by Terri Osburn
“Maybe.” The idea was too fresh to know for sure, but a few lines was more than he’d managed in months.
They rode the rest of the way in silence while Chance tapped out a rhythm on his thigh. More lines fell into place, and by the time they pulled up his drive, he had a full verse and the start of another.
Archie parked next to the porch. “Good luck, brother.”
“Thanks, Arch.”
The truck made the turnaround and disappeared down the drive. Chance slipped the spare key off the top of the door frame and let himself in. Shelly had lectured him more than once about leaving a key in such an obvious spot, but when he’d lost his license, Chance had stopped carrying any keys at all, which had resulted in him locking himself out of the house three times in a matter of weeks.
The key had been over the door ever since.
After crossing the great room to fetch a notebook and pencil off the dining room table, he snagged a Gibson guitar from the collection next to the fireplace. Once settled on the black leather couch, he transferred the lyrics from his head to the page.
I swore off being the good guy,
It never got me anywhere,
But when she came back into my life,
I couldn’t back down from the dare.
The new guy didn’t deserve her,
But then again neither did I,
She was too good for the both of us,
And I’d already made her cry.
Reading the words aloud gave birth to a melody, and Chance strummed the chords, setting music to the first song he’d written in more than a year. Possibly the first song he’d ever written totally sober.
With the tune clear in his mind, he leaned over the guitar to write the chorus.
Sometimes you’ve gotta man up
Be the rescuer she needs
Ride headfirst into battle
Ignore the blows that bleed.
’Cause the right one’s always worth it
Don’t give up without a fight
Drag out that rusty armor
And this time get it right.
He played it again from the beginning, figuring out the right inflections and phrasing. Liking what he had, Chance leaned back on the couch, woozy with relief. Of the six number-one singles to his credit, three had been inspired by Naomi. That she’d once again served as inspiration didn’t surprise him at all. He had no idea if she ever saw herself in the songs, and prideful man that he was, Chance never named the source behind the tunes.
When his career took off, he’d made a choice. Focus on the music, and let others speculate about the man. The Internet had revealed certain facts. That his dad had died when he was five. That his mother had remarried, and that Chance had gone into the service after high school. But no one knew he’d spent the majority of his childhood enduring both verbal and physical punches from a man unfit to lick his father’s boots. They didn’t know the scar on his forearm came from a lit cigarette. Or that the one on his forehead was courtesy of a flying ashtray.
Keeping those demons under lock and key wasn’t easy. That’s where the liquor had come into play. Liquor wasn’t an option anymore, but maybe Naomi was. At least she’d nudged him off the starting blocks. He leaned forward again to tackle the rest of the song and hoped this one would be the first of many.
Thanks to a quick text sent on Naomi’s way home, April opened the door, ice cream in hand and spoon at the ready, before Naomi had gotten the key in the lock.
“I am never going out with another man in my life.” Naomi took the open pint of frozen consolation, kicked off her heels, and walked into April’s open arms.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. The right guy will come along someday.” She squeezed tight before releasing her heartbroken best friend. “When you least expect it, he’ll fall right into your lap.”
“Nope.” Naomi schlepped to the couch. “I don’t care if a prince shows up at my door with diamonds and a gleaming white carriage. I’m done.”
“If that prince is a redhead named Harry, your ass better get in that carriage.” April retrieved her own carton of ice cream from the counter. “And then you’ll stop and pick me up on the way to the airport.”
“What did I do to piss off Cupid this much?” Naomi asked, ignoring her friend’s royal fantasy as she dropped onto the sofa. “I’ve been cheated on. Stood up. Stolen from. And now physically abused. That’s a lot of bad karma for one person.”
April sat down beside her. “Let me see your wrist.” Naomi shook the shawl off her shoulder. “Holy shit, woman. That looks awful.”
“It doesn’t feel so great, either.” She shoved a spoonful of cold goodness into her mouth. Chocolate chocolate-chip. April knew her so well. “For a second, I thought he was going to break it, and then I’d have broken his nose. The jerk. I should have let Chance beat the crap out of him like he wanted to.”
The spoon whipped out of April’s mouth. “You didn’t tell me Chance was there.”
Naomi had been crying too hard on the phone to share the details. Thank God she’d managed to hold back the tears until safely in her car.
“He came in as the music was about to start. I assumed he was going to do something stupid and went over to suggest he leave.” Suggest. Demand. Tomato. Tomahto. “Michael saw us and went all caveman.”
“So your current boyfriend saw you talking to your former boyfriend, and shit went down. Talk about a country song.”
April was the only person on the planet who knew about Naomi’s relationship with Chance. Come to think of it, they’d been eating ice cream on this exact same couch the day she’d found him buck naked with Martha Reynolds. Funny how her life kept repeating.
“Chance didn’t know I was there with Michael, and there’s no way Michael could know that I ever dated Chance. So there was no reason for either one of them to be so freaking stupid.” She stabbed her spoon into the ice cream with a huff. “Though Chance didn’t technically do anything violent until Michael shoved me out of the way. I slammed into a stool and the next thing I knew, Chance had him against a wall.” The memory played back in her mind, sending chills down her spine. “I really thought he was going to hurt him. I had to get up in his face and beg him to let go.”
Everything had happened so fast, the fear had hardly registered at the time. Not for herself, but for Chance. He could have ruined the rest of his life. And for what? A bump on her hip? The man had no sense of self-preservation. Which wasn’t easy for her to say, since she’d condemned him as a selfish bastard seven years ago.
“That’s a pretty strong reaction,” April whispered. “A guy has to care a lot about a woman to attempt murder on her behalf.”
As the suggestion sank in, denial blossomed. “Don’t be ridiculous. This was about ego, not me. Two idiots beating their chests to see who’s the bigger man.” Chance didn’t care about Naomi. Not in that way. And if he ever had, sleeping with her boss had been a sick way of showing it.
April twirled her spoon. “If you say so.”
Naomi wanted to put the whole thing out of her mind, but remembered another call she had to make. “Crap. I have to tell Clay. If he reads about this on the Internet before hearing it from me, I might not have to worry about saving Chance’s reputation. Clay will fire me first.”
“Maybe you should let him,” April suggested.
“Excuse me?”
She amended her statement. “Not fire you, but let him find someone else to save Chance. You shouldn’t have to work with the guy who broke your heart. Let someone else deal with him.”
That was absolutely not an option. Naomi had been shaping the Chance Colburn plan of attack for months. She’d made the calls. Kissed the necessary butts to get him the best interviews with the widest audience possible. She wasn’t putting Chance in a stranger’s hands. What if they dropped the ball? Or convinced Clay to drop him from the label the first time Chance messed up?
And he would mess up. The man was a walking train wreck, for heav
en’s sake. Shooting Stars had invested too much in Chance for her to let anyone else take the wheel on this. It had to be her.
“I’m a professional, April. Not a jilted middle schooler. Chance is my responsibility, and I’m going to turn his career around if it kills me.”
April pointed to her wrist. “At the rate you’re going, it just might.”
Chance’s phone rang at ten till midnight. He considered not answering but saw no reason to piss her off more than she probably already was.
“Hey, Shell.”
“Would you like to tell me what the hell you did at the Songbird Cafe tonight? I’ve got a complaint from the restaurant owner, and your face is all over social media looking like a rampaging lunatic.” She took a breath to reload. “By all that is holy, if you went out and got drunk I’m going to come over there and beat you with a goddamn stick. Start talking. Now.”
He would have started talking sooner if she’d shut up. “I haven’t had a drink. I slammed Swanson against a wall for hurting Naomi. And I’ll call Percy and apologize tomorrow.” Chance had known Percy Covell since he’d bought the Songbird five years before and had no doubt he’d be forgiven on that front. There wasn’t much he could do about the rampaging lunatic part.
Shelly’s tone changed. “Did you say Michael hurt Naomi?”
For someone who didn’t like the publicist, Shelly sounded pretty damn concerned. “Yeah. He came after me for talking to her, and she put herself between us. Swanson shoved her. Hard. You know I couldn’t let that pass.”
“No,” she said, sounding stunned. “You couldn’t.”
Rubbing a hand over his face, Chance leaned up on his elbows. He’d been working on the song for hours and must have dozed off. The cat on his chest dug its claws into his skin before leaping away.
“I didn’t go there to drink.” He swung his feet to the floor. “And I sure as hell wasn’t looking for a fight. But I suppose none of that matters.”
Even sober, he couldn’t keep his ass out of trouble. Not that he regretted a thing. Putting the fear of God in Swanson’s eyes had been the highlight of Chance’s year.
“We’ve dealt with worse in the past. I’m sure we can mitigate the damage.” A child cried in the background. “That’s Tristan. I probably woke him with my tirade.” The sigh came down the line loud and clear. “This will likely come up in the meeting on Monday. I’ll handle the problem then.”
Since Chance was the problem, he wasn’t sure what she meant by that. “Shell—”
“I’ve got to go before he wakes up Izzy. Talk to you tomorrow.”
The line went dead, leaving Chance staring at the cell in his hand. Handle the problem? What was she going to do? Make Shooting Stars pay for a handler? He probably needed one, but hell if he’d agree to a babysitter anytime soon.
Rubbing his chest, he spoke to the cat. “You’re getting fat, dude. We’re putting you on a diet.”
Willie blinked with disinterest.
“You’re right. Screw it.” Chance rose to his feet. “Time for a midnight snack.”
Chapter 6
“As God is my witness, Naomi Marie, I do not understand why I have to pry these things out of you.”
Naomi’s mother couldn’t bear not knowing every little detail about her daughter’s life. Almost upon her arrival for their Sunday-morning planning session, Naomi had faced an intense interrogation regarding her date the night before.
The CIA had nothing on this woman.
“There’s nothing to pry out of me. Michael and I didn’t work out.” To cover the lie, she pulled the sleeve of her hoodie firmly over her bruised wrist. Naomi had expected the marks to be gone by morning. Instead, they’d turned an ugly shade of purple.
Not that she needed the bruises to know Michael Swanson was a jerk. His unprovoked attack on Chance had been illuminating enough.
Dawn tapped one of the index cards on the table before them. “I don’t think the bounce house is going to work here.” She slid the card to the opposite corner of the layout. “This side is better. Then we won’t have to worry about leaves falling in from that big hickory.”
Relieved by the change of subject, Naomi quickly agreed. “That’s a good idea.”
The annual Mallard Family Memorial Day Cookout had started fifteen years ago as a barbecue for the neighbors. The employees of her father’s dental practice had been added around the ten-year mark, and since then the event had taken on a life of its own, complete with a dunk tank, fireworks, and the newest addition—a bounce house.
“So it just ended?” her mother asked. “For no reason?”
Like a dog with a bone, this woman. “I told you the reason, Mother. We didn’t work out.”
“That isn’t a reason.” Dawn topped off her wineglass. Her second refill since their planning session had started less than an hour ago. “That’s the end result. A statement of fact. I want to know why it didn’t work out. You didn’t cook for him, did you?”
Burn one pan and you were typecast for life. “No, I didn’t cook for him.” She’d never gotten the chance.
For most of their dates, they’d either met at their destination, or Michael had sent a text from his car to let her know he was waiting in her parking lot. April was right. That was a slimeball thing to do. Regardless, in a month and a half of dating, they’d never stepped foot in each other’s places.
“Then what happened?”
Anger got the better of her, and Naomi bent the stack of blank cards in her hands. “He’s a jerk, okay? He was rude to a friend of mine, and when I called him on it, he said he could do better than me anyway.”
Calling her cold had been the hurtful part. Naomi had never been an overly affectionate person. That didn’t make her cold. Not in the way he’d meant it.
“Then you’re better off without him,” her mother exclaimed, setting down the wineglass hard enough to splash Merlot onto the table. “He was lucky you gave him any time at all. Do better, my left elbow.”
As frustrating as she was, Dawn never tolerated a slight to her children.
Naomi straightened the cards. “Can we drop this now? You still haven’t decided how many tables you want in the eating area. And are we adding another tent? Even if it doesn’t rain like last year, the guests would probably appreciate the chance to get out of the sun.”
“You’re right. Call the rental company tomorrow and add another tent.”
Her mother could call the rental company; while Naomi would be at work all day, her mother would be spending two hours visiting with her book club—which was little more than an excuse for seven middle-aged women to sit around gossiping about their neighbors and drinking wine in the middle of the day. But then the guilt trip would begin.
The mournful apology for enjoying time with her daughter, and how she never meant to be a burden. Naomi should feel free to withdraw from all of the planning, but would hopefully still attend. If she had time.
This was probably the reason Naomi didn’t have children. The universe was making sure these passive-aggressive tendencies weren’t deployed on other innocent young souls.
Naomi was adding the task to her to-do list when her mother asked, “What do you think of having a singles table this year?”
The pen streaked across the notepad. “A what?”
“A singles table. You know. So that young, unmarried guests can mingle with each other.”
This had epic embarrassment written all over it. She wouldn’t be surprised if singles table was code for “Naomi plus all eligible men of a certain age within twenty miles.” “I don’t think so.”
A coral-colored nail tapped the table. “Come on. It could be fun. Gladys has already said Neal would love it.”
A fact Neal would likely dispute. “You need to let this Neal stuff go. I’m not interested in dating anyone right now. With Dylan’s success and now Chance on board, I have enough on my plate at work without throwing another relationship into the mix.” Taping the bounce house card onto
the cardboard diagram of the Mallard backyard, she added, “Besides, Neal and Naomi Nelson? That’s too many Ns.”
“The boy’s a doctor, for heaven’s sake. At least consider him.” Raising her glass, she added, “You aren’t getting any younger, darling. I want more grandchildren, and your sister insists she’s closed for business.”
Teeth grinding, Naomi ignored the age comment. “You still have Baker, Mom. He seems to be enjoying sowing his wild oats. It’s possible you have another grandchild out there that you just don’t know about yet.”
A manicured hand slapped the table. “Why would you say such a thing? Your brother wouldn’t do that. And he isn’t ready to be a father yet. Baker is still finding his way.”
Finding his way? What did that even mean?
“Mom, he’s twenty-six years old. You’ve been pressuring me to have kids since I was twenty-four.”
“Boys are different. They don’t mature as quickly as girls do.” She paused to pop a grape into her mouth. As if the wine didn’t contain enough of them. “I sent you that article, remember? Didn’t you read it?”
No, Naomi hadn’t read it. Between her duties at Shooting Stars and her job as family manager, she hadn’t found the time. In the rare moments when she did get the chance to read, her choices did not include articles that justified coddling her brother.
“I must have missed it.”
Before the reprimand could form on her mother’s tongue, Naomi was saved by the arrival of three rowdy little girls.
“Grammy!” they cried, excited to see their favorite redhead.
Mary Beth lived three houses down, so the girls visited their grandparents any time they wanted. Naomi had tried to warn Lawrence what moving so close to his in-laws would mean, but he hadn’t listened. When she brought it up now—only between the two of them, of course—he smiled and said, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”
Which was a valid philosophy. There was no beating Dawn Mallard when it came to meddling in her children’s lives. That he was a good sport regarding his mother-in-law was further proof that Mary Beth had been handed the one good guy on the planet.