by Ruby Laska
Table of Contents
Title page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
About Ruby Laska
Please enjoy this excerpt from… BLACK HEAT
BLACK GOLD
By
Ruby Laska
BLACK GOLD Copyright 2013 by Ruby Laska
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Discover other titles by Ruby Laska at http://rubylaska.blogspot.com/
CHAPTER ONE
The girl singing on stage was nearing the end of her set. Sweat poured down her face, taking what remained of her eye makeup with it. Her cheap tank top had lost a few sequins during the performance and there was a long, ragged thread hanging from the edge of her skirt. Only her boots looked like they'd come from anywhere other than a thrift store: fire engine red with swirls of fancy stitching on the side.
Regina McCary hung on to every note, imagining that the familiar adrenaline rush might be what a natural-born predator felt as it closed in on its prey. She drained the last of her weak gin and tonic and forced down a bite of her sandwich. It wouldn't do to let hunger or dehydration slow her down, not this close to the score.
"Not bad, is she?" a familiar voice grated in her ear when the song ended. The small audience clapped enthusiastically, especially a group of drunk guys taking up most of the back of the bar around the pool tables, and Regina could barely hear him. But she'd know that voice anywhere. Her heart sank and she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed: not here, not now. Surely, he wouldn't have followed her all the way here from Nashville, not when this was supposed to be her first vacation in six years.
But when she finally opened her eyes, it was Carl Cash who had slid into the chair across the small table from her. He pushed her plate out of the way to make room to set his familiar canvas knapsack on the table.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Regina demanded.
"Following up on a hot tip. But, honey, you don't want to talk about work, do you? Not while you're on vacation."
"How do you know I'm on vacation?"
But Regina could guess, and her heart plummeted because there was only one person who could have told Carl where she was, and the betrayal stung: Meredith Jester wasn't just her boss, she was supposedly her friend.
"I'd have to be your friend to do this," Meredith had said the day she told Regina she had two choices: take a vacation, or find another job. "It would be easier to just cut you loose. Or let you work yourself to death."
Meredith had always had a soft spot for Carl, who had worked at her talent agency before striking out on his own. Never mind that Carl had become her number one competitor. Meredith was loyal to all of her former employees. That had worked out well back when Regina had been dating him, and even better when she’d been engaged to him. Meredith had even helped plan their wedding, when she wasn't busy running her talent agency.
When Regina and Carl broke up, Regina suggested it would be a good time for Meredith to let go too. But Meredith replied that there were enough rising country music stars to keep both Cash Professional Management and the Jester Group busy, and besides, she enjoyed the competition. She and Carl continued to try to poach each other's hottest clients while trading friendly barbs and gossip about Regina.
"Okay," Regina said, taking a deep breath. "Look. I suppose Meredith told you to come up here and keep an eye on me. But I do know how to take a break from work, Carl. I'm on vacation, nothing more."
"In a bar," Carl said, raising an eyebrow, "with live music."
"There aren't a whole lot of entertainment options in Conway, North Dakota," Regina hedged. "Haven't you noticed?"
"Which makes it seem like a very odd choice for a vacation."
"No, wait, there's hiking—"
"Yeah, Meredith told me about that. Miles of unpaved trails with views of... nothing. Come on, Regina, there's way better hiking around Nashville. And besides, you don't even own a pair of hiking boots."
"And there's rafting on the Little Yellow River. And there's a historic fort around here somewhere—"
"Right. Maybe Meredith fell for all of that. But I think I know you just a little better than she does." Carl tugged the leather laces of his knapsack and reached inside, pulling out a sleek top-of-the-line laptop.
The knapsack, like so much about Carl, was part of the disguise he had cultivated. He never actually came out and denied the rumors that he was Johnny Cash's nephew, but he made damn sure to cover up the fact he was the one who started most of those rumors. Regina was one of the only people who knew he'd been born Carl Bettendorf from upstate New York, and gotten himself a fancy East Coast education before coming to Nashville and transforming himself.
After a few taps of the keyboard, Carl spun the laptop around and Regina found herself looking at a publicity shot of the same girl who'd exited the stage only moments earlier. Underneath were the columns of data that Carl was so good at digging up: the handful of venues she'd played in the last few years, the few minor acts she'd opened for, the unknown bands she'd belonged to before they broke up.
Exhaustive research along with relentless determination was what Carl was known for. Just as what Regina was known for was discovering indie artists who were sure to become critics' darlings—and earn next to nothing.
"You wouldn't," Regina breathed. "She's mine. I found her." After a lot of hard work and almost as much soul searching, Regina had discovered Stiletta through an obscure blogger and recognized her commercial potential. Regina was determined to finally land a client who'd be a financial success, someone who'd attract the big labels and land the sort of contract that would finally make her colleagues stop treating her like an intern.
"Oh, yes, I certainly would," Carl said. "That was a very expensive wedding we cancelled, Reggie. I've got to recoup those expenses any way I can."
"I told you I'd pay you back for every cent!"
"Yeah, that would be kind of hard to do on your income, unfortunately," Carl said mildly, closing the laptop and putting it away. He signaled for a passing waitress—the same one who'd ignored Regina for the first half hour that she'd sat at the table—and the woman made a U-turn and headed their way.
"Not if I sign Stiletta! She's solid, Carl. With a little cleanup I'll have her booked solid in Nashville by next month."
"Now that's a funny thing," Carl said. "Seems like Meredith told me something about you swearing on your grandmother's Bible that you wouldn't even think about working while you're up here."
"You can't tell her."
"It's kind of sweet," Carl said, considering her with his head tilted to the side. "Hang on a sec," he added as the waitress sidled up to him, letting her eyes rove over Carl's gym-muscled shoulders straining the seams on his pearl-buttoned western shirt. Carl was a looker, Regina had to give him that much. Too bad all that pretty was only skin-deep. "Sweethea
rt, I'll have a rye and soda, and something a little more ladylike for my friend here. She's on vacation, so she deserves to cut loose. Something tropical with a pink umbrella, maybe?"
"I could do a Bahama Mama," the waitress purred, "or maybe a Sex on the Beach." She was in her sixties, but she was as susceptible to the legendary Carl Cash charm as every other woman.
"Oh, definitely a Sex on the Beach." Carl winked.
"I don't need another drink!" Regina protested. But Carl had tossed a twenty onto the waitress's tray, and she made a beeline for the bar.
"Anyway, as I was saying, it's kind of sweet the way Meredith trusts you. A few brochures for white water rafting, and she's ready to believe you're actually going to take time off."
"I should never have told her where I was really going," Regina said.
"No, probably not," Carl agreed. "You could’ve said you were going to Cozumel or Key West like a normal person. You know that it only took me about fifteen minutes of searching online to figure out what caught your eye up here, once I knew the name of the town. Buzz is building on Stiletta, but still mostly local. Nice work, Reggie. Got to say, I didn't think you had it in you to sign someone who could go mainstream."
"This is completely unethical!" Regina could feel the familiar sensation building inside her—embarrassment mixed with a profound sense of unfairness. After all, her clients had won over a dozen industry awards, and all of them had received great reviews, but none had sold more than a few thousand copies. Meredith didn't mind. She always said Regina's client list gave the firm cachet. But Regina knew that until she brought in a big breakout, she'd be stuck with the smallest office and worst parking space in the firm.
Stiletta was going to change all of that. "I found her. I'm going to sign her myself!"
Carl was already shaking his head. "All's fair in love and war, Reggie. I think you were the one who said that to me, weren't you?"
"Yes—when I found you in bed with your assistant."
"You make it sound so tawdry. She was a full grown woman."
"Oh, right, so just because she made it all the way to grad school before she got exploited by her boss, I should overlook the fact that we were supposed to get married? You know what? Never mind. There’s no way I'm going to get sucked into this all over again." It would end with her nearly having another nervous breakdown, and there was no telling where Meredith would send her next. Regina would be lucky to avoid going to Siberia—Meredith might finally make good on her threat to fire her so Regina could find a less competitive profession. Like drag racing, perhaps, or trial law.
Competition among Nashville's talent scouts was fierce. But competitiveness had been ingrained in Regina when she was only five years old, when her parents first sent Regina to the piano teacher who'd taught her two elder sisters, both of whom were now concert pianists. Regina was the only one who didn't have the talent to perform, and she still carried the sting of failure. But those lessons hadn't gone to waste. Regina could spot talent from miles away.
Still, her desire to win—at something, anything—had been honed by time into a fierce and untamable drive.
Which gave her an idea. "Tell you what, Carl. If I sign Stiletta, you forgive my half of the wedding expenses."
Carl rolled his eyes. "Come on, Reggie. I've told you a thousand times that you don't need to pay me back. I'm the one who screwed up. I'm the one who ought to pay for my mistake."
"And if you sign Stiletta," she said, barely listening, "I'll convince Meredith to give you Buckeye Brown."
Carl's eyes went wide. Regina knew that behind them, Carl’s brain was doing feverish calculations. Buckeye Brown had sold thirty-five thousand copies of his first album, enough to make him a hot young star. There was one problem with working with Buckeye, though. He had no respect for women. He'd made Meredith's life a living hell since she found him in an Alabama roadhouse, where she should’ve left him. She’d been considering offloading him for a while now, especially since he was five months late on his new album and spending a little too much time at the racetrack. A problem client, in other words, but Carl didn't need to know that.
"Deal," he said, much too quickly. He tried to cover up his error by grabbing her hand and holding onto it a little too long. "Aw, Regina, we were good together, weren't we?"
On stage, the bespectacled, middle-aged bar owner was adjusting the microphone, causing a burst of static that saved Regina from having to answer Carl's question. "Folks, hope you enjoyed hearing that young lady sing. Name's Stiletta. You can see her here every Thursday. Now while she's resting up those amazing vocal chords, let's give a hand to our good friend Chase Warner who's going to sing us a tune or two. It's his birthday, so let's make him feel welcome, hear?"
Cheering erupted from the men gathered around the pool tables as they pushed a member of their group toward the stage. It didn't look like he felt much like singing, but his rowdy friends weren't about to let him sit back down. When the bar owner handed him the microphone, he mumbled something unintelligible and tried to give it back.
The audience started chanting his name as Stiletta got up from her barstool and went back on stage. She picked up her battered old guitar and handed it to the man before she jumped gracefully down from the stage and returned to her seat. He sat on the stool the bartender had dragged into the middle of the stage and looked around, his shoulders sloped in defeat. "Oh, all right," he said, tipping his hat in the direction of the audience without actually looking at them. "Evenin'," he added softly, while he made a few adjustments to the tuning.
"Here we go." Carl sighed, as the waitress set their drinks down in front of them. "I hate amateur night." He took a deep sip and Regina, who’d been considering sending hers back, did the same, wincing at the cloying sweetness of the drink. She might well need the alcohol to get through the performance by the "local favorite." For scouts with finely trained ears, unpolished performers could be sheer agony.
The man cleared his throat and gave the body of the worn guitar an affectionate little pat. Then he strummed a couple of chords and began to sing.
"Hold the press," Carl said after a few bars.
Chase Warner, whoever he was, had a hell of a voice, world-weary and gritty and resonant. The notes of an unfamiliar song in a minor key poured from him effortlessly as though he'd learned it as a child and sung it in the shower a thousand times. By the first chorus, Carl had his laptop back out and had jammed the little desktop microphone into place, furiously typing notes. Regina tried to absorb and mentally catalog as much as she could about the man. Around six feet tall, solidly built but not heavy, with nice muscular forearms under an unexceptional knit shirt. Chestnut brown hair, skin lightly tanned. Reasonably good haircut, though Regina would probably recommend he grow it a couple more inches, maybe get some lowlights to make the blond ends really pop. Gorgeous dark eyes—hard to tell in this light, but Regina was guessing brown—though he didn't make nearly enough visual contact with the audience. Didn't show them he wanted to have their babies, as Meredith always said.
Regina risked a glance at Carl. Damn—he was hanging onto every note. Why couldn't he have left before this guy took the stage? Stiletta was good, and with a little polish and a new wardrobe, she would be very commercial. But this guy—Chase something, wasn't that his name?—was the real deal. Like a young Randy Travis, with those soulful eyes and engaging, easy grin once he got comfortable with the song. The way his eyes crinkled when he winked at the older ladies at the front table—pure gold.
As he moved smoothly through a key change, his voice reached down inside Regina and gave her heart a little tug... stirring something else in the process, something that hadn't been stirred in a while.
Charisma: the man had buckets of it. He wore his old, frayed blue jeans like a second skin, and the leather bracelet on his wrist showed off his corded muscle and the faint gold hairs on his tawny skin. The longer Regina listened to him, the better he looked. Professionally speaking, of course.
His grin went adorably crooked, and he stepped off the stage, coming toward her. He was saying something to her as he made his way through the bar tables, something she couldn't quite hear.
She stood up, moving to meet him as though drawn by an invisible force. "I'm Regina McCary," she said, holding out her hand. "That was amazing."
"I think I'm going to be sick," he said before turning away from her and lurching across the bar to the men's room.
"Nice going, Reggie," Carl said, behind her. "Let's double down, what do you say? I'm going to sign them both. If I do, I get Buckeye—and a second chance with you. If you can sign even one of them, we're settled up on the wedding and you can cook me a consolation dinner."
"You're on," Regina said. Not because she had any intention of spending one more night with lying, smooth-talking Carl Cash-nee-Bettendorf—but because she wasn't about to let Chase Warner out of her sights, not until he'd signed on the dotted line and packed his bags for Nashville.
CHAPTER TWO
Chase came out of the stall and headed straight for the sink. He was tempted to stick his entire head under the faucet, but he didn't think it would fit. Instead he washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and wished he had a toothbrush. He hadn't had this much to drink since the night of his father's funeral, and he'd sworn the next day on the way to the lawyer's office to hear the reading of the will that he'd never end up like his father. Gerald Warner had drunk too much, and even though Chase rarely did, he had no intention of tempting fate.