Rising Star (A Shooting Stars Novel Book 1)

by Terri Osburn

  He didn’t blame her, but Dylan would not be leaving this farm until he’d won Charley back. Whether he’d miss the show in Billings to make that happen, he hadn’t decided. A lot of people would be thoroughly screwed if he did. But music was a job. Something he’d be lucky to do for the next couple of decades. Charley would be forever if he pulled this off.

  None of the dogs so much as flinched as he climbed the stairs. Three quick knocks on the screen door and Dylan stepped back to wait, hoping her grandfather wasn’t the shoot-’em-first-ask-questions-later kind of guy. As the seconds ticked by, Dylan shifted left to peer in a window when the door opened. What he turned back to see dropped his jaw. A monolith of epic proportions filled the doorway, clad in dirt-stained overalls, dust-covered boots, and a sweat-stained John Deere cap. Dylan didn’t fear many men, but this one knocked him speechless for a good five seconds.

  “You lost?” the stranger offered in greeting, eying him up and down, clearly unimpressed.

  Finding his tongue, he said, “I need to talk to Charley. Is she here?”

  “If you’re who I think you are, you’ve got a lot of nerve for a pansy-ass dipshit.”

  Squinting, Dylan said, “I’m going to take that as a yes. Could you let her know I’m here, please?”

  The big guy stepped through the door with a growl. “Are you Monroe? I need to make sure before I pulverize the wrong guy.”

  Pushing his luck, Dylan said the first thing that came to mind. “That’s a big word, buddy. I’m impressed.”

  Without warning, a muscled arm shot out, and fingers like a vise grip locked around Dylan’s throat. He clenched at the attacking appendage as his oxygen supply was cut off.

  “Who is it, Elvis?” Charley said, arriving at the door in time to see Dylan’s feet come off the ground. “Dammit, Elvis! You promised you wouldn’t hurt him!”

  “Nope,” he heard the giant say over the ringing in his ears. “Promised I wouldn’t kill him. Didn’t say nothing about hurting the son of a bitch.”

  Unappreciative of the insult to his mother, Dylan swung his weight enough to make the buffoon bend his elbow, and with one quick thrust, he drove the ball of his hand into Elvis’s nose. The strangle-hold released, air filled Dylan’s lungs, and the porch buckled when six and a half feet of angry man hit his knees.

  Charley crossed the distance to her protector and used the kitchen towel slung over her shoulder to stop the bleeding.

  “Why do men have to be idiots all the time?” she asked no one in particular.

  “No,” Dylan wheezed, lungs burning and ego bruised. “Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.”

  Leaving Elvis to attend his own injury, she checked Dylan’s neck. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

  Incredulous, he stared at her. “You think?”

  “Where did you learn to do that nose thing?” she asked.

  Dylan leaned on the porch rail. “Fourteen years of tae kwon do. Jesus, Charley. You never said you had a brother the size of a freight train.”

  “Elvis isn’t my brother. He lives on the farm next door.” Gentle fingers touched his throat, and Dylan failed to smother the wince. “We grew up together, and he’s a little protective of me.”

  “Yeah. I noticed.”

  “You broke my nose,” Elvis accused, rising to his feet. “You’re a dead man.”

  “No one is dying today,” Charley declared. “Elvis, go get some ice for your nose.” Turning to Dylan, she said, “What are you doing here?”

  Straightening his twisted shirt, he replied, “I came to explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  “Why I went silent a week ago. The truth about those pictures of me and Denise. All of it.”

  Charley crossed her arms. “So her name is Denise?”

  “Yeah, and she’s a friend.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “Of course she knows that. And so does her girlfriend.”

  The arms dropped. “You mean . . .”

  “Yes. And I’ll tell you everything else, too. But I’m going to need some water first.” Dylan wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Does that dude lift tractors in his spare time?”

  She ignored the question and stomped back to the screen door. “Grandpa is in the kitchen, and he isn’t much happier with you than Elvis is. I suggest you take a seat in the living room, and I’ll be back with your water.”

  The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Dylan alone on the porch.

  Chapter 25

  Charley nearly fainted when she saw Dylan on the porch, and not only because his face had gone purple thanks to Elvis’s overzealous greeting.

  The possibility of him eventually looking her up was always there. She hadn’t expected eventually to be less than twenty-four hours after she left town. Which reminded her, the man was supposed to be on tour. The next show on the schedule was Kansas City in two days. Last she checked, KC was a long way from Kentucky.

  “That bastard broke my nose,” Elvis repeated.

  “Language,” Maynard Layton snapped. “Not in my house, boy.”

  His tone let Charley know that Grandpa wasn’t pleased about their visitor and was taking his annoyance out on poor Elvis.

  “You nearly killed him, Elvis. He hit you in self-defense.” Pulling a bottle of water from the fridge, she said, “We’ll be in the front room. The less you two butt in, the quicker I can get him out of here.”

  And she had no doubt Dylan would be leaving within the hour. Regardless of his innocence regarding the new love situation, he’d ignored Charley for a week and stayed silent upon learning of his impending fatherhood. Neither of those actions would be so easily excused. Lingering outside the kitchen, she took several deep breaths to quell her nausea. The morning sickness had settled into a pattern—first thing when she woke and again about an hour after every meal. The baby seemed displeased with both an empty stomach and a full one.

  Her heart wasn’t so easy to calm. Charley hadn’t missed the tired eyes or the stubble-covered chin. Dylan’s clothes were wrinkled, which never happened, and his words carried the determination he brought to every challenge. To her abject disappointment, she still loved the jerk more than anything. But that didn’t mean she’d forgive him.

  “Here’s your water,” she said as she entered the room, keeping her voice as devoid of emotion as possible. The last thing Charley needed was a blubbering cry right now.

  “Thank you.” Dylan accepted the drink and downed half the bottle as she settled in Granny’s old Victorian chair, hoping the older woman’s spirit would provide the strength she needed to get through this.

  Replacing the cap on the bottle, he set it on a coaster on the oval coffee table. “This is going to sound like a crazy story,” he started, “but it’s the truth. A week ago tomorrow night, I lost my phone.”

  A likely story, she thought, but held her tongue.

  “I had an argument with Mitch,” Dylan said, pacing the small space. “About you and me. That’s when I realized his issue wasn’t about keeping up appearances for the article. Mitch flat-out didn’t want me dating anyone and would keep throwing up road blocks to get his way.” Pointing at her, he insisted, “I told him to stay out of my personal life. That you and I were going to be together whether he liked it or not.”

  “But we aren’t together anymore,” Charley reminded him.

  “Yes, we are.” As if searching to find his place, Dylan scratched his hatless head and returned to pacing. “The guys were already heading for the stage while I was talking to Mitch, so I set my phone behind a speaker and went out to do my job. Only when I came back, the phone was gone.”

  “Gone?” she repeated.

  “I told you it sounds crazy. I looked everywhere. Asked the crew, let Fran the tour manager know to keep an eye out for it, but the thing never turned up.” Finally taking a seat on the sofa, he added, “I have a feeling it’s buried in Mitch’s bags somewhere.”

  Charley leaned her elbows on her kne
es. “Let me get this straight. You think your manager stole your phone?”

  “I’d bet my Gibson on it.”

  “But why? All you had to do was get a new one.”

  “Exactly. Which he assured me he’d do, but we pulled out of DC hours later bound for New York City, and he’d booked me solid for the next two days with interviews, radio visits, and previously unscheduled meet and greets.” Growing more agitated, Dylan returned to his feet. “By Friday night I was tired of the excuses and said I’d get my own damn phone, but Mitch promised I’d have a new one in my hand the next day.”

  Which explained why he hadn’t returned any of Charley’s messages through the week, but not his silence on the phone Saturday morning.

  “Why didn’t you call me once you had the phone?”

  “Because I didn’t have my contacts. Mitch claimed the woman at the phone store searched my account and found no data.”

  Convenient. And totally implausible.

  “None of this changes anything,” she said, coming to her feet. “You still got your phone back on Saturday in time for me to call and tell you that I’m pregnant. And you said nothing. You left me to deal with the situation on my own, believing you’d already moved on to another woman. What excuse do you have for that? Because I can’t think of a single one that would make this all okay.”

  Dylan’s ass hit the coffee table. “You’re what?”

  “You answered the phone, so don’t play dumb with me.”

  “Your condition,” he whispered to the floor. “That’s what she meant.”

  Feeling the now familiar tingle behind her eyes, Charley spoke faster. “It’s not a condition. It’s a baby. And I know you don’t want kids, and that’s fine. Because me and this baby don’t need anything from you.” Breaking for the doorway, she willed the tears to wait. “You shouldn’t have come here, Dylan. Go back to your tour and your fans and leave me alone.”

  “Wait!” He cut her off before she reached the hall. “Charley, you have to listen to me. I didn’t get that call. Honey, I had no idea we were going to have a baby.”

  Charley jerked her arm free. “But you answered. I blurted out everything, and you sat there, silent, like it didn’t matter at all. Like I didn’t matter.”

  “You do matter. Charley, look at me.” Dylan cupped her face in his hands, his gray eyes blurry through the tears. “I believe you that someone answered that call, but I swear that it wasn’t me. Matty said you called that morning, but Mitch didn’t give me the phone until after twelve o’clock. I’d give anything to have been there for that call. I’d do anything to change the last week, but I can’t, baby. I can only make it right from now on. Let me do that.”

  Her head said to believe him, but her heart said no. This wasn’t only about her anymore. A baby deserved a father who would be there. A father who wanted him more than anything.

  “You told me that night in the park that you don’t want kids. The mere mention of them nearly sent you running,” she snarled. “Don’t stand here and tell me that’s different now.”

  Releasing his hold, Dylan slammed his hands into his hair and spun away. “I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel about a baby. You’ve had a week to process this. I’ve had sixty seconds. But dammit, I love you, Charley. So what if it freaks me out? Too damn bad. We’re in this together, and I’m not leaving this farm until I know that this is fixed. Until you tell me that you love me, and that you’ll come back to Nashville, and we’ll face whatever comes next together. Because I don’t want to live without you. Just come back.”

  Charley blotted her eyes with the back of her hand. “Do you mean all that?”

  Dylan pulled her into his arms. “If you aren’t scared, you aren’t living, right? I can’t think of anything scarier than this, darling. But it’s a good scary.”

  Relief washed over her as she burrowed against his chest, grasping his shirt in her hands. “If you ever lose your phone again, I’ll sic Elvis on you.”

  Laughter vibrating through his chest, he replied, “And I’ll gladly take the beating.”

  Dylan may have won back his girl, but her family was a different matter. Elvis stared him down through dinner, through two black eyes and a cotton-stuffed nose. First chance he got, there would be a call of thanks to his parents. They would be happy to hear all that money for tae kwon do lessons had finally paid off.

  Charley’s grandfather proved harder to read. A man of few words, at least in Dylan’s direction, he was polite and welcoming without being friendly. Not unexpected, since a man he didn’t know, who happened to get his granddaughter pregnant, had shown up on his doorstep without warning. In the same position, Dylan would likely respond the same way.

  And then he realized he could have a daughter of his own this time next year. A helpless little thing fully dependent on him. With a smile, he changed that thought. No daughter of Charley’s would ever be helpless.

  “What’s the grin for?” Mr. Layton asked.

  Charley had suggested he call her grandfather Maynard, but Dylan knew he hadn’t earned that right yet. He’d been given a dusty room above the garage for the night, and he’d been escorted to his temporary quarters by the older man. Likely preferring not to have his granddaughter alone with her wayward beau in the vicinity of a bed.

  “It’s been a good day, sir. Thinking about how lucky I am.”

  An inaudible grumble served as a reply as he tossed sheets and a blanket on an uncomfortable-looking cot.

  “I’m guessing you don’t think much of me right now, but I do love your granddaughter.”

  “So you say.”

  “I plan to take care of her.”

  “So I hear.”

  This was going well.

  “She’s a special girl.”

  Deep-green eyes locked with Dylan’s. “Son, the fact that you’re here instead of off gallivanting on that big tour bus of yours tells me all I need to know. I haven’t seen much to be impressed with, but Charley seems to think you’re the best thing since the cotton gin, and I trust her judgment. But I’ll tell you this. You hurt my girl again and Elvis will be the least of your problems.” Waving a finger toward the far window, he went on. “I’ve got a hundred and sixty acres out there. Lots of nooks and crannies that no one knows about but me. Remember that.”

  Now he knew where Charley got her gumption.

  “Yes, sir.” Dylan nodded, believing every unspoken word the man said. Not that he needed a threat to be good to Charley, but since he had no desire to become fertilizer before his time, he acknowledged the unnecessary warning with the proper respect.

  Message conveyed, the country gentleman bid him goodnight, leaving Dylan to make the bed himself. After handling the necessaries in the tiny washroom in the corner, he slipped off his boots and lowered himself to the cot. Layton probably assumed these sleeping arrangements would be uncomfortable for the fancy singing cowboy, but Maynard had clearly never had to sleep on a tour bus before.

  Dylan stared at the wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling for several minutes before his eyes grew heavy. In his mind, a melody bloomed to life, and then lyrics fell into place.

  To the ends of the earth,

  The four corners of the world,

  I’d run through hell and face the fire

  For only one girl.

  She’s a beauty to behold,

  An angel I don’t deserve.

  She’s a devil in black lace,

  With all the right curves.

  Reaching for his phone to type in the words, Dylan caught the soft sound of a closing door.

  “Hello?” he called, and saw a familiar figure reach the top of the stairs. “Well, hello,” he repeated, abandoning the phone.

  Charley shushed him as he pounded across the floor to meet her. “Grandpa has ears like a bat.”

  “Good for him.”

  Sweeping her off her feet, Dylan took her mouth with his, kissing her the way he’d wanted to all afternoon. She melted against him,
and his body hardened in response. Tasting. Touching. They made up for lost time, holding each other as if they might never have another chance. For the rest of his days, Dylan would never get enough of this woman.

  Pulling away, she buried her fingers in his hair as he let her feet touch the floor. “I don’t have much time. I couldn’t bear knowing you were up here and not come to say goodnight.”

  “Stay,” he said, nibbling her left earlobe. “I’ll have you back in your bed by morning.”

  “No more sneaking around,” she said, and he knew she didn’t mean only tonight. “What are you going to tell Mitch?”

  “What I should have told him a long time ago. But I don’t want to talk about Mitch right now.”

  Picking her up once more, Dylan carried Charley to the cot and lowered himself down beside her. The ancient piece creaked in displeasure.

  “I’m not sure this can hold us both,” she mumbled.

  “Then let it break. I’ll sleep on the floor, so long as you’re beside me.”

  Charley kissed him again, her touch laced with doubts and trust, concerns and absolute faith. She humbled him, aroused him, and scared him half to death. A combination he never thought he’d find.

  “Thank you,” he said, rubbing a thumb along her cheek.

  “For what?” she whispered.

  “For loving me. God knows I don’t deserve you.”

  Laying a slender finger against his lips, she closed her eyes. “You deserve better than me, Dylan. But I’ll fight any girl who tries to take you.”

  He tucked her head beneath his chin. “I don’t want any other girl. I’ve already got the best right here.”

  As she sighed, relaxing in his arms, warm breath danced across his chest, and soon she dozed off. Content to let her sleep, Dylan reached for his phone and quietly finished the song.