Can we take a selfie?”

  “After practice,” Ash cut in. “We’re already getting a late start.”

  Undeterred, the excited blonde returned to her seat, color high and eyes wide. She showed the boy next to her—an older-looking kid with dark, curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses—her shiny new autograph. If Ash brought Jesse here to boost her ego, he could consider it mission accomplished.

  Hands itching to play, she realized she was missing something. “I didn’t bring a guitar,” Jesse whispered to Ash. “Why didn’t you tell me I needed one?”

  “I keep a couple here, so I don’t have to carry one in every weekend. Or in case one of the kids forgets theirs.” Whipping a set of keys from his pocket, Ash unlocked a door behind the desk, disappeared inside what she assumed was a storage closet, and then reappeared carrying two hard cases. “Here you go,” he said, handing one to Jesse.

  She set the instrument across a couple desks and opened the case, heart nearly stopping when she got a look at what was inside.

  “This is a Takamine Pro Series 7.”

  “Yep,” Ash replied, clicking open his own case.

  Jesse blinked in astonishment. “You keep a three-thousand-dollar guitar locked in that closet? And you let these kids use it?”

  Holding a Gibson Hummingbird, he said, “Normally, I’d use that one, but you’re a special guest so you get it today.”

  Now he was messing with her. “You keep over five thousand dollars’ worth of guitars here all the time? What do you keep at home?”

  With a casual shrug, he withdrew several picks from his jeans pocket and passed one her way. “I have a solid collection. A few more Gibsons. Fender, Epiphone, Martin. Enough to fill out any spontaneous jam sessions that might come about.”

  Except for not being on stage, Ash was living the life Jesse wanted. She’d been part of the Nashville music scene for five years but had yet to fully wedge her way in. Granted, Ash had been here longer and had enough number ones to earn his credibility, but dang, she wanted what he had.

  While Jesse was still admiring her guitar-for-the-day, Ash settled on a tall stool in front of the gathering and started the class. “Everyone warmed up?”

  A collective yes echoed from the students.

  “Good. First, let me introduce our guest.” He turned to find Jesse hadn’t lifted the guitar from the case. “What are you doing back there?”

  “Working up the courage to pick this baby up.”

  Ash lowered his voice. “It’s a guitar, Jesse, not a priceless work of art.”

  The heck it wasn’t.

  “You’ve been playing since you were younger than these guys,” he reminded her. “Let’s go.”

  Jesse did as ordered, loving the feel of the instrument in her hands. After taking the stool beside his, she gave the strings a quick strum and had a musical orgasm. “This is awesome.”

  “Keep it together, Rheingold,” he mumbled, the use of her real name shocking her into paying attention. “Let’s show Ms. Jesse what we can do. ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’ Everyone ready?”

  After another collective response, Ash dove into the opening riff of the classic Van Morrison song. He’d used the same tune to teach Jesse nearly two decades before, and she remembered the chords well. Eight bars in, the kids joined him, every last one of them singing in harmony. The explosion of sound took her by surprise, but she recovered another bar in and picked up with the ensemble. Three minutes later, after several sha la las, the song ended with one final chord, and Jesse couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this much fun.

  “Great job, you guys,” she said, unable to contain her enthusiasm. “Y’all are really good.”

  “You want to take lead vocals for one?” Ash asked her.

  “What are my options?”

  Holding her gaze, he said, “‘Ring of Fire.’”

  The song she’d sung in her first public performance ever, and one of Jesse’s favorites. The look in his eyes said he remembered the fifth-grade talent show as well as she did. Jesse had forgotten that though neither of her parents could be bothered to watch, Ash had surprised her after the show, still dressed in his dirty baseball uniform, to congratulate her on the triumphant debut.

  He’d been there from the beginning, and Jesse realized he was trying to remind her why she started playing music in the first place. The kids murmured their approval of the song choice, and Ash kicked them off. By the end of the song, Jesse knew without a doubt that this would not be her last visit to the Sunshine Academy.

  “I can’t believe how good those kids are,” Jesse said as she returned the guitar to its case.

  Ash was proud of his students, but even prouder of Jesse. She’d humored Virginia and posed for a series of pictures, even taking one on her own phone and sharing it to Instagram. The young girl had nearly passed out from excitement.

  “They’re a talented bunch,” he replied.

  “How long have you been working with them?”

  “I’ve been teaching here for about six years, but this group averages around nine months or so.” Of all that Ash had achieved since moving to Nashville, running the music program at Sunshine Academy was one of his most satisfying endeavors. “Butler—the older one with the curly hair—has been with me just over a year. He was falling into the wrong crowd, so his mom was looking for something to keep him out of trouble.”

  “And music was that something.”

  Ash nodded. “It was. The kid took to it much like you did. Like he was born to play.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said. “I remember the early days when I couldn’t find a chord to save my life.”

  “Nobody is great from day one.” He let her close the guitar case, and then carried them both back to the closet. Returning, Ash said, “Once upon a time, Jimmy Page couldn’t play a G-chord.”

  Jesse pulled on her leather jacket. “I can’t imagine that.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re still here.” Millie Hopewell burst into the room, more disheveled than usual. “I just received some wonderful news.”

  He’d never seen her so animated. “What is it, Millie?”

  She waved the letter in her hand. “We’ve been invited to participate in a Christmas show at the Ryman. Our students are going to be on television!”

  “That’s a big deal,” Jesse said with a genuine smile.

  “Isn’t it, though? They want both the choir and the musicians. I can’t wait to tell the children.”

  Ash headed up both those groups. “How did they hear about the academy?” he asked.

  Millie shrugged. “I have no idea, but who cares? This kind of exposure can do wonders for our programs.” She hugged the letter to her chest. “The children are going to be absolutely thrilled. All of the parents are invited to be part of the audience, and you’ll be center stage as their leader.”

  “I’ll be what?” Ash didn’t do stages. Not ones the size of the Ryman—which was sacred ground as the previous and still occasional home of the Grand Ole Opry. He definitely didn’t do television. “I doubt they’ll need me on stage.”

  “You’re the musical director of Sunshine Academy. The children couldn’t possibly go up there without you.”

  “You’re the musical director?” Jesse cut in. “I thought you just a volunteer.”

  “Just a volunteer? Ash is an important part of this facility, and I don’t know what we would do without him.” Millie offered Jesse a warm smile. “I’m glad you joined us today, Ms. Gold. And I hope you’ll come back.”

  “I plan on it,” Jesse replied, surprising Ash, who was still shell-shocked from the TV news.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” She gave a non-committal shrug. “This was fun.”

  He’d hoped to put Jesse’s focus back on the music and not all the other distractio
ns that came with trying to make it in this town. He’d never expected her to pay a return visit.

  “Wonderful. Just wonderful.” Millie straightened the letter she’d nearly crumpled and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “The taping is the middle of next month, and the producers asked to set up a meeting to discuss expectations and ideas. As soon as I have a date for that, I’ll let you know.”

  “Sounds good,” Ash replied, forcing enthusiasm into his voice.

  Millie turned and nearly floated from the room. “We’re going to be on television.”

  Jesse turned his way. “You’re going to be on stage at the Ryman. I’d kill to do that.”

  Ash nodded and led her from the room with only one thought in mind.

  Better you than me.

  Seven

  Jesse hated sitting still, which was one of many reasons the last few months had been so frustrating.

  To keep her skills high, she’d played a few local gigs, but the people she’d encountered, both fellow musicians and fans alike, all wanted to talk about the breakup. The questions hadn’t been easy or comfortable to answer, and Jesse knew that from an outsider’s perspective, she looked like the loser. At least sweet Virginia didn’t see it that way.

  The young girl had made Jesse’s year, and not because she was a fan, but because seeing Jesse play had motivated her to pick up a guitar. That was something to be proud of. Also something Jesse never imagined would happen. She’d been so focused on the charts and the press and the accolades, that the true purpose of performing—to move and inspire people—had gotten lost along the way.

  Nothing like an innocent teen to put Jesse’s life back in perspective.

  By Sunday afternoon, she’d finished three rounds of laundry, unloaded the dishwasher, vacuumed the carpets, and watered the plants. Plants that were quickly fading due to Jesse’s incurable black thumb. She’d recently begun regular plant pep talks to convince them to stay alive for a few weeks longer until their loving owner returned. Though Ryan wasn’t their original owner.

  That was Helena, Ryan’s previous girlfriend, who’d caught him in bed with another woman and made a hasty exit without the greenery. Ryan’s track record with women was, in a word, distressing, but he loved Jesse, and in the year plus they’d been together, he’d never given her reason to doubt him. Was she ignoring what she didn’t want to see? Perhaps. But when they were together, it was easy to pretend.

  While scrubbing mildew off the shower door, Jesse focused on the things she loved about Ryan. His endless charm, wicked grin, and ice-blue eyes were an irresistible combination, but he was also quick to laugh and made her feel loved. The only thing Ryan took seriously was play, and he attacked life with abandon, something Jesse needed to do more of. Where Ash was safe and steady, Ryan was dangerous and unpredictable. One supplied comfort while the other was like playing with fire.

  Stopping mid-wipe, Jesse stared through the soapy glass. Why was she comparing Ryan to Ash? It wasn’t as if she were choosing between the two. Anything beyond a professional relationship with Ash was out of the question. He was her past. Ryan was her future. End of story.

  Annoyed with her wayward thoughts, she finished scouring the bathroom and found herself with nothing else to clean. Which brought her right back to sitting still. Glass of sweet tea in one hand and her notebooks in the other, Jesse settled on the oversized swing on the back porch—her addition to the dwelling.

  A porch swing was better than some fickle old houseplants any day.

  She set the swing into motion and proceeded to flip through the notebooks, trying to predict which songs Ash might like. After dismissing three in a row, she remembered that this was her album and what Ash liked or didn’t like shouldn’t matter.

  “Hey there, neighbor,” called Geraldine Allsop from next door. “Are you going to give me an update or what?”

  This part of town mostly consisted of bungalows built decades before, all close enough together to make avoiding your neighbors nearly impossible. Thankfully, Jesse adored Geraldine and never missed an opportunity to visit with the older woman.

  “Come on over.” Jesse hopped off the swing. “I’ll get you some tea.”

  By the time Jesse returned with the drink, the neighbor had planted herself in the old rocker. Her black hair was teased high and hair-sprayed into an unmoving coif, and she still wore her church clothes—a white blouse and a long denim skirt that covered the tops of her sparkly cowboy boots, plus a trademark red scarf tied jauntily around her neck. At fifty-six, she was still a striking woman.

  Like others before her, and those still arriving today, Geraldine had moved to town thirty-five years ago with a guitar and a dream, but she never made the big time. There’d been times after Taylor’s betrayal that Jesse feared she might meet the same fate. If a woman as talented as Geraldine—a virtual powerhouse of a singer—couldn’t make it, then what chance did Jesse have? To her credit, the older woman had scolded her for entertaining such ridiculous doubts, claiming that Jesse possessed all the ingredients to be a real star.

  From Geraldine’s ruby-red lips to God’s ears.

  With her typical, laid-back smile, she accepted the tea and set the rocker into motion. “Thank you, darling. I’ve been watching for you all weekend. Do we have a producer yet?”

  Jesse grinned. “We do. He doesn’t have a lot of experience, but he’s written a bunch of hit songs, and that’s what I need. Now I just have to figure out which of my songs to show him.”

  “I’m here for you, honey-child. Tell old Geraldine what you’re thinking.”

  “You aren’t old,” Jesse admonished, and then held up her notebooks. “I’ve gone through these things multiple times, and I can’t decide what is right for the album. Ash said I need to pick songs that speak to me, and the rest will fall into place.”

  Her friend snorted. “If he thinks it’s that simple, then, baby, you’re in trouble. Country radio doesn’t give a shit about what speaks to you. They want songs that speak to their listeners. Today, that’s more pop than twang, and a hook that will have twenty-somethings cranking their station at every kegger and bonfire north and south of the Mason Dixon Line.”

  “Exactly,” Jesse’s said. “Party songs. High energy, but sweet, too. That’s what’s working right now for female artists.”

  “Darn tootin’. Plug in that formula, and you’ll have yourself a hit record.”

  Jesse didn’t like the word formula, but that’s all any song was, really. A couple verses, a chorus with an undeniable hook, and a bridge to bring it all together. Three minutes of magic, as Silas once called it.

  Holding out her glass for a toast, Jesse said, “To hit records.”

  Geraldine tapped her own against Jesse’s before flipping her hair over her shoulder. The hair didn’t budge. “To hit records and lots of ’em.”

  In one more day, Jesse’s solo career would finally be off the ground. Now she just had to take off before Taylor Roper did it first.

  Clay Benedict was getting beaten by an old man.

  Concerned about his newly signed artist, Clay had extended an invitation to Silas Fillmore for a Sunday round of golf, somehow unaware of how well the man knew his way around a course. The exec had no reason to regret signing the young artist—yet—but Jesse’s initial reaction to Ash Shepherd concerned him. In the six weeks since they’d signed the contracts, every interaction Clay had with Jesse told him he’d made the right choice, but reputations were tough to live down, even when they were undeserved.

  The rumor that Jesse was hard to deal with—likely spread by the Taylor Roper camp, though Clay had no proof of that—had hindered their progress. She’d never displayed a hint of temper or diva behavior in his presence, nor had any of his staff reported negative encounters. Yet Jesse had done a complete reversal when he’d announced Ash as her producer, and though after the two met privately, she’d been more receptive to the arrangement, Clay worried that any amount of tension could not only delay the proj
ect further, but derail it completely.

  “Good shot,” he muttered as Silas planted the ball well onto the green, positioning himself for yet another birdie. “How long have you been playing this game?”

  Silas dropped the club into his bag and gave Clay a wink. “Probably about as long as you’ve been alive, Mr. Benedict.” Grinning, he stepped back from the tee. More than once, Clay had suggested the older man use his given name, but Silas insisted on the formality.

  They were six holes in and had yet to discuss the older man’s client. A fact Clay suspected was his companion’s doing. Silas had to know why he’d received the invitation but was following the cardinal rule of Business 101—never give anything away. If Clay wanted to discuss Jesse Gold, he would have to broach the subject himself.

  “Do you know anything about Jesse’s history with Ash Shepherd?” Clay asked. He’d posed the same question to the new producer and received a vague answer about them growing up in the same town. The one fact Clay already knew.

  “They’re both from Eton, Georgia, but that’s the extent of my knowledge. I’m more interested in Jesse’s future than her past.”

  And you should be, too was the unspoken ending to that statement. Clay was only interested so far as the past could affect her future and, in turn, the future of his label.

  “She didn’t seem happy to see him on Friday morning.” Swinging the driver, Clay made contact with the ball and sent it slicing right toward a bunker. “Shit,” he mumbled, watching the ball touch down on the green, and then careen into the sand.

  “Unlucky bounce,” Silas said, knowing full well the bounce was not the problem. Heading off toward the cart, Silas offered no response to Clay’s question.

  Undeterred, Clay waited until they’d finished the hole—Silas finishing two strokes ahead of him—and were on to the next to try again.