by Meghan March
Even with the storm, today is a good day.
We were out of the trailer park and cutting through an empty lot across the street when I heard glass breaking.
“Shit. Looters are out,” Ma said, dropping my hand and looking around to see where the mob was.
I’d only seen looters once before, and it was on TV. They burned cars in the street and the police had to stop them. But the only siren I heard was the one warning us about the storm.
“Hopefully, the police will get them,” I said, moving toward the sidewalk that would take us up to the crossroad that led to the high school where we could take shelter. And hopefully get sandwiches.
My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since lunch at school yesterday.
Weekends were the worst. I usually tried to save the bun from my Friday burger to eat on Saturday before I sneaked into the church up the street and stole doughnuts and juice to get me through Sunday. But this week, stupid Pat and his crew knocked the bun out of my hands as I was leaving the cafeteria, and it rolled under the trash cans. I couldn’t get it without Mrs. Evert seeing me, and she already asked too many questions about Ma and how things were going at home as it was.
I took a few steps before I stopped and looked behind me. Ma wasn’t following me anymore. She was heading the other way. Toward the mob tearing apart Charlie’s Liquor.
Crap.
I changed direction and broke into a run. “Ma, no. Wrong way. We gotta go this way. The storm’s coming.”
She looked over her shoulder at me. “And it’s bad manners to show up to a party empty-handed.”
“There’s no party! Ma!” The whipping wind stole my voice and sent her blond hair flying around her head. “Ma! Please!”
I reached out and grabbed her hand, yanking her to a stop.
Her face was completely different the second time she turned around. “You think you’re big enough to boss me around? Not yet.” She shook off my hand. “You want to go to the shelter so bad because you’re scared of the storm? Then take your own ass up there, and I’ll see you when I see you.”
I stood there, frozen in place, as she spun around and jogged toward the chaos.
She left me. To loot Charlie’s. With a mob.
I looked up at the sky, which was a wall of angry black-and-gray clouds. The wind swiped at my face, and something wet hit my cheeks. I didn’t know if it was rain or tears, and I didn’t care.
She left me.
In that empty lot, my eyes stayed locked on her until she disappeared inside.
Then the other sirens started. The police ones.
No! I have to warn her!
But I couldn’t. As soon as the mob heard the sound, they spilled out of Charlie’s into the parking lot. People were running every which way, with as many bottles as they could carry. A woman clutching something to her chest collided with a man, and they both went down.
The first police car pulled up, blocking one entrance to the street. The crowd shifted and went another way. Everyone was yelling. The police were pouring out of their cars.
Where is Ma?
Not even aware I moved, I fought through the crowd, getting whacked and shoved with every step.
More cops. More screaming. Bullhorns.
I couldn’t see. Someone ran into me and shoved me to the ground. I wrapped my arms over my head as someone’s shoe whacked my forearm hard enough to leave a mark.
“Ma!” I screamed for help, but rain lashed me from the sky and the wind screamed.
I crawled away, until someone grabbed me by the backpack and lifted me to my feet. I turned around, relief rushing through me, but when I saw the face in front of mine, the relief disappeared just as quickly.
It wasn’t my mom. It was a cop.
“Come on, kid. You need to get out of here.”
“But my ma—”
“She in the store?” he asked, reaching for the radio hooked to his shirt.
“I don’t know. We were going to the shelter. We . . . got separated.”
“Go sit by the car. I’ll come back for you. Don’t go anywhere.” He shoved me toward the front of a squad car as a SWAT truck rolled up with a paddy wagon behind it, just like in the freaking movies.
I huddled against the bumper, getting pelted by rain, as the SWAT team controlled the crowd and handcuffed one person on their knees after another.
Ma was nowhere to be seen.
Until I heard the screeching.
Oh God. No. My stomach dropped to the oil-stained concrete below me, and I thought for sure that I would puke.
Ma held a broken bottle, jabbing it toward a cop while hugging more booze to her chest. He jerked back, narrowly missing her swipe at him with the broken glass.
No, Ma! No!
That’s when I realized the screeching was coming from me.
But no one could hear me over the wind. And no one could stop Ma from getting her liquor.
At least, not until a second cop grabbed her from behind, knocked the broken bottle out of her hand, and yanked her arms around her back to cuff her. The other bottles shattered as they hit the cement. She wiggled and squirmed, trying to get free, spitting at anyone within range as they marched her toward the line of people sitting on the ground.
I knew right then that my life would never be the same.
My ma was going to jail. Which meant I was going to foster care.
She promised me this would never happen. She promised she’d never let me get taken away.
She lied.
I sat there, huddled against the bumper of a cop car with a nasty storm bearing down, and tears slid down my face. I was glad for the rain, because at least no one could tell I was crying.
As they led her and the others toward the paddy wagon, I watched her, expecting her to look around frantically to see where I was. Worried about me. Her only son.
But I shouldn’t have bothered.
She never looked back.
* * *
You don’t want to miss the rest of Scarlett and Legend’s story! Tap here to preorder House of Scarlett.
Sneak Peek of Dirty Billionaire
ABOUT THE BOOK
I've got a big... ego and an even bigger bank account. That's pretty much where my bio ends. Honestly, I don't need to say anything else. I've just sold 99% of women on going home with me. Do I sound like a jerk to you? That's because I am. And guess what? It works for me just fine. Or at least it did. Until I met her. Books talk about sparks flying. Screw that. With her, it was like emergency flares mixed with jet fuel. Or maybe just straight up napalm. Only one problem. She wouldn't tell me her name or her number when she disappeared from the hotel room after the hottest night of my life. Now I've had a taste of the perfect woman and I need it again. So what's a jerk to do? I took this problem to the street. A missed connection gone viral. And when I find her? I'm keeping her.
Chapter One
Holly
* * *
Country Star JC Hughes Caught Between a Cock and a Hard Place
How is he going to explain this one away to girlfriend Holly Wix and his fans?
“That two-timin’ son of a . . .”
I hiss under my breath as I stare at the headline—and the compromising picture accompanying it—splashed in vivid color across the front page of the gossip rag displayed prominently in the checkout line at my supermarket. For the second time in two months, it’s a picture of my “boyfriend” locked in an unmistakably passionate embrace with another woman, except this time she’s wearing a giant black strap-on.
The edges of the paper crumple in my sweaty grip, and I fight the urge to tear it to shreds, along with every copy sitting on the rack in front of me.
He’s going to destroy my career before it even has a chance to become a reality.
One year, they said. One year in this joke of a “relationship” and I’d earn my stripes, be all set in the world of country music. Judge me all you want for agreeing, but when your brand-new record label put
s something like that in the contract that will jet you out of the backwoods town you’re dying to escape, you don’t ask questions. You sign on the dotted line.
But reality is a cold slap in the face, and some days it hits you when you’re standing in line at the grocery store. What happens when they finally catch JC with a guy? His habit of swinging both ways, but preferring men to women, is about to become the worst-kept secret in Nashville.
I’m Holly Wix, winner of a make-me-a-star TV show, and handpicked by the label to buoy JC’s once-impressive but now flagging career. It didn’t seem like a big deal when they slipped it into my contract in the beginning. What starry-eyed girl wouldn’t be thrilled to have her name linked to a country star?
Instead of the one-way ticket to stardom I naively expected, I’m becoming the butt of every industry joke faster than the guys back home can spend their paycheck on twelve-packs and scratch-offs. But I’ve got one shot at keeping this dream career alive, and honestly, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save it. So this situation with JC needs to get settled before things spiral further out of control.
Tugging the bill of my trucker hat lower, I glance around to see if anyone has noticed me flipping out in the checkout line. A woman behind me clucks her tongue as she pulls her sunglasses out of her baby’s mouth.
Crap.
That cluck of her tongue was aimed at me, not the toothless, blue-eyed, smiling baby. Surprisingly, though, the expression on her face is sympathetic, not angry.
“Men are assholes, am I right? Being famous just makes them bigger ones.”
I smile weakly, and she continues. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, doll. They’re always ninety-five percent bullshit. Probably Photoshopped. He should have his head examined if he’s cheating on you.”
Snapping my gaze back to her, I read recognition all over her face, despite my hat, glasses, complete lack of makeup, and relatively low level of fame. I force a smile onto my face, but it feels awkward and fake.
“It’s called a gossip rag for a reason, I guess?” I reply, failing at my attempt to inject some humor into my tone.
She nods and gestures to the half dozen bottles of wine in her cart. “This probably sounds crazy forward, but you look like you could use a drink and someone to vent to.”
Vent to a perfect stranger I met in the grocery store? That would be insane, not to mention dangerous. If I did, the “she said” side of the story would be splashed all over tomorrow’s papers, and the label would kill me—the painful death of breach of contract and being blackballed in the industry.
I already used up strike one the first time a picture of JC hit the papers. I marched right into Homegrown Records’ offices and told them their devil’s deal wasn’t worth it, and that I wouldn’t help JC’s career at the expense of my own.
Their response? If I didn’t turn around, march my ass right back out of the office, and paste a smile on my face, they’d yank me off my tour, and I’d be a has-been before I ever got the chance to become a someone.
I’d go to bat for my career any day of the week, but faced with the threat of losing it, I’m ashamed to say I backed down and toed the company line. You only get one shot at your dream. It’s not something I’m willing to let go . . . regardless of how much of my pride I might have to swallow. Which brings me back to the gossip rag and the woman in front of me.
An awkward silence stretches between us in the checkout line as all the scenarios swirl through my brain of how I can reply to her. Finally, she smiles, and there’s something kind and knowing in her expression.
“I know what you’re thinking—you can’t spill your side of the story to anyone. Too risky.” She lifts her hand and flashes a giant rock on her left ring finger. “But I’m not just anyone. I’ve been on the front page of the tabloids too, and I know exactly how much it sucks. After being married for a decade to the biggest reformed horndog of them all, I’m no stranger to any of it. On top of that, I’d never break the vows of sisterhood.”
My gaze darts from the giant diamond to her face. Studying her makeup-free features, it finally hits me. “You’re Tana Vines.”
Tana Vines was the Female Country Artist of the Year about ten years back, and her husband was awarded Entertainer of the Year at least four or five times during that time. They’re country music legends. A true power couple.
She holds out her hand and I shake it, operating purely on instinct.
“Yes, I am,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you, Holly Wix.”
Two bottles of wine later, Tana and I lay sprawled on chaise lounges beside her indoor pool. Behind the gated walls, and in the presence of someone I listened to on the radio in junior high, I finally have a chance to unburden all the crap that has been filling my head for months.
“Six more months? That’s a hell of a long time to put up with JC’s bullshit. Not to mention keeping your own legs closed. Good Lord, girl. Aren’t you dying to get some dick?” Tana asked.
An embarrassed laugh escapes my lips. “Um, I’ve been pretty preoccupied with learning the ropes, I guess.”
“Well, shit. I’d be dying for dick.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my position with the label. I have a feeling that if my picture ended up in the paper the way JC’s has, the double standards would have me out on my butt so fast, I couldn’t even yell ‘Bingo!’ first.”
Tana rolls onto her side and faces me. “That’s probably the truth, but it don’t make it fair. The only reason they’re covering his ass is the shelf of awards he’s got from five years ago, and all the money they’ve got invested in him. You’re the perfect image booster. But you’re right—you’re expendable if you step out of line.”
I already looked up to Tana as a country idol, but now I have to say I have a bit of a girl crush. She doesn’t sugarcoat anything, and it’s refreshing in this world of people who say one thing and mean something completely different.
“Who’s expendable?”
A deep voice echoes through the pool room as Mick Vines walks in. The man—a living country legend—picks up one of the empty bottles on the table between our lounge chairs. “And damn, Tana. I’ve been lookin’ for you for a half hour.”
“Gemma knew where I was.” Gemma, I learned, was Tana and Mick’s live-in nanny.
Tana sits up as Mick sets the bottle down and leans over to press a kiss to her lips.
“There. Been lookin’ for that. My little bit a sugar.”
I turn my head away as Tana wraps her hand around the back of his neck and pulls him in for another kiss, this one not nearly so innocent. She doesn’t seem to care that I’m intruding on their intimate moment. And it’s a moment that makes me wish even more that I wasn’t trapped in this mess.
Not that I’m looking for what they have—because I’m truly not. I’m not looking for that kind of happily-ever-after for a good five or ten years. I’m too young for that, and my focus is on my career, exactly where it’s supposed to be when you’re standing on the edge of achieving the dream you’ve had since you were ten years old.
But even on that edge, I’m still only a puppet with the label pulling the strings. Six months in, and I’m already sick and tired of being yanked in the directions they want me to go. What could I accomplish if only I could cut those tethers and come into my own? But slicing those ties would mean sacrificing what I’ve already accomplished, and that’s not an option.
Mick stands tall again and notices me for the first time. “Who’s our guest, babe?”
It’s much less of a surprise that he doesn’t recognize me than it was for Tana to make the connection. Honestly, I’m still a nobody in this industry. I’m working my tail off on becoming a somebody, and I’ve got fans, but to someone at Mick Vines’s level, I’ll always be a nobody.
I smile and hold out my hand. “Holly Wix.”
His eyes narrow as he shakes my outstretched hand. “I’ve heard your name. Why have I heard y
our name?”
I’m stunned that there’s even a hint of recognition in him. My stomach turns in big flopping waves, and Tana jumps in, saving me from bumbling whatever explanation is about to fall from my lips.
“I picked up Holly in the checkout line while we bonded over how much it blows to see yourself on the front of a gossip rag.”
Mick’s gaze narrows further before it lights with knowledge. “Wix. You’re the hot young thing JC Hughes has on his arm these days.”
I cringe at the description, because that’s not how I want to be known. But that’s what happens when you sign a deal with the devil.
Tana slaps his thigh from her seated position. “And she’s touring with Boone Thrasher because she’s the hottest new talent to hit the stage since Carrie and Miranda.”
Her adamant statement throws me for a loop, and those nervous waves in my belly glimmer with pride.
Mick rocks back on the heels of his tooled black leather boots. “Ain’t heard her sing yet, but I’ve sure seen her picture.”
I wince, pride doused.
“And that’s the problem. The label has backed her into a corner, and they’ve made the JC situation a requirement. She can’t get out of it,” Tana explains.
Mick studies me. “Who you with, girl?”
“Homegrown. They signed me when I won Country Dreams.”
“Ah.” Mick nods twice. “Now I know where I first heard your name. And you probably signed a devil’s bargain to get your ‘million-dollar recording contract’ after you won.”
It isn’t even a question. Mick knows how the game is played.
“It was that or keep working at a bowling alley in BFE, Kentucky, and never taking my shot. At least this got me to Nashville.”
He raises a hand. “No need to get defensive. I’m not judging. We all take the route we need to take to get here, but that means living with the consequences. How long are you stuck with this JC bullshit? I’m assuming you have to suck it up and smile on his arm to help shine up his image and get some good press. Besides, we all know he’s been on the edge of casino-playing retirement for a more than a few years now.”