Back To You (In Tune Book 1)

by Jessica Ruddick

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Newsletter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Ruddick

  Copyright © 2022 by Jessica Ruddick

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-946164-26-1

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  Chapter 1

  Gabe

  Paul Chinsky, an executive for Killjoy Records, stared at me expectantly.

  I blinked. “Come again?”

  He folded his hands on the large, obnoxious desk he sat behind. Some men overcompensated with automobiles. This man did it with his desk. “Country,” he repeated slowly, confirming I’d heard him correctly the first time.

  I shook my head. “I don’t do country.” Listen to it? Yeah, I enjoyed all music. But I sure as hell didn’t write and perform it.

  “You haven’t yet,” he corrected. “But our research says there’s a hole in the market, and you, my boy, are just the one to plug it for Killjoy Records.”

  He had confirmed what I’d already suspected—I was just another cog in the wheel. Back when I’d first signed with them, Killjoy had been a different beast with execs who cared more about the artists than the bottom line. Now, the offices were filled with asshats like Chinsky.

  “Not going to happen.” I’d caved to the execs’ demands on my last studio album, which had been a big mistake—I almost didn’t recognize myself on it. Sadly, my fans had agreed.

  He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I was thinking your first single could be a duet. Carrie Underwood would be ideal, but let’s face it—that’s a pipe dream.”

  The young woman who’d been sitting off to the side and furiously taking notes on an iPad raised her hand like we were in high school.

  Chinsky sighed. “Yes, Carolyn?”

  I was pretty sure her name was Caroline, but she didn’t correct him.

  “Might I suggest Izzie Brown?”

  Chinsky frowned. “Who?”

  “Killjoy signed her last month.”

  His frown deepened. “I thought we changed her name.”

  “Er… um…”

  Chinsky waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever. Put her on the list. Gabe, your last single didn’t even chart, so we might have to take whoever we can get.”

  The song in question was a piece of bubblegum pop that had gone on the soundtrack for an animated movie. I’d done it as a favor to Killjoy, and Chinsky wanted to give me shit about it. I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling an incredible migraine coming on. They’d been coming more frequently, and I guessed my hectic schedule of four albums in five years and nonstop touring was finally catching up to me. It pissed me off that I’d run myself ragged only to line the pockets of men like Chinsky.

  “Maybe Dolly Parton is available.” My snide comment was unwarranted. I had nothing but respect for the legend. But Christ, me making a country album was just as ludicrous as asking Dolly to be on it. I’d made that cartoony pop shit, though, so I supposed all bets were off.

  Chinsky leveled his gaze at me. “In your dreams, son.”

  My fingers curled into fists, and I had to restrain myself from leaping over the ridiculously oversized desk and punching that asshole in his smug, pudgy face. It was the “son” that did it. I was no one’s fucking son, and I didn’t bust my ass and make millions for the label only to be talked down to.

  Exhaling, I unclenched my hands. The last time I punched someone, my knuckles were so bruised I had trouble playing the guitar the next day. Not worth it. But I needed to get out of there before I changed my mind and decided he was.

  “Excuse me,” I muttered and stalked out of the office before he could object. Out in the hall, I paced. I wasn’t cut out to deal with business shit. That was what my longtime manager, Martin, was for. But his wife had just given birth to their first child, and I wasn’t trying to bother him with things I could handle. Too bad I overestimated myself. I hadn’t expected to be blindsided by the country-album idea.

  It was a bad idea, just like every other idea that came from the top floor of Killjoy Records Tower. I’d made that pop song because I thought it would be fun to see my music in a kids’ movie, and hell, it had worked for Justin Timberlake. Maybe it would have been a better experience if the movie hadn’t bombed. And of course, there was the disaster of my aforementioned fourth studio album. I’d strayed from my sound, and I’d be damned if I was going to do it again.

  I took out my phone to call Martin then paused. It would be an asshole move to bug him after I’d made such a big deal about being able to handle one meeting with a Killjoy exec. Then I realized I hadn’t sent Martin and his wife a damn present. Shit. Since I was thinking about it, I texted my assistant, Bette. She replied immediately with the image of a ridiculous wreath made of diapers and baby toys. I grinned. I should have known she had my ass covered.

  Bette was old enough to be my grandmother, maybe even my great-grandmother. As she often told me, she was flashing her tits to the likes of Axl Rose and Steven Tyler before I could hold a bottle—her words, not mine. She suited me. The assistant I’d had before her was twenty, and she’d taken it upon herself to wait naked in my hotel room after a show. No, thank you. That was a lawsuit waiting to happen.

  The office door opened, and Caroline stepped out into the hall, clutching her tablet to her chest. “Excuse me. Mr. Chinsky requests that you return to the meeting.”

  I snorted. “He sent you out to look for me?”

  She shrugged. “Something like that. He’s a very busy man, and it’s unconscionable to keep him waiting.”

  I snorted again. “Those his words or yours?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door, checking to make sure he wouldn’t overhear her. Even still, she whispered, “His.”

  “What a tool,” I muttered. It pissed me off that the man held my strings like I was his puppet. “Tell me, Caroline—”

  “Carrie Anne.”

  “What?”

  She blushed. “My name. It’s Carrie Anne.”

  So apparently, I was no better than Chinsky. No, I take that back. I’d only met this girl twice. She worked for Chinsky every freaking day. “Sorry. Carrie Anne, what are you doing here?”

  She frowned. “I’m trying to convince you to go back into the office.”

  “No, I mean why are you working for Chinsky?”

  She looked down at the ground; then, as if she unearthed confidence buried deep within, threw her shoulders back and met my gaze. “I want
to be a music producer.”

  And there it was. In the music business, everyone was always scrambling to get a foot in the proverbial door through whatever means necessary. I’d learned that the hard way.

  Though I would have guessed Carrie Anne was aiming for singer instead of producer. Most people wanted the spotlight.

  “You don’t sing?”

  “Not if I can help it. It’s not in anyone’s best interests to hear that.” She chuckled then cleared her throat and donned a detached, professional expression. “Now, can we go back in and continue the meeting? Mr. Chinsky has limited time.”

  “Don’t we all?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

  “Mr. Gable—”

  “Gabe.” I hated when people called me that. Gabe was my real first name, but the label had pressured me to assume a stage name, Gable.

  I realized that trying to talk to Carrie Anne about her goals was nothing but a stall tactic. Because for as much shit as I talked about Killjoy, I felt indebted to the label. In just five years, I’d achieved a level of stardom I’d never thought possible.

  It wasn’t just about that, though. My songs were reaching people. They were the literal soundtrack to people’s lives. I’d gone from being a nobody, playing gigs for an audience in the single digits, to selling out massive arenas. I wasn’t about to jeopardize that.

  But hell, what would they want next, a damn rap album?

  The phone I was still holding in my hand buzzed with an incoming text message. Reflexively, I looked down at the screen.

  Carrie Anne’s mouth started moving, but I didn’t hear any words come out of it. Instead, I reread the text message, hoping I’d somehow misunderstood it, but there was no mistaking the meaning in the brief text from my buddy, Tyler. My gaze zeroed in on one word in particular—cancer.

  Your aunt has cancer…

  Fuck. Why hadn’t she told me?

  Suddenly, what Killjoy wanted from me no longer seemed important. My priorities had shifted in an instant.

  I tucked my phone in my pocket and started toward the elevator. “I’ve got to go,” I called over my shoulder.

  “But Gabe—” She was holding open Mr. Chinsky’s door, still gesturing that I should enter.

  The elevator doors opened just as I stopped in front of it, the first stroke of luck I’d had all day. I stepped in. “Tell Chinsky he can take the country album and shove it up his ass.”

  I turned and pressed the button for the ground floor. As the doors slid closed, Chinsky’s blustered curses were music to my ears.

  Since I was already in Nashville, where Killjoy’s headquarters were located, I decided to drive to Cedar Creek, Virginia. Air travel sucked ass under normal circumstances, but as a celebrity, I got mobbed every time I set foot in an airport. I didn’t usually mind the fans, but paparazzi were relentless. I couldn’t scratch my balls without having a photo splashed all over the tabloids.

  The trouble with driving was that I didn’t have a car in Tennessee. The three I owned were parked in the garage of the house I’d recently had renovated in Malibu. Renting a car would probably have been the most prudent course of action, but I’d thrown prudent out the window with my parting words to Chinsky.

  When Martin found out about that, he was going to be pissed. Oh well. He was used to cleaning up my messes. The thing was that I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to sweep that one up. Killjoy had turned into, well, a real killjoy.

  At the local Dodge dealer, I bought the tricked-out Challenger they had on the showroom floor. It was red, loud, and fast. Perfect. A couple of Benjamins sped up the paperwork, so I was on my way in under an hour. It was going to take most of the day to get to Cedar Creek, but I didn’t mind. It was nice to be behind the wheel for a change.

  It was a metaphor. As a songwriter, I lived and breathed metaphors.

  To the world, it might have looked like I had it all, and I’d admit it—life had been good to me since my big break when I was eighteen. Once I was out on the open road, though, I could finally exhale, and I realized how much those damn puppet strings had been choking me. I couldn’t keep going like this.

  I took a curve faster than I should have. The state road I was on was deserted, though, and even if I got pulled over, a Gabe Gable smile was usually enough to get me off with only a warning.

  I couldn’t believe Aunt Rose hadn’t told me about the cancer. Fuck. The woman was more of a mother to me than my actual mother was, and I’d had to hear about her diagnosis from someone else. Granted, I hadn’t done the best job of keeping in touch, but she still should have told me. If my buddy Tyler’s mother didn’t work at the hospital, then who knew when I would have found out.

  Aunt Rose was actually my great-aunt. Tapping on the steering wheel, I tried to remember the year she was born but couldn’t. Damn. She was in her seventies. I edged the accelerator closer to the floor.

  When I had to stop for gas, I used the opportunity to call Tyler.

  “Officer English.” His tone was official, all business, but it only made me laugh.

  “Do people actually take you seriously?” Back in the day, Tyler and I had been the sort of punks that were probably making his current job hell. Maybe his time as a juvenile delinquent made him more sympathetic, a better cop. Hell if I knew. Still, I couldn’t get used to the idea that Tyler was now “the man.”

  “Says the guy whose ass cheeks were featured on TMZ.”

  Christ. “That was one time.”

  “Haven’t you heard? The internet is forever.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m on the road. Should be in Cedar Creek in a few hours.”

  There was a pause. “Really?”

  His surprise annoyed me. What did he think I would do when he’d texted me? “Tell me more about Aunt Rose.”

  “All I know is what the text said.”

  “The text didn’t say shit.”

  “It said enough to get your ass on the road,” he countered.

  “Come on, Tyler,” I said quietly.

  He sighed. “My mom let it slip that Rose was one of her patients. The most I could get out of her after that was that it was breast cancer. Patient information is confidential. She could lose her job.”

  “You don’t know how bad?”

  “I mean, it’s cancer, so it’s not good. But my mom didn’t seem especially worried.”

  I considered. “Yeah, but she sees it every day.”

  “True. Still, I got the impression it wasn’t life threatening.”

  Some but not all of the tension in my neck released. I’d heard anecdotally that with cancer, the treatment could be worse than the disease. Either way, Aunt Rose was in for a rough road.

  And she hadn’t even called me. That was a bitter pill to swallow.

  On the other side of the line, I heard Tyler’s muffled voice, and I pictured him talking into the speaker that cops wore on their shoulders.

  “Hey, I gotta go,” Tyler said. “Someone vandalized the bathroom of the Stop & Shop. Again.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t want to impede an officer of the law from solving crimes.”

  “Ass.”

  “Tool.”

  I stared at the phone for a moment after he disconnected, and a small smile crept onto my face. Some things never changed.

  Leah

  The opening chords of the familiar song played through the tinny speakers screwed in each corner of the diner. Moments later, a husky voice crooned about lost love and second chances. My toes curled, and I fought off a grimace as I continued to clear the recently vacated table.

  I hauled the heavy tray onto my shoulder and carried it to the kitchen, where I off-loaded it next to the sink with more force than I intended. The dishes rattled. “I thought we agreed to no Gabe Gable songs.” The offending music sank into my pores, rattling my bones. Luckily, it was barely audible in the kitchen.

  Objectively, the music was good. Better than good, actually—it was among the greatest of my generation. At lea
st this particular song wasn’t about me. I fit the lost love part, but the second chances? I wasn’t holding my breath.

  With a pang, I wondered who had inspired the song. Don’t go there.

  My manager eyed my feet. “We also agreed you wouldn’t wear those shoes anymore, but you don’t see my panties in a twist.” Sharon’s voice was raspy, a product of smoking a pack of cigarettes every day since she was thirteen.

  Scowling, I tried to avoid looking down at the offending footwear. I had hoped she wouldn’t notice the piece of black electrical tape keeping the heel in place. “My panties aren’t in a twist.”

  “Coulda fooled me.” She popped a piece of nicotine gum into her mouth and started chomping. Well, that explains her surly attitude. She’d tried to quit once every few months since I started working at the diner four years before. “Anyway, I don’t control the music anymore. Chet signed me up for Spotster.” Chet was her grandson, a high school senior.

  “Spotify,” I corrected automatically.

  She waved her hand. “Whatever. You’ll have to talk to him.”

  I sighed. We both knew that wasn’t going to happen. If Chet didn’t already know about my history with Gabe, I wasn’t going to fill him in. I’d have to grin and bear it.

  “I’m taking my break. I just refilled all my tables, but there are a pair of camels at booth four. They’ll probably need more water before I get back.”

  She popped her gum. “On it.”

  “Thanks.” I slipped into the “employee lounge,” which was a fancy term for the spare closet they’d shoved a row of lockers and a handful of spare chairs into. I retrieved my phone from my locker to check my text messages, but as it turned out, there were none. Damn. My sister, Lacey, was a freshman at Virginia Valley University, and her texts and calls were becoming more infrequent. I supposed that was a good sign that she was settling in. That knowledge didn’t quell my worries, though. It was an ingrained habit. I’d been looking out for my sister for as long as I could remember.