by Meghan March
Tana slaps his thigh again. “Not helping.”
Her husband reaches down and grabs her hand. “Quit, woman, or I’ll spank your ass even harder tonight.”
Tana’s face flushes a bright red, and I decide to let the comment go without trying to figure out exactly what they’re talking about.
Mick releases her hand and grabs the magazine shoved between the wine bottles. “This the rag with the cheating dick?”
Shaking her head, Tana grabs it from his hand. “Nope, that’s the one with the hot billionaire dick I’m going to marry if you decide to leave me for some country starlet.”
I catch a glimpse of the cover. It’s a copy of Forbes, and there’s a stupidly handsome dark-haired man on the cover.
The headline reads: CREIGHTON KARAS CRUSHES COMPETITION.
“What are you talking about, woman? You’d bury me out back if I so much as looked at another woman,” Mick grumbles.
Tana’s lyrical laugh echoes off the walls. “Damn right, and don’t you forget it.”
I snatch the magazine out of his hand to get a closer look.
“Whoa, girl. Calm down.”
I wave him off, the wine dulling the instincts that would otherwise have me continuing to bow and scrape in his country-music royalty presence.
“Shhh. I need to look at him.” I’m not sure why I need silence to do that, but apparently the large bottle of wine I drank says I do.
The man is gorgeous, but he looks cocky and arrogant. I flip the magazine open and page through it until I find another picture of him.
I win because losing isn’t an option.
—Creighton Karas
I know I’m truly drunk when the only thought filtering through my brain is how much I’d like to be his prize when he’s winning. Where the hell did that come from? And like I’d even know what to do with a man like that. He’s so far out of my league, it’s not even funny.
I glance over at Mick and Tana, who are once again locked in a tangle of lips and limbs.
And . . . that’s my cue to leave.
I slap the magazine shut and rise on shaky legs. “I should probably get going.”
Tana pulls away from Mick and raises an eyebrow in my direction. “Honey, you ain’t driving anywhere. I’ll go make up a guest room. It’s the very least I can do since I got you shitfaced.”
“Not necessary. I should get home. I have . . . a plant that needs water. Or something.”
I squint because I can’t remember if my plant is dead or alive. I haven’t watered it in as long as I can remember. Apparently I’m thinking too hard about plants, which might be alive or dead, and not concentrating on my balance because I tip forward.
Mick catches me with an outstretched palm. “Come on, honey. We’re putting you up tonight. Won’t hear anything different.”
He turns me around and marches me toward the door that leads into the sprawling mansion. “Besides, it seems like someone needs to take you under their wing so you don’t get chewed up and spit out by this bitch of an industry. My wife isn’t exactly the type to bring home strays, so she must’ve seen something in you needing a little protection. We’re gonna make sure you have it.”
My eyes burn, and I blink back the unexpected tears. I’ve been in this town for six months, essentially friendless, and in one night I’ve apparently been adopted by two people I never thought I would ever have a chance to meet.
“G’night, Holly. I’ll see you in the morning, sweets,” Tana calls from behind me.
Apart from those blissful moments standing onstage, for the first time in months I have a genuine smile on my face, and I feel like I belong somewhere.
It doesn’t last long.
“We’ll put your ass on a bus back to Podunk if you don’t toe the line, Wix. That bowling alley you used to sing at? They won’t even let you back onstage when I’m done tearing you apart,” Morty, the jerk-off record exec, rails at me in the conference room of Homegrown Records.
It’s been two months since the night I met Tana, and JC has managed to land in the paper three more times. I can’t let this stand any longer. I’ve officially become the laughingstock of Nashville, and I can’t take any more pitying looks from the guys on my tour.
When the bus pulled into town this morning, I went directly to Tana’s house first. We’ve kept in touch, and every time I’ve been back in town on a break, she’s made time to get together. It’s the first real friendship I’ve had since Mary Jane Devo married her Marine sweetheart and moved to Hawaii almost two years ago.
I’m not the kind of girl who makes friends easily—mostly because I work as much as I can, and I never have extra money to go shopping or get a pedicure. But now when it matters, and I’m living in a new town and knee-deep in a business where I’m not sure who I can trust, Tana has been a lifesaver.
Her advice was to tell them to fuck off and take my chances. So this morning I grew a pair of lady balls and marched into the office to tell them to screw this JC nonsense because it isn’t worth it.
I just didn’t plan on JC being there too.
“What the hell do you have to complain about?” he says, leaning back in the cushy leather conference room chair. “You’re getting plenty of press. Maybe you’re still too green to realize it, but there ain’t no such thing as bad publicity.”
I want to smack the smug look off JC’s face. He’s baiting me, just waiting to see if I’ll push Morty any further and get myself thrown back on that bus to Podunk.
“Well, in this case, I think you’re wrong,” I say, holding my chin high. “Crushing my career doesn’t seem like good business.”
JC laughs. “You’re just gettin’ started, sweetheart. This is the best thing that ever happened to you. I guess I can try to be a little more discreet . . . ,” he says, glancing at Morty.
Morty nods. “Good, then we’re done here.”
Oh no. No, we are not done here.
“I don’t think so,” I say, and point at JC. “He needs a babysitter to keep it in his pants, not a pretend girlfriend. If you want to save his career, why don’t you focus on putting out more hits, not on his love life?”
“I love when you talk about me like I’m not even here, baby,” JC drawls. “Maybe I’ll write a love song for you. How’d ya like that?”
He was patronizing me. I’ve never been exactly sure what that word means, but I’m pretty sure this is it.
“Don’t call me—” I start.
“Girl, if you don’t—” Morty interrupts, most likely to threaten me some more, but Jim, his partner, jumps to his feet and presses both hands to the solid wood surface of the conference room table.
We both shut up and look his way.
“You know, I think we’re going about this all the wrong way,” Jim says, nodding and looking very much like a man with a plan.
Relief filters through me at the hope that Jim might be seeing some sense. But my hope and relief are doused just as quickly as he continues.
“I don’t think it’s less of a relationship that we need for you two, but more.”
What in the world? More?
I look at JC, but he looks puzzled too.
“Go on,” he says. “I can’t wait to hear this idea.”
I’m pretty sure I could wait the rest of my life and never hear this idea and be perfectly happy. This is probably the moment I should march out of the room and search for some time rewinding device, because I have a feeling things are about to go from bad to worse for me.
Jim looks from JC to me and then back to Morty, his eyes lighting with excitement. “JC and Holly will get engaged; it’ll be perfect. We can set it up so it’s all public.”
He pauses and rubs his hands together like a kid on Christmas morning. “New Year’s Eve. That’s it. Boone and Holly’s tour will be on break, and JC, we got you that spot on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. You can propose at midnight, and it’ll be fucking brilliant PR.”
As my chest tightens in h
No, this is not happening.
“What?”
My voice, which is capable of hitting some pretty earsplitting high notes when necessary, screeches through the conference room, and for a moment I hope I have the vocal capacity to shatter the glass door.
I don’t.
I look at JC, who has slapped his hands over his ears. “Whoa, girl. Easy on the ears.”
“You can’t agree to this!” I yell. “This is insane!”
Morty slaps the table. “Jesus fucking Christ, Wix. Calm the hell down. It’s not like you have to marry the man. Just pretend to be engaged for four months. Maybe longer, depending on how things go.”
I bite my lip until the coppery tang of blood fills my mouth. It’s the only way I can stop myself from screaming and cursing them out. And maybe, you know, murdering them. I’m from the backwoods; I know how to hide bodies.
One phrase repeats in my head: Maybe longer?
Four months. That’s what’s left of my contract. Four. Months. And then Homegrown won’t own my soul. Oh, they could still try to blackball me, but they won’t have a legal hold over me.
I can’t do this. JC will never agree, either. Right?
I walk around the table to JC and sit down next to him. “You can’t think this is a good idea. You can’t go along with this.”
JC just smiles his easy good-ole-boy smile and lays his hand over mine. “You ever worn a strap-on before, baby? Because I think we can make this work. Country music’s power couple. Fuck, maybe even a real weddin’ and everything.” His eyes rake me up and down. “You’re lookin’ a hell of a lot sexier than the last time I saw you, so why the hell not?”
Oh. My. God.
I yank my hand out from under his. “Never. No way in hell.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Never say never.”
I turn to Morty and Jim. “My contract doesn’t say anything about agreeing to something like that. Getting engaged is serious business, and you can’t make me.” I might sound like a petulant child, but I’m dead serious.
Jim, who puts off a fatherly air as opposed to Morty’s slimeball vibe, smiles at me.
“Sit down, Holly. I think we can all come to an agreement here. You want what’s best for your career, don’t you?”
I take a deep breath, shoving down the urge to scream again.
“Yes. That’s all I want. What’s best for my career, and this can’t be it.”
“We’ve been in this business a lot longer than you have, darlin’. You need to trust us. We’re not going to steer you wrong.”
Patronizing. There it is again.
Morty starts carrying on like this is a done deal. “It’s fucking perfect. JC, during your last song of the night, you’ll call Holly up onstage and drop to one knee. People will eat that shit up.”
“You can’t do this!”
All three men look at me, and their smiles send chills down my spine.
Holy. Shit.
“Deal with it, Wix,” Morty says with a smug smile. “This is happening, or you’re on the first bus back to the trailer park. Maybe we’ll even let you keep the diamond when it’s all over.”
Nothing I can say is going to change a thing right now, so instead, I swallow back the protests I want to scream and speak as calmly as I’m able. “This discussion isn’t over, but I have to get to practice.”
My head reeling and stomach churning, I pull my trucker hat lower and head for the door without waiting for a response.
“Let’s take that one from the top again,” I call out to my guys in the band.
I want to apologize for wasting their time today, but I don’t because then I’d have to explain why—and I can’t. But it’s impossible to concentrate on the music when I feel my dream slipping away. What won’t I do to save it? Can I go through with this farce? Everyone has a line, and I’m not sure where mine is.
But that’s not a question I’m going to be able to answer right now, so I’d better freaking focus. We have a new song that we want to add to the set list, and if we can’t get it together, we’re all going to look like idiots at the next show.
I study the guys, and am once again thankful that Homegrown didn’t screw me over on this front. My band is an amazing crew, and I’m lucky to have them. I could have ended up with a bunch of washed-up has-beens, but I got seasoned musicians with serious talent. Shocking, right?
The bitterness I feel toward Homegrown is ridiculous. It’s so hard to reconcile the fact that I have them to thank for giving me a shot to live this dream, and now they’re demanding I fall in line or sacrifice it. How is that fair? I guess it’s lucky that I wasn’t raised to think life should be fair. And besides, I’ve had my share of good fortune—if I didn’t win Country Dreams, I’d still be serving up deep-fried pickles at the bowling alley.
And Gran might still be alive, the voice of guilt whispers in my brain.
“Holly, what the hell? You planning on singing anytime soon, darlin’?”
I jerk my head around, shaking the thought from my mind as the guys silence their instruments . . . several bars after my cue.
“Sorry. I was a million miles away.”
“You need to take a breather, hon?” Lonnie, my drummer, asks as he spins one stick.
“Nah, I’m good. I just need to get my head back in the game.”
The guys look at each other, and suddenly I wonder if there’s something I’m missing.
“What?”
Darius, my bass player, finally speaks. “You getting homesick thinking about being away on Christmas Eve? Because we’ve all decided we’re catching flights home on our own dime right after the show. You should do the same.”
He’s talking about our show in three days, the one that will finally get me onstage at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Talk about a completely different universe. Little old me from Gold Haven, Kentucky, opening for country’s bad boy on a stage only slightly less impressive to me than the Opry itself. I just hope I don’t develop stage fright.
I consider Darius’s question. I’m a little homesick, but not because I want to go home—because I don’t really have a home to go to anymore. The only family I had that mattered is six feet under. My first Christmas without Gran is going to be brutal. My first everything without her has been tough, so why should this be any less painful?
Maybe I deserve the pain. Maybe I earned that pain.
But wasting this opportunity isn’t going to bring her back or absolve me of the guilt I’m carrying. Nothing will.
“You ready, Holly?”
I shake it all off as best I can—JC, the record execs, my guilt—and straighten my spine, standing taller in my worn-out boots.
“I’m ready. Let’s take it from the top.”
The rest of practice goes well because I force myself to stay firmly in this moment, firmly in the music. Singing my songs, even on this practice stage, is enough to finally drag me out of the dark place I’ve been sliding into.
As we pack up the gear when practice is finished, I check my watch. I’m headed back to Mick and Tana’s for dinner, and then home to pack for the two shows we’ve got before our extended break. First stop Philly, and then the Big Apple.
I shrug my bag over my shoulder and feel it vibrate with a text. Fishing my phone out, I see one from Tana.
TANA: I thought you said you weren’t doing it!!
I quickly tap out a reply.
ME: ??? are you talking about?
Tana’s response doesn’t hit my phone until I’m climbing into my car and firing it up.
TANA: JC. The engagement.
I called Tana as soon as I walked out of Homegrown and drove to practice. The number of f-bombs she dropped during that conversation was impressive. She almost beat out Mrs. Finchly, Gran’s next-door neighbor, when the repo man came to take her shiny new convertible because her winnings at bingo weren’t covering the payments.
Before I can type out a reply, my phone rings. Tana.
“I’m not,” I answer.
“Um, honey, have you seen Perez Hilton? Because there’s a picture of JC at the very top, and he’s buying a fucking engagement ring. He’s nothin’ but smiles.”
What? No way. No. Way.
“That’s impossible. They just—”
“Hang up the phone and google it, Holly. It’s there. It’s happening. They’re going to corner you into it, and they’re not wasting any time. You need a plan.”
“A plan?”
My brain spins, attempting to latch on to any idea at all, but I’ve got nothing. Nothing but the vision of me standing onstage at Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve celebration, the words “go screw yourself” popping out of my mouth when JC pops the question.
My career will be over. My dream will be dead.
Tana is right; I need a plan. Because boarding a bus home isn’t going to be part of my future. I might be a lot of things, but a failure isn’t one of them.
Christmas Eve, New York City
Bored.
It’s not a safe state of affairs for a man like me. Bad shit happens when I’m bored. I have a tendency to dabble in hostile takeovers when I need something to get my adrenaline pumping. Or I’ll go out and pick up three women, and introduce them to each other in the filthiest way possible.
Judge me all you want; I don’t give a fuck what you think about me. Because I own half this town, and the other half isn’t worth having.
You can check the crotch of my Gucci suit pants for yourself. Not even a hint of a bulge at the thought of a foursome. Threesomes are passé, but it’s a sad situation when even a foursome can’t get my dick interested.
Because I’m fucking bored.
I shove out of my chair and stalk to the window of my tower. You see that down there? Fifth Avenue and my city. We’re just south of the park, which means the holiday lights are everywhere.
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