He hadn’t been paying lip service when he’d told her he was lousy husband material. Especially now. He glared down at his bandage-covered left hand. His music career was over. He knew it as plain as he knew his own name. She didn’t need to settle for a man who was a shell of his former self. She might have climbed onto the back of a rock star’s motorcycle, but the minute he’d laid his bike down, life as he’d known it had ended.
At least you have a life.
True, that. But any way the future shook out, it was a raw deal for Skye. She’d either be a single mom or she’d be saddled with Gentry as a partner, the man who’d already hurt her in so many ways.
A few hours later, Gentry was the one being rolled out of the hospital lobby in a wheelchair, as was the hospital’s protocol. Nick picked him up in a shiny black limo, this time with Larry by his side, along with a hulking driver who would probably double as Gentry’s bodyguard in the airport, in case any paparazzi were lurking about. Larry’s touch, no doubt.
Larry had flown in on the day after the accident. He’d been pale and stoic as Gentry had explained his injuries, no doubt arriving at the same conclusion that Nick and Gentry had about the future of Gentry’s career. But whatever he thought, he sure hadn’t mentioned it. In fact, Gentry, Larry, and Nick hadn’t talked about Gentry’s career at all. And nobody mentioned Skye—not her or the pregnancy. In no time, they’d fallen into their typical hang-out mode, watching ball games, talking shit about other celebrities, and keeping the conversation light. Gentry had no problem with that. The longer he could ignore the writing on the wall about his career, the better. As for the situation with Skye, he wasn’t interested in Nick and Larry’s advice. They didn’t know her like he did.
In the limo, Larry didn’t fuss over Gentry the way Skye’s mom had over her, but he did press a highball glass full of bubbly clear liquid into his good hand as soon as his seatbelt was on. “Tonic with some lime still your drink of choice?” Larry said.
“You bet it is.” He wrapped his left hand lightly around the glass, letting the cold soothe the itchy ache of his stitches and swelling.
Nick held his own glass up in a toast. Judging by the stench, Nick’s and Larry’s drinks were more gin than tonic. “To our boy, Gentry. One of the toughest fuckers I know.”
Gentry didn’t feel all that tough at the moment, but the cold, crisp drink went down fast and smooth. “I appreciate you doing this for me, you two. Dropping everything to help me like this.”
Nick nodded. “Someone’s got to get Gentry Fucking Wells back on his feet.”
True enough, and Nick had had that job for a while, sobering him up and giving him the occasional career push when necessary. Friends like him were worth their weight in gold. He might have said as much, because the pain meds were making him punchy, but Larry rolled his eyes and waved off the gratitude.
“Don’t go getting mushy on us. I’m just doing my job.”
Right. Just doing his job by holding a bedside vigil for Gentry for the last four days while his hand healed.
Gentry raised his glass again. “In that case, I nominate you for Agent of the Year.”
“There you go getting mushy again. Those must be some drugs they’ve got you on. Good thing you can sleep it off in the private jet I rented to take you back home.”
“Private jet? That’s fancy,” Nick said.
“Yeah, well, there’s no sense giving the media anything more to write about, Gentry. Laying low is going to be the name of the game for a while.”
It was sound logic, but Gentry had gotten hung up on the word home. The problem was, his ranch had never really felt like home, and going back to that empty house held zero appeal. Not only that, but the longer Gentry considered it as he watched the rolling fields of bluebonnets pass outside the limo window, the more his instincts screamed that it was the wrong move to leave Texas or Skye, even temporarily. The trouble was, Skye had told him in no uncertain terms to keep his distance.
Maybe he’d just drive through her town, buying himself some time to figure out what to do. No harm in that. It wasn’t like the private jet was going to leave without him. He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Hey, make a right up there, would you? We’re going to take a detour.”
Larry looked at him like he was nuts. “Detour? What detour? Did you not hear what I said about lying low?”
“I heard you just fine.” To the driver, he said, “Go on. Make the turn. We’re headed to Dulcet.”
To his relief, the driver bumped onto the off ramp and slowed around the curve, headed west toward Dulcet.
“Dulcet? Oh, hell no.” Larry popped an antacid and washed it back with his gin and tonic. “Don’t listen to him, Pauly. We’re going to the airport. That girl has ruined your life enough as it is. If you’re feeling guilty, then let’s throw some money at her for her hospital bills and so she doesn’t go blabbing to the press, and then we can get your life back on track.”
Gentry’s anger was instantaneous. He was in Larry’s face in a flash. “She ruined my life? Are you sure that’s the story you’re going with, champ? You sure that’s the tack you want to take with me right now?”
Larry just about climbed up the back of the seat, rattling the ice in his glass. “Hey now,” he said as gentle as a hostage negotiator, his palms out as though in surrender, though his index finger and thumb remained wrapped around his drink.
Nick grabbed a hold of Gentry’s shirt and shoved him back against the opposite seat, sloshing his gin and tonic on Gentry’s pants in the process. “Hey, man. Stay cool.”
Larry dropped back into the seat, his suit wrinkled and his tie askew. “May I remind you, Gentry, that you’re only paying me for one job—and that’s to look out for your best interests. That girl, she is not in your best interest. And if you need proof of that, I’ve had to hire a publicist because, between the accident and your drunken bender in Nashville, the shit’s hitting the fan for you. The rumors are flying that Neil’s label is gonna drop you and that you haven’t even started the album that’s due in less than a month.”
Gentry’s head of steam diffused. He batted Nick’s restraining hand away from his shirt, then found his own spilled drink on the floor. He scooped the ice back into the glass and set it on the minibar. Everything Larry said was truer than Gentry was about to admit, save for one point. “I didn’t go on a bender in Nashville. I didn’t have one damn drink and I never lost control. And I was stone cold sober when I got in the accident too.”
Nick resumed his carefree sprawl across the bench seat next to Larry. “Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter what actually happened. All that matters is what people think about you.”
That was some bullshit logic right there.
Nick continued, “Look, man. We’ve got a tour coming up and a new album later this year. We can’t—”
“I can’t play the guitar anymore. Not like I used to. I’m missing a finger. It’s not going to grow back.” He held up his bandaged hand to drive the point home. “How am I going to tour, much less write and record an album?” And not only because of his hand. Gentry wasn’t sure he wanted to get back to business as usual. Actually, he was pretty sure that he didn’t.
A sign proclaiming that they were entering Dulcet’s city limits. The Jewel of the Hills! the sign proclaimed.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Nick said. “We can fix this too. We’ll hire another guitarist.”
“All you have to do is sing and shake those hips,” Larry said. “You still got those hips, right?”
They rolled down Main Street. At a four-way stop, Gentry read the name of the familiar-looking church on the corner. Our Lady of Guadalupe. Skye’s family’s church.
Gentry knocked on the driver’s shoulder. “Stop the car.”
The driver swerved right, coming to a fast stop at the curb.
“What are we doing now? This isn’t lying low.” Larry said, spine snapping straight and looking ruffled again. “It’s not good for you to
be here. If there are reporters around, if they got a photo of you fresh out of the hospital, wandering around your Girl of the Week’s small town…” He shook his head so hard his jowls jiggled. “Nope. I won’t allow it.”
“She’s not my Girl of the Week. And how can you even say that when she’s pregnant.”
Larry nearly sloshed the ice right out of his highball glass. “She’s what?”
Guess Nick hadn’t spilled the beans about the baby to Larry on the sly, as Gentry had assumed he had. “She’s pregnant. It’s mine.” And didn’t that just bring it all home in a way Gentry hadn’t internalized before. The baby was his as much as Skye’s. His baby. His child. He couldn’t stop repeating the words to himself, as though if he said them enough, the truth in them would somehow seem less surreal.
He looked at the church’s tall, thick wooden entrance. Knowing Skye was nearby, that she was so scared by the pregnancy and the accident that she couldn’t even admit it to Gentry filled him with despair. Never had he wanted so badly to be a different man, a new man, someone Skye could count on. But she wasn’t looking for a guy like him, a rambling cowboy with a six string. She wanted a local man, a settling-down type. She’d probably want to raise their baby up Catholic too, just as she had been. He’d never wanted to be a father, but the thought of his child being a different religion than him, living in a different state than him, filled him with a whole new kind of disquiet.
“What do you think’s involved with converting to Catholicism?” he mused.
“The hell kind of question is that?” Larry said. “Are you trying to get right with your Lord and Savior? Not that I blame you. I’ve done my fair share of praying for your salvation this week myself. But we can do that in Tulsa. We can sneak you in the back door of a church somewhere with no reporters hiding in the bushes. Not here, though.”
Gentry took a look at shrubs that lined the sanctuary, pretty certain there were no paparazzi hiding behind them, waiting to snap an oh-so-scandalous photo of a grown man entering a church.
He popped the limo door open. “I’m going to go ask.”
Larry was out of his seat, his hand on Gentry’s arm. “Ask what? What are you doing? I told you, you can’t get out here.”
Gentry was sick and tired of people telling him what he could and could not do. Even though he loved Larry and they’d been together since the beginning, it was time for Gentry to cut all the puppet strings that were trying to control him, Larry’s included. “Larry, you’re fired. Nick, you too, along with the rest of the band. Trust me, it’s all for your own good. I’m a mess. I’m not going to get that album done and Neil’s going to drop me. He already told me as much. It’d be best for you both to get off this runaway train before it crashes and burns.”
Larry deflated like a balloon in a cactus field. “But … your tour. Your new album. You can’t just walk away … you owe me.”
Like hell he did. So much for cutting those puppet strings; they just plum snapped off. “The only thing I owe you is the truth. And the truth is, you and I are done. I quit. You’re free to go. Both of you.” He ducked back down to look them both in the eye for good measure. “Oh, and thank you, Larry. You were a great agent.” He extended his hand for Nick to shake. “We had a lot of fun over the years, made a lot of great records. I can’t thank you enough for your loyalty and friendship over the years.”
Nick shook Gentry’s hand, even as he was shaking his head. “You’re making a mistake. One you can’t take back when you come to your senses.”
Time would tell if he was making a mistake, but Gentry already knew in his heart that he wasn’t.
Larry looked like someone just shot his dog. “You’re serious?”
“As serious as a turkey on the first day of hunting season.”
With that, Gentry walked away, his steps lighter and his heart freer than it’d ever been. He walked right up to the church door and saw a little sign with an arrow indicating that the office was around the corner. He turned in that direction, which is when he realized that the limo was still idling curbside.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” he called. “Go on and get out of here. Stop wasting your time.”
The back window rolled down. Larry stuck his head through the opening. “I’m not giving up on you.” His voice cracked once. “We’ve come too far together to give up now. I’m not letting you go, you big, stupid lug.”
What were they, star-crossed lovers at the end of a romantic comedy? “Goddamnit, Larry. Get a hold of yourself. Because I swear to God, I half expect you to pull out a ring and pop the question or some bullshit like that. You’ve got to let me handle this.”
“What are you going to do about the bun?” Larry asked.
“The what?”
“The bun in the—” Larry pointed to his gut. “I’m trying to be discrete.”
“You want to know what I’m going to do about my child?” Gentry called nice and loud, so the imaginary reporters in the bushes could hear. “I’ll tell you. I’m going to teach it guitar and take it on the road with me. I mean, Jesus, Larry, what kind of question is that?”
Larry rubbed his chin. “That’s not a bad plan.”
“Come on, now. What do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to raise it. Like adults are supposed to do with the kids they sire.”
Whatever he’d thought about fatherhood before, whatever he’d thought his future held, it all disappeared, along with the career that didn’t suit him anymore. If he wanted to be in this child’s life in a real way—and in Skye’s life, for that matter—he’d have to relocate to Dulcet and convert to Catholicism. And why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t like he had much to keep him in Oklahoma, or anywhere else in the world, really. He hated his ranch and, contrary to Larry’s desperate optimism, Gentry knew his career was over. Neil had granted him one last Hail Mary play, and Gentry had screwed that up beyond repair.
Then again, with Skye getting pregnant despite the condoms, maybe there was a higher power at work, pulling the strings. What if this was his big chance to completely change direction in his life? To start fresh. He wanted to rediscover his roots, who he was away from the guitar and microphone, and fatherhood definitely would show him that.
His life spooled out before him in straight, measured lines of love and commitment—and healing for them both. If she’d let him into her life again.
She doesn’t really have a choice. Neither of them did. Even if she couldn’t love him, they were still bonded forever, for better or worse, through their child. Even if she wouldn’t have him as a partner, he was going to take care of her and their child from there on out.
He eyed the real-estate office across the street. If he was going to prove to Skye that he was the settling down kind, then he was going to need to buy a house, preferably one with a stable. He’d seen the way riding had made Skye come alive. For the rest of his days, he’d be haunted by the dull pain he’d seen in her eyes when they’d argued at the hospital. He couldn’t stand it, knowing that she was hurting so bad, knowing that he had a lot to do with it. He could truck all his horses down to Texas and gift them to her, if she wanted. He could give her whatever it took for her to put away her fears and come alive again.
A new house, a new truck, new clothes. Hell, he might even order some custom, left-handed guitars like the kind Jimmy Hendrix used to play. It was time for this Oklahoma boy to build himself a new homestead for his brand-new family.
“I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got this. You’re free to go. I’ll be in touch.” Or not.
“I can’t pick you up at the hospital and then just leave you on the side of the road out in the middle of nowhere. You’re giving me heartburn.”
“Well, gosh, Larry. I’m sorry that me making my own decisions is so tough on you,” Gentry deadpanned.
Larry popped an antacid and gave a solemn nod. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Gentry gave a tip of his cap. “See y’all later.” And he turned toward Our
Lady of Guadalupe’s office. He didn’t bother fighting the grin that spread on his lips. Crazy as it might be to be bursting with joy when he’d just hit rock bottom, but he couldn’t help it. For the first time in a long time, he was a free man.
The office that Gentry was shown in to by the church secretary was crowded with books and as dusty-smelling as a library. The priest sat behind a large cherry-stained wood desk. A name placard read FATHER ELLWOOD.
He was a kindly looking older man. Pale, with wisps of white hair crossing his shiny bald head like rivers of ice. He had a welcoming smile and a firm handshake.
“So, Mr. Wells, my secretary told me that you want to be Catholic.”
Frankly, Gentry had never give one single moment of thought to the idea before that day. But the Father might as well have been asking him if he wanted to be the best possible father for his child. And there was only one answer to that question. “Yes, sir. I do.”
“I can tell, by the conviction in your voice. And it’s a good thing, because there’s only one true reason to take this journey. It has to come from the heart. It’s my job to make sure you understand all that it entails. It’s no small choice. And I’m not trying to scare you away. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I did.” He paused to chuckle at his own joke. “But it’s important for you to understand the magnitude of this decision. Let me assure you that this will be the most rewarding choice of your life, if you commit to it.”
Again, Gentry heard the words, but thought about fatherhood, rather than faith. The most rewarding choice of your life, if you commit to it.
Yes, his mind boomed. Yes, his heart seconded. “I’m ready.”
“What happened to your hand, son?”
One Wild Night Page 20