by Terri Osburn
“I’m used to microphones and being put on the spot. How about you, though? You handled that like a pro.” She brushed a speck of lint off his shoulder. “I’m impressed.
“Then I faked it better than I thought. For a second there, I almost forgot how to talk.”
Even knowing him for only a week, she understood the confession couldn’t have been an easy one. “You’ll get used to this. According to Owen back there, you’re the newest star on the scene, remember? That’s going to become a regular occurrence.”
Taking her hand once more, he said, “Maybe you should handle all my press, and I’ll sing the songs.”
She didn’t like him that much. “Not a chance, cowboy.” Charley glanced into the glittering room ahead of them. “What happens now?”
“We mingle,” he supplied, moving them forward. “But first, we get drinks.”
Once he’d downed half a Jack and Coke, Dylan started to relax. He also noticed more than one man in the room admiring his date. Even a few women cut discerning looks Charley’s way. As expected, the beauty in the blue dress didn’t notice the attention. Clay flagged them down from a table near the front, and as they made their way through the room, Mitch came into view, his scowl deepening with every step that Dylan and Charley took.
The next few minutes could go south in a hurry, so he maneuvered Charley to Clay’s side of the table, keeping her a safe distance from his unhappy manager.
“Nice to see you again, Charley,” Clay greeted with a warm handshake. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she replied, a pretty blush dappling her cheeks. “The press outside threw me for a loop. I thought I was attending a nice dinner, not a movie premiere.” Squeezing Dylan’s arm, she added, “Your star here did great. The photogs even knew his name.”
“That’s partially thanks to you and that little public display of affection last night.”
“We didn’t kiss to get publicity,” Dylan cut in. “Though we’re happy to have it,” he added as Mitch sent him a warning glare. Aware he could no longer put off the inevitable, he motioned to the man across the table. “Charley, I don’t think you’ve met my manager yet. Mitch Levine, this is Charley Layton.”
“Hi,” Mitch said, not rising or extending a hand.
“Um . . . hello,” Charley replied, casting a questioning look Dylan’s way.
Pulling out the chair next to Clay’s, he said, “Have a seat, honey.”
“We need to talk,” interrupted Mitch as Charley lowered herself into the chair. The older man rose slowly to his feet. “Come on.”
Dylan didn’t appreciate being summoned like an errant child, but he followed anyway, reluctant to cause a scene. When they reached the far wall, Mitch picked up where he’d left off the night before. “I thought you were bringing Casey to this shindig. First that damn video, and now this? What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I had two tickets to a nice dinner, and I’d rather have a beautiful woman by my side than a lanky redhead in a ball cap.”
“This isn’t a joke, Monroe. I got a call from Country Today this afternoon. They wanted to confirm that you’re still an eligible bachelor and will remain one until their article comes out.”
Why was he so hung up on this one article? “I’m not putting my life on hold for a magazine article. In case you weren’t paying attention in our meeting this morning, sales doubled after that video went viral. The song is in radio rotation from coast to coast and getting more adds every day. The label is happy, I’m happy, and you should be, too.”
Mitch shook his head. “You’ve got one song doing okay. One song, Dylan. Ever heard of a one-hit wonder? You want a career, you need to work the angles. You have to make the fans want you before they’ll want the next single. I’m doing what you hired me to do, son. But you’ve got to be on board, or we’re all wasting our time.”
Seeing the light, Dylan leaned an arm on the wall. “I like her, Mitch. There’s got to be another way.”
“So like her,” he said. “But do it in private. In public, play things down for a few months. You barely know this chick, anyway. You two could be over in a matter of weeks, and you’ll have blown a prime opportunity for nothing.”
Dylan wanted more than a few weeks with Charley, but he wanted his career just as much.
“Fine,” he agreed. “If the magazine calls again, let them know I consider myself free and available. I’ll explain things to Charley. She’s not big on all the attention anyway, so the reprieve will probably be a relief.”
“You’ll thank me for this someday.”
Annoyance trumped gratitude in that moment. “Did you say the article comes out in December?”
“That’s right,” Mitch answered, mood noticeably brighter. “If she’s really the one, four months of keeping things quiet won’t hurt anything, right?”
Four months of pretending didn’t sound all that attractive to Dylan, but he agreed to the plan. “I guess not.”
“When did you and Dylan meet?” Clay asked Charley, relatively certain he knew the answer.
The concerned young woman continued to watch her date across the room. “Last weekend. I was out with friends celebrating my birthday at the Wildhorse when Dylan asked me to dance.”
“Things are moving pretty fast then,” he noted. “I suppose a girl has to grab an opportunity when it comes her way.”
Now he had her attention. “Excuse me?”
“Not that I blame you.” Clay nodded toward Dylan. “A guy with a face like that, about to be launched into stardom. Happy birthday to you, right?”
Charley slapped a tiny blue clutch onto the table. “I’m not with Dylan for an opportunity, Mr. Benedict. In fact, I had no idea when I left that club with him that he could even carry a tune. I didn’t learn that he was the launching artist for Shooting Stars Records until John Willoughby walked into my radio booth Monday morning and told me so.”
Exactly what Clay wanted to hear. But then he put two and two together. “So Dylan didn’t tell you anything about being a singer or that he had a single already available, but you didn’t call him out on the air?”
Jaw tight, the brunette reached for the glass of white wine she’d carried to the table. “I don’t know what woman did you wrong, but let me assure you, not all females are hateful she-cats. Now if you’re through insulting me, I’d be happy to spend the rest of our time together in silence.”
No wonder Dylan liked her so much. A woman with this much fire could keep any man coming back for more.
“For the record, my last statement was meant as a compliment, but I admit that my delivery could have been better. You see, Miss Layton, I’ve put a great deal of money into Dylan Monroe, and I tend to keep a close eye on my investments.” Reaching for his own drink, Clay tapped his glass to hers. “I apologize for having to test you, but if it’s any consolation, you came through with flying colors.”
She fought not to smile, but lost the battle, and for half a second, Clay wished he were ten years younger.
“So this means we’re on the same side?” Charley asked.
“I believe we are.”
“Then I have a question for you.”
“Fire away, my dear.”
Charley leaned back with her glass. “Why doesn’t Dylan’s album include songs he’s written himself?”
A question Clay had asked Dylan on several occasions. “I’ve been harassing him to write his own songs since we started this process, but his answer is always the same. He doesn’t write songs.”
“That’s bull,” she snapped. “He played one for me the night we met, and it was great.”
Now it was Clay’s turn to lean forward. “Dylan played you a song? Are you sure he wrote it?”
“He said he did, and I don’t have any reason not to believe him.”
Why would an artist keep his songwriting a secret? Especially in this town, where one hit song could set a man for life.
“Do me a favor,” Clay said. “Don’t tell
Dylan that we had this conversation.”
Brown eyes turned suspicious. “Why not?”
“Because I’d like to get to the bottom of something first.” Mitch led his client back to the table, so Clay quickly added, “And I’m guessing he’d be unhappy about you telling me. So let’s keep it our little secret for now.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Charley mumbled.
“Sorry that took so long,” Dylan said, settling into the chair beside his date. “You two okay over here?”
“We’re good,” she replied a little too quickly.
“Everything good with you and Mitch?” Clay asked, opting for deflection.
“We’re good, too,” the young man said, avoiding eye contact.
Silence settled over the small party. If Clay was a betting man, he’d say he and Charley weren’t the only ones keeping a secret tonight.
Chapter 17
“He is not preparing me for the cheating,” Charley argued for the fourth time in the last week.
“You’re deluding yourself, woman. Dylan flat-out told you that he’s going to see other women.” Matty tossed a handful of socks from the washer into the dryer. “How are you not seeing this?”
Lifting herself onto the counter, Charley continued to eat her chocolate ice cream. Which she’d been craving all day.
“I’m going to explain this one more time,” she said, tapping her spoon on the rim of her bowl. “He isn’t going to see other women. That’s the whole point. He needs to make it look like he isn’t seeing anyone, including me. Mitch has convinced him that playing up this ridiculous eligible bachelor thing is going to get him more attention and somehow translate into more sales and more . . . I don’t know. More whatever it takes to make it big.”
Truth be told, Charley didn’t like anything about Mitch’s idea, but she could understand the reasoning. A lot of male artists came into the business with a wife in tow, and even families, but these days everything was about image and tweets and likes. Gone were the days an artist could break through with nothing more than a nice smile and a great song. So she had to stay in the shadows for four months. Charley didn’t need to be in the limelight anyway. Though that trip on the red carpet had been fun.
“Right,” the cynical roommate replied. “You’ve given the man a free pass, Charley. No guy passes up a free pass.”
There was simply no convincing Matty that all men weren’t lying, cheating scum.
“When Dylan isn’t doing interviews, rehearsing with the band, or shooting a video, he’s with me. He doesn’t have time to see other women.”
Charley would have loved to have been at the video shoot earlier in the day, but since Mitch had lined up a special behind-the-scenes extra edition, she’d have had to hide from the cameras the entire time and miss all the action. Not a fun way to spend the afternoon. Plus, she’d worked a remote in Franklin during the morning.
Matty slammed the dryer shut. “What about when that reporter from the magazine spent the whole day with him? You weren’t around then.”
“Convincing a reporter that he belongs on a most eligible bachelor list would be a little difficult with his girlfriend tagging along.”
“I always hated that term. After a certain age, it sounds stupid.”
Rolling her eyes, Charley licked the bottom of her spoon. “Then what would you prefer I call myself?”
Two cranks of a knob, followed by the push of a button, and the ancient machine rolled into motion. “I have no idea. I haven’t been a guy’s anything in so long, I haven’t had to think about it.” Lifting a full basket onto her hip, Matty began loading the washer. “I can’t believe this doesn’t bother you. Sneaking around to see each other. Letting him tell the press that you two are just friends. All to con some teenage girls into dreaming they have a chance with him, hoping they’ll buy all his records and tweet about how amazing he is, and I think I just threw up in my mouth even saying that.”
“Did someone up your drama queen medication this morning?” Charley hopped off the counter and set her now empty bowl in the sink. “I’d better jump in the shower. Dylan is picking me up in an hour, and with him leaving for the radio tour in the morning, this is definitely a shave-my-legs night.”
Though Clay Benedict had mentioned his large investment in Dylan, that money apparently didn’t pay for five-star travel accommodations for a radio tour. Ten days in a van with Mitch, Casey, a driver, and a record label rep did not sound like a pleasant way to see the country. Hopefully, by the time the tour ended, his single would be climbing the charts, and all the hours on the road would have been worth it.
“You’re wasting those amazing legs on a man who doesn’t deserve them,” Matty mumbled.
Stopping on her way out of the room, Charley said, “You think I have amazing legs?”
A pair of black yoga pants flew at her head. “Of course I do, you little hussy. They’re almost as tall as I am, for crying out loud. I’d kill to have legs like that.”
In the short time she’d known her, Matty had never expressed even a hint of self-doubt. Except for the bit about men cheating on her. But when it came to looks, either the woman’s mirror was broken, or her eyes were.
“Matty, you’re like a Mensa poster child wrapped in the body of a beauty queen.”
“That explains why I was the president of the chess club and Miss Putnam County 2006,” she said with a perfect curtsy. “But that doesn’t change my short, stubby legs into those filly ones you’ve got going on.”
Carrying the yoga pants back to the basket, Charley helped bundle the rest of the clothes into the washer. “Right when I think there’s ice running through your veins, you go and say something nice like that.”
With a flip of her hand, Matty splashed cold water at her roommate’s face. “I’m still a bitch,” she said with a laugh. “A short, jealous one.”
Charley dabbed her face on her sleeve as she backed away. “There’s a heart of gold in there somewhere. You can’t hide it from me.”
“Don’t you be telling people that,” came a shrill voice from the kitchen as Charley hustled up the stairs. “I have a rep to protect.”
Dylan had never realized the benefits of being normal. No cameras. No photo shoots. And no pretending he didn’t have a beautiful girl waiting in the wings.
None of this was fair on Charley, and that’s why he’d insisted on having the night off before heading out on tour tomorrow. Visiting radio stations meant their days would start at the butt-crack of dawn, and it required reaching the first destination a day early. A Sunday drive up to Louisville, where the tour started, wouldn’t be too bad, but he was already dreading the longer trips.
The high from the video shoot still churned through his system. They’d worked long hours for two days straight and visited four different locations in and around the city before wrapping late in the afternoon. Thanks to shooting the outdoor party-in-the-sticks scene hours before, Dylan had been in dire need of a shower before racing off to Charley’s. As soon as he parked outside her door, his cell phone dinged.
“One night, people. That’s all I asked.”
Checking the screen like a good little artist, he saw the text from Mitch and swiped to read it.
We’ve got an opening gig. Tour kicks off 17th in Jacksonville. Runs three months.
Staring at the screen, he read the words three more times.
“I’m going on tour. Dude, we’re going on tour.”
He fired off a text to the guys, repeating the exact words he’d said aloud, and then jumped from the truck and ran to Charley’s door, ringing the bell three times before she finally opened it. Swooping her into his arms, Dylan spun circles on the stoop. “I’m going on tour, baby. We did it.”
Understandably confused, Charley braced her hands on his shoulders. “I didn’t know you were this excited about visiting radio stations.”
“No,” he said, dropping her to her feet. “A real tour. I’m going to be an opening act.”
“For who?” she asked, reminding him of a detail he’d missed.
“Shit. I don’t know.” Jogging back to the truck, he checked the phone and found the next message.
Wes Tillman twenty-year anniversary tour, and Clay is paying for a bus.
Turning to rush back to her, Dylan nearly knocked Charley to the ground. “Jesus, darling, I didn’t know you were behind me.”
She waved away the apology. “Forget that. Tell me. Who’s the tour with?”
“Wes Tillman.” A man Dylan had grown up listening to who’d won every award available and would likely be in the Hall of Fame within the decade.
“I thought he retired.”
“I guess he changed his mind.” Spinning her off her feet once more, Dylan hooted with excitement. “Do you realize how much I can learn from this? From Tillman? And how many people are going to see us?” He put her down and paced away. “Charley, this is what I’ve been working for, and it’s happening. It’s really happening.”
“I know! I’m so excited for you. When does it start?”
Checking the phone again, he said, “The seventeenth and lasts for three months. That’s three days after I get back from the radio visits.”
“Oh,” Charley said with less excitement. “I guess we won’t get to see each other much between now and Christmas, then, huh?”
Dylan didn’t like that part, either, but he was determined to make things work. “You can come see me on the road.”
“When? I work five days a week and run remotes on the weekends.”
“You can request one weekend off, can’t you?”
“I guess, but they earn me a hundred dollars a pop, so it would cost me money.”
Grasping her shoulders, Dylan locked eyes with hers. “This tour could take me to the next level, honey. Soon, you won’t need to worry about an extra hundred dollars a week.”
Charley backed out of his grip. “I make my own money, Dylan, and I have no plans to stop doing so anytime soon. You said you’d never ask me to give up my job.”
“No.” He shook his head, following her retreat. “That’s not what I meant. You’re a fantastic DJ, and I want you to do that for the next thirty years if that’s what you want. But that doesn’t mean I can’t take care of you, right?”