Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “I’m hungry. Can I have breakfast?” When had he eaten last? Yesterday, probably.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot serve you a full meal until we’re in the air.”

  Right. Rules. Not something he usually dealt with. If Ginger had been here, she would have gotten that meal for him or—more likely—made sure he’d eaten before boarding. But his longtime assistant wasn’t here; she was in Aruba convalescing. He had taken her there himself. She’d wanted, begged in fact, to return to Beauford Bend with him. But all he wanted was solitude and at the end of this flight he was finally going to have it. Emory Lowell would’ve had plenty of time to shut things down and clear out by now.

  “I can get you a snack—something you won’t need a tray table for,” the flight attendant offered. “A muffin? A piece of fruit?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll wait.” That reporter from Twang Magazine should be boarding soon anyway. It would be more polite to wait for her. And he knew polite. Aunt Amelia had made damned sure of that.

  “If you’re sure. The other passengers are about to start boarding.”

  “Thanks.” He closed his eyes and pulled his cap down farther.

  She turned her back on him but stood between him and the aisle as if attempting to block him from prying eyes.

  Still, he heard the gasps of surprise.

  “Is that Jack Beauford?”

  “No. He died in a fire.”

  “He did not. That was some of his band . . . ”

  He put his earbuds in, cranked up Hank, and closed his eyes. Time passed. Cheating and drinking songs always helped the time go by. It was easy to feel superior to the subjects in those songs since he’d never done any of the former or much of the latter—at least not to excess. Not that he’d ever been in a relationship committed enough where there could have been any cheating. Feeling superior was a whole different big bag of black sin and one he excelled at—that and getting people killed.

  He smelled soap and sensed someone was near. The flight attendant wasn’t in his personal space but had stepped near enough to get his attention. She had some wisdom. That was rarer than it ought to be. Maybe he would hire her away from Delta. Then he remembered. He didn’t have any jobs to give anyone anymore.

  He popped an earbud out.

  “Your guest’s flight just landed. We sent a courtesy transport for her.”

  Still getting special treatment. Or maybe not. Maybe they did that for everyone.

  “Thank you.” If it was special treatment, it wouldn’t last—not after the world got the message that he was done, that he didn’t owe them a song.

  There was a mild flurry up ahead and a woman with strawberry blond hair wearing a conservative, expensive-looking gray dress moved down the aisle like she had a mission. Unless he missed his guess, that would be one Carson Hamilton-Knox of Twang, the magazine that was the bottom line on the Nashville music scene. As she got closer he realized with horror that she was pregnant. Guilt washed over him. He had made a pregnant woman fly all the way from Nashville to Los Angeles, just to turn around and board this flight back to Nashville.

  But he hadn’t really made her, had he? No. He had simply stated his terms for granting this interview—the first and only interview he intended to do concerning the fire. And it would be his last interview. Carson Hamilton-Knox didn’t know that, of course, and neither did the world.

  She only knew that if she wanted the interview she was going to have to conduct it on this flight. She didn’t even know if he was changing planes in Nashville or staying there. And at the end of the interview she still wouldn’t know that. She wouldn’t have learned anything he didn’t want her to know.

  She approached and his good manners made him stand up and take the hand she extended.

  “Carson Hamilton-Knox.” Her voice had that cultured West Nashville/Harpeth Academy tone. He would have recognized it anywhere, knew it from his aunt, his mother, and the charm school days at Beauford Bend. Thank God that was over—for him and Beauford Bend.

  “Jack Beauford,” he said.

  She laughed. “I know.” She wasn’t flirting. He liked that, though she might be the kind he would have gone for, if she hadn’t been married, if she hadn’t been pregnant, and if he had been looking.

  Too late, he remembered to remove his cap. “Sorry. Bad manners.”

  A bit of surprise washed over her face. “You’ve cut your hair.”

  “Yeah.” He ran his hand over his close-cropped dark locks. He still wasn’t used to it. The people he’d paid good money to boss him around had insisted that he keep his thick, straight hair chin length, had said it was sexy the way he unconsciously slung it out of his eyes while on stage. But he wouldn’t be doing that again. “Sometimes you want a change.”

  “I understand.” She gestured to the seat beside his. “Should I sit here?”

  “Yes. Let me help you.” He took her laptop case while she settled into the seat. She wasn’t pregnant enough that she was likely to give birth on this flight but enough that she had to struggle a bit with the seat belt. She removed a pad and pen from the case.

  “If you don’t mind—slide my laptop under the seat, please.” Good. She understood the rules. No pictures. No recording. Just the two of them, a pen, and paper. In return, she had his undivided attention for the entire four-hour flight.

  After situating her bag he sat down, buckled his own seat belt, and settled his cap on his knee.

  “Why don’t you wear a cowboy hat?” she asked.

  This was going to be easier than he thought. He couldn’t believe that’s all she wanted to know. True, people had remarked for years that, unlike most country music stars, he never wore a cowboy hat, but it wasn’t exactly the burning question of the moment. Next she’d want to know his favorite color and what kind of jelly he liked on his biscuit.

  “I’m not a cowboy.”

  She glanced at his cap. “You’re not a baseball player either.”

  “No.” He picked up the cap embroidered with San Antonio Wranglers Super Bowl Champs. “My brother Gabe gave me this cap. He got it on the field when he was named MVP.”

  “You have a brother who’s a cowboy, too.”

  “I do.” He nodded. “Rafe. He’s a champion bull rider. Maybe if he gives me a cowboy hat I’ll wear it.”

  She swept her hair back and turned to him. “Why me?”

  “Why you?” What did that even mean?

  “Why did you grant me this audience?”

  “You make it sound like I’m royalty. Or the Pope.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  “Still, why me?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I like that you didn’t call—that I had to call you.”

  “I had no reason to think you’d take my call. You didn’t take my boss’s call, or her boss’s. Or anyone’s from Time, Rolling Stone, The New York Times . . . I could go on.”

  Truth was, he’d known he had to give an interview, that the world wouldn’t rest until he did. Carson was young and new to Twang. He figured he could handle her and so far that was proving to be true. Also, he’d heard she had married her college sweetheart just last year so he figured she still had enough stars in her eyes that she wouldn’t try to screw him in the bathroom.

  “I read Twang,” he said. “I think you’re a good writer and you seem fair. I could use a little fair these days.” And he pulled out his stage smile, the one that always got them on their feet, the one that made them throw their thongs onstage.

  Carson Hamilton-Knox did not divest herself of her maternity underpants. Thank God. But she did smile back.

  She opened her notebook. “Fires aren’t fair, are they?”

  Given how this was going, he would not have expected that before they were even in the air, but okay. Maybe they could get this over with and take naps. Pregnant women liked to sleep. He’d heard that. And she had been awake for a long time.

  He took a deep breath and began to
recite the facts as he had practiced in his head. “A deranged man threw a firebomb onstage and another into the audience. Forty-three people were killed, including my rhythm guitarist, my drummer, three of my road crew, my manager, and thirty-seven audience members. Their names are—”

  Carson put up a hand. “Mr. Beauford—Jack. May I call you Jack?”

  He nodded, confused. People didn’t usually interrupt him when he talked. Just then the flight attendant came through, checking tray tables and seat belts with all the sights and sounds of takeoff in the background.

  Though they’d had to pause, Carson took right up where she left off.

  “Jack, I know the names of those killed, all forty-three. I know Mason Patrick started the fire and we’ll probably never know why because he ran to the roof of the arena and threw himself off. Those are the facts, as reported by the authorities. They have been recorded in every newspaper and magazine in the country.”

  True enough, so what did she want?

  Apparently, she was about to tell him. “Your assistant, Ginger Marsden, was injured trying to protect you, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes,” he said tightly. If Ginger had left him alone, had not run onstage and tackled him, he could have gotten to Trace, maybe saved him. Jackson closed his eyes and saw himself rushing toward Trace and then being knocked into some equipment by Ginger and her falling off the stage. And, worst of all, the security guys hauling him away while he fought them, fought them so hard, to try and save the people he was responsible for. Ironic that he had broken Jimbo’s jaw and dislocated Martin’s shoulder, but he’d escaped with only a few stitches in his arm. He probably couldn’t have saved the others, but Trace had been close; since the first, Trace had always been close by, playing rhythm guitar and singing backup, while Jackson played his own lead guitar. “Ginger suffered a broken leg and a slight concussion. She’s on a beach getting some much needed rest. She’ll be fine.”

  “Any chance you’re going to tell me what beach?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. Is that where you’ve been these last ten days? With Ginger?”

  “Mostly.” That was a lie. He’d flown Ginger to Aruba in his private jet and sent the plane back to L.A. for the rest of his people to take back to Nashville. He’d instructed his accountant to write some big checks and he’d hidden out on a small island off Aruba until the funerals were over.

  It was almost as if Carson picked up on his thoughts. “There was a lot of talk about your failure to attend the funerals of your entourage. Some even speculated that you were badly hurt or dead.”

  He smiled. “Obviously that was a bit dramatic. Ginger was understandably traumatized. I felt that my place was with her.” Ginger would cut her tongue out before she would tell that he’d hidden to avoid the funerals; any of them would.

  “Ginger has been with you since before your first record went gold when you were nineteen. Is it fair to say you look to her as a mother figure?”

  This had been a mistake. If there had been anywhere to go, he would have walked out.

  “No. Ginger works for me.” Though Ginger was exactly the age his mother would’ve been. And she’d done everything for him, short of wiping his nose. That was over. From here on out, he was wiping his own nose.

  “But there is no denying that she’s devoted to you,” Carson persisted.

  “I don’t deny it. I deny that she’s a mother figure.”

  “Some have speculated that there was at one time a romantic relationship between the two of you.”

  “Some have also speculated that aliens descend from outer space on a regular basis to mate with mermaids but that doesn’t make it true.” This was not the first time he’d heard that and it never got any less ridiculous. Funny thing was, he got the feeling Carson knew that. Was she just asking random questions or was this all going somewhere?

  His new best friend, the flight attendant, came through with her cart.

  “Breakfast!” He popped his tray down. Maybe Carson would get distracted and get on with asking him if he liked grits. Which he did, if they were cooked right.

  “Thank you. None for me,” Carson said.

  “Not hungry?” Jackson took a sip of his coffee and inspected the omelet to see what was inside.

  “I had breakfast on my last flight. An hour ago.”

  “Are you going to write down what I’m eating for breakfast?” he asked.

  “I hadn’t planned to. I would rather talk about how this fire took you back to a fire you experienced when you were twelve years old.”

  Jackson hesitated with his fork halfway to his mouth. Then he stopped. “What makes you think it took me back?”

  “How could it not?” Carson said simply, as if she were discussing ducks on a pond or the color of birthday cake icing.

  “That was a long time ago.” Coming up on twenty years, in fact.

  Carson narrowed her eyes. “Is it ever a long time ago when you lose half your family?”

  She had that right. It was yesterday. Last night. This morning.

  “They never discovered what caused the fire that night, did they?”

  “No. They never did.” That was true, but just the same, Jackson knew.

  It had been their last night of vacation at Myrtle Beach. He and the twins were camping out, like they had been allowed to do the previous three years. Beau was supposed to join them for the first time but had gotten sick and been kept inside. They’d done the usual—made s’mores, popped popcorn, and told ghost stories. Like he’d done every year after building the fire, Jim Beauford had admonished his oldest son to make sure the fire was out before they went to bed. Only Jackson hadn’t done it. He’d noticed that ten-year-old Rafe had gotten scared while Gabe was telling “Bloody Bones,” so Jackson had decided to have a little fun. He’d told Gabe to go to bed, ordered Rafe to put out the fire, and followed Gabe into the tent—leaving Rafe alone. When he and Gabe scratched on the side of the tent and moaned, Rafe had run to the tent and scrambled in. Jackson had not even asked his little brother if he was certain the fire was out, let alone checked on it. Worse, later, when he’d smelled the smoke, he’d turned back over and gone back to sleep.

  Then some time later, the cries of his mother had woken them. What followed was a blur—the people from the neighboring beach houses gathering, the sirens, and the confusion about where Beau was. But all that had come after the worst nightmare of Jackson’s life—his beautiful, serene mother standing on the balcony holding two-year-old Camille crying, screaming, and begging Gabe to catch the baby—Gabe, the best athlete among them, who could out-throw, outrun, and out-catch anyone. But not that night. Laura Beauford must have known it was the only hope for her baby because she sent her over the rail into Gabe’s waiting arms—but though he reached and reached, Camille landed at his feet. Laura never knew because she had disappeared into the flames by then.

  And all because Jackson had disobeyed the last directive his father had given him—his kind father with his blond hair, gentle voice, and lanky limbs, who loved leather-bound books, good bourbon, and the UT Vols, who spent his days teaching history at Vanderbilt University and his nights loving his family.

  “What do you think started the fire that night?” Carson asked.

  “I have no idea,” Jackson lied.

  And as the food he had wanted so badly grew cold and finally efficiently disappeared as they flew over state after state, Carson’s questions went on and on. Jackson answered with grains of truth and barrels of self-preservation. He made jokes with just the right amount of sadness hanging in the background. He shrugged it off when she talked about his reputation for being the “good guy” of superstardom, who had hit it big young because he was determined to take care of his family.

  He took no credit for that. How could he?

  It was on the jetway that Jackson realized he had no way to get to Beauford Bend, to quiet and solitude. How could he have been so stupid? Ginger always took care of these things.r />
  “Carson, do you have a car here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you drop me at a car dealership?”

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  Copyright © 2017 by Jean Pace Hovey and Stephanie Jones.

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  ISBN: 978-1-5072-0562-4 (ebook)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.