by Terri Osburn
This was a common response when females first laid eyes on Charley’s neighbor. But since she’d known him since they were five years old, racing through the mud on their brand-new four-wheelers, he was too much of a brother to be anything other than plain old Elvis to her.
“Unless you plan to move to Liberty, Kentucky, I suggest you not get any ideas. Elvis runs his family’s farm, and I doubt he’ll ever leave home again.”
“Again?” Matty queried, peeking out the door.
“Six years in the marines,” Charley replied.
Watching Elvis toss the suitcase into the Bronco, she whispered, “Ooh rah.”
Charley rolled her eyes. “Here’s my cell phone. I need you to return it to the store tomorrow.”
Matty glanced down to the phone. “Why? It’s your phone.”
“I was leasing it, and I won’t be able to afford the same plan up home. Besides,” she added, “it’s nearly impossible to get a signal on the farm.”
Blue eyes went wide. “What kind of foreign land are you from?”
“One with more cows than people.” Charley slapped the phone into her hand. “I’ve already turned off the number. It took a chunk of my savings to buy out the contract, but I don’t want any connections to down here.”
Now Matty rolled her eyes. “This is insane. One guy turns out to be a jerk, and you give up your job, your home, and now your cell phone?”
“I’ve put the number at Grandpa’s on the fridge, along with the address. I don’t get much mail, so forwarding shouldn’t be a problem.”
“What do I do if Dylan shows up at this door?” Matty asked. A possibility Charley hadn’t considered.
After half a beat, she said, “He won’t.”
Hands on her hips, Matty stared her down. “But what if he does?”
“Ask him what he wants,” Charley instructed. “If he wants information about the baby, you can give him the house number. If he wants me, tell him to go to hell.”
Elvis returned with a dolly. “Is the dresser empty?” he asked.
“It is,” she replied. “I’ll be up to help in a second.”
“I’ve got it.”
Watching the big guy ascend the staircase, Matty asked, “Is he going to bring the furniture down by himself?”
“Looks that way.” Bracing herself, Charley dove into the goodbye she’d rehearsed the night before. “Thank you, Matty. For letting me live here. For being my friend. And for letting me cry on your shoulder the last few days.”
“You don’t have to go,” she replied.
Charley nodded. “Yes, I do. When you give up the only thing you’ve ever dreamed of doing with your life, you don’t want to drag the process out.” Managing a watery smile, she added, “I have a new adventure ahead, right? Motherhood and all that comes with it.”
Matty cupped her cheeks. “This kid is very lucky to have you for a mom.”
The simple statement threatened her fragile control. “I’m going to miss you, Matilda Jacobs. Maybe I’ll have Grandpa leave a dirty cereal bowl in the sink now and then. It’ll be like I never left.”
“You’re such a brat.” The tiny blonde pulled her in for a powerful hug. “Matilda could be a nice middle name,” she whispered.
“Yes, it could,” Charley mumbled between sniffles. She pulled back and reached for a tissue on the end table. “No more crying. Onward ho, right?”
“If you’re of the pirate persuasion, sure.”
A quiet thud on the stairs drew their attention as Elvis made his way down backward, slowly dragging the dresser-laden dolly along one step at a time. The shirt beneath the overalls had long ago lost its sleeves, leaving his tattoo-covered biceps in clear view.
“Oh my,” Matty breathed.
“No cell phone service,” Charley reminded her.
A hand flattened on her roommate’s chest. “I could live off the grid.”
Charley laughed. “No you couldn’t.”
Eyes still on the prize, Matty mumbled, “I could for a night. Maybe I should go with you. Help you get settled.”
“How many pigs do you have now, Elvis?” Charley asked her helper.
“Six,” he answered. “We’ll have plenty of bacon for the winter once we get ’em good and fat.”
She could almost feel the enthusiasm leave Matty’s body as the words, “Well, damn,” were whispered with regret.
“Good show tonight, everyone,” yelled Fran Templeton. The tour manager had called an after-show meeting for the crew, and since his bandmates weren’t speaking to him, Dylan happened to be hanging around backstage, staying out of the way during load-out. “I’ve got good news and bad news,” she said, earning groans from the crowd. “First up, the bad news. The show in Kansas City has been canceled thanks to a water main break under the venue. The performance will be rescheduled at the end of the tour, if the dates work out.”
“Well, shit,” commented a roadie, verbalizing what everyone else was thinking.
“But now the good news,” Fran went on. “As you know, the next show on the schedule is Billings, Montana, on Saturday. We’ll head that way tonight, and once we arrive tomorrow evening, you all have four days off.”
This news was received with greater enthusiasm, hoots and high-fives echoing off the rafters. Until the obvious question was asked.
“What is there to do in Billings, Montana?”
“It’s a big city. Y’all will find something to kill the time.” Holding up a hand to silence the responding chatter, Fran added, “If you’ve got cold weather clothes, you’re probably going to need them. Now let’s get this show back on the road.”
The crew dispersed as Dylan lingered in the wings, sending up a prayer of gratitude for this sudden turn of luck. Within seconds, he’d booked a one-way plane ticket from Springfield, Illinois, back to Nashville, leaving before six the next morning. An airport hotel was locked in next, and then he charged off for the bus to pack a bag as the taxi headed his way.
Charley and Elvis stopped outside Bowling Green for a quick bite to eat. Since she was traveling without a phone, they’d agreed that he’d stop whenever he was ready, though Charley would have been fine to make the two-and-a-half-hour drive without stopping at all. The moment they’d crossed the state line, Charley started to relax.
Fast food wasn’t Charley’s favorite, and truth be told, Dylan had spoiled her with all the fancy meals he’d bought her during their short time together. Reminding herself that those days were over, she put in her order and settled in across from her childhood friend to eat the burger and fries.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Elvis asked, emptying a third ketchup packet onto his sandwich paper.
She hadn’t shared many details during their short phone conversation Saturday evening. Actually, she hadn’t shared any details at all. Mostly because if she did, the big lug chowing down six fries at a time was likely to locate one Dylan Monroe and beat the shit out of him.
“I made some poor choices,” Charley hedged. “Now I’m paying for them.”
“How bad?” he asked.
Unwilling to lie to her best friend, she said, “I’m eating for two.”
Keeping her eyes on her food meant missing Elvis’s facial expression, but she heard the expletive loud and clear.
“Who is he?”
“No one important.”
They’d had conversations like this before. And like before, Elvis typically won. “Give me a name.”
Hoping upon hope that the big guy wasn’t up on the latest country releases, she replied, “Dylan Monroe.”
“Does he know?”
Charley’s chin jerked up. “Of course he knows. Do you think I’d leave town and not tell him?”
Elvis didn’t flinch. “Calm your teats, Layton. It’s a fair question.”
“You’ve known me for twenty years, Marigold. That is not a fair question.”
They continued to eat in hostile silence, until Elvis asked, “Do I need to pay
him a visit?”
“No.”
“A man who leaves a pregnant woman to fend for herself needs to be taught a lesson.”
“Breaking his knees isn’t going to change anything,” she assured him. “And he isn’t worth the jail time.”
Another six fries went in. “No body. No jail time.”
Catching his eyes, she muttered, “That isn’t funny.”
“Who’s laughing?”
Slamming her elbows on the table, Charley held out one pinkie. “Promise me you won’t kill him.”
Elvis glanced around. Assured no one was watching, he wrapped his pinkie around hers. “Fine, I promise. But he better hope I never lay eyes on him.”
In this, she was certain. “There’s no chance of that.”
Chapter 24
Dylan’s phone had blown up somewhere around two in the morning. Right about the time the guys had informed Mitch that he wasn’t on the bus.
Somewhere between booking his plane ticket and checking into the hotel, Dylan had a revelation. Once connected to the hotel Wi-Fi, he did a little digging and did what Mitch claimed couldn’t be done. In a matter of minutes, all the contacts were back on his phone.
Casey had been right. Mitch Levine was a lying sack of shit.
Unfortunately, it was also after midnight, and if Charley was as pissed as he guessed she might be, waking her from a sound sleep after a week of silence probably wasn’t the best way to go. But the minute he stepped off the direct flight at eight fifteen Monday morning, he’d dialed her number. And got the message that Charley’s phone was no longer in service.
Maybe pissed was an understatement.
Since she wasn’t on the air until ten, he gave the cab driver the station address and urged him to hurry. As usual, the interstate was loaded with stupid drivers, but the mellow guy in the front seat navigated the traffic like a pro. By eight forty-five, Dylan landed on the doorstep of the Eagle 101.5 studios ready to grovel.
Exiting the elevator on the second floor, he dropped his duffel and stormed the reception desk.
“I need to see Charley Layton, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Layton no longer works here.”
“What?” he exploded, slapping his hands on the counter. “There has to be a mistake.”
The receptionist shoved her glasses up on her nose as she rolled backward, putting more distance between them. “There’s no mistake. Miss Layton is no longer employed here.”
“Did you fire her?”
What could she possibly have done? Charley was the best damn personality the place had, and that included Ruby Barnett.
“No, she quit over the weekend.”
There was no way Charley would quit this job. Not unless something was really wrong. Dylan paced to the elevator and back. He’d let the cab driver go, which would mean calling another to get to Charley’s apartment. And then he remembered the other half of that apartment was in this building.
“Then I need to talk to Matty,” he said. “Matty Jacobs. She still works here, right?”
“Yes, she does.” Rolling herself close enough to the desk to dial the phone, the dark-haired woman let Matty know she had a visitor and then hung up, saying, “She’ll be right up.”
Grateful to finally get some cooperation, Dylan said, “Thank you,” and returned to pacing the small lobby space.
“Who is it, Wendy?” Matty asked as she stepped through the connecting door. Upon spotting Dylan, her eyes went wide. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on tour.”
“I am,” he replied. “Where’s Charley?”
“Why do you care?” she snapped.
“What do you mean . . .” Dylan shoved the balls of his hands against his sandy eyes. “Matty, I love her. I can explain why I haven’t called.”
Turning her back on him, the blonde sauntered back through the door. “Too late for that.”
On the verge of begging, he yelled, “Jesus Christ, Matty, at least tell me if she’s okay. I need to know!”
The blonde spun his way. “Wendy, is the small conference room available?”
The receptionist flipped open a binder. “Yes, it’s open.”
With an icy glare, Matty locked eyes with Dylan. “Follow me.”
Leaving his bag behind, he did as ordered. Not far from the entrance, she turned left into a tiny meeting room. The moment the door clicked shut, she said, “Charley is as fine as she can be in her condition.”
“What condition? What happened at the doctor visit? Is she sick?”
Sculpted brows arched. “Don’t play stupid, Dylan. I know she told you. I was there.”
“Told me what? I haven’t talked to Charley since the night before she went to see the doctor.”
“She called you on Saturday.”
“Saturday?” He’d gotten his phone back that day, but Charley hadn’t called him. “I’m telling you, I haven’t talked to her in a week.”
Matty threw her hands in the air. “She was standing in my kitchen. She called from my cell, because clearly you’d blocked her number.”
“I haven’t blocked any numbers,” he growled. “My phone disappeared Tuesday night during the DC show. I left it on the speaker when I went out to perform, and when I came back, it was gone.” Dylan dragged his new phone from his pocket. “Look, I’ll show you. There are no calls on Saturday.”
Skeptical, she watched over his shoulder as he slid through the screens.
“You must have deleted the call.”
Like an unexpected left hook, the truth smacked him in the face. “Matty, what time did Charley call me?”
“I don’t know. Ten in the morning?”
“That was eleven in New York. Mitch didn’t give me the phone until after noon.”
Crossing her arms, she said, “Your manager?”
“Ex-manager,” Dylan corrected. “Charley must have talked to him. Did she try to contact me at all on Tuesday, after she left the doctor’s office?”
Coming around, Matty dropped into a chair. “She sent you text messages all week. You never responded.”
“I never saw those messages,” he assured her. “Without my phone, I didn’t know her number. Once we were on the road to New York, I had to wait until we got there to get another phone.”
Matty rocked the meeting chair. “But what about Friday night? You were with some other girl.”
“Denise Halliday is a backup singer for Wes Tillman. She’s happily engaged to a woman named Laura.”
Finally convinced, Matty rose from her chair. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what? Is Charley okay?”
Grabbing a station notepad left in the middle of the table, she pulled a pen from her pocket and wrote something down.
“She’s back in Kentucky. The phone number is on my fridge, but I remember the address.” Finishing the note, she passed it his way. “It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive. You can be there by lunchtime.”
Dylan planted a quick kiss on Matty’s cheek. “Thank you.”
“Grandpa, I am not going to the press.” Charley had made this statement three times since confessing all the day before. “One of us losing a career is more than enough.”
“That boy needs to know there are consequences for this sort of thing.”
“That boy is a grown man who knows exactly what the consequences are, and he wants nothing to do with them.”
“Aw,” the old man murmured. “You know what I mean.”
Charley placed a kiss on her grandfather’s cheek as she passed him by at the table. “I do know what you mean. But I’ve told you. I refuse to be that girl. I’ll have a hard enough time explaining the situation to the locals. The last thing I want is my name splashed across the headlines as the woman who got knocked up by a smooth-talking singer on the night she met him.”
“The night you met him?” Grandpa railed, and Charley cringed. She’d left that tidbit out until now.
“Me and my big mo
uth,” she mumbled. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture. Karma is punishing me enough for my misdeeds.” Immediately, she regretted her choice of words. A baby should never be considered a punishment. “I don’t mean that. I mean . . .”
Gramps took her hand in his. “I understand. But you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”
“Mama did it alone,” she pointed out. “I turned out fine.”
“Your mama had me and Grandma, and for a while there, you were anything but fine.”
A girl who loses her mother at the age of sixteen can go one of two ways. Charley went the wrong one.
Flattening the four hairs atop his head, she said, “That was a minor blip. And I came around soon enough.”
“Not soon enough to spare your grandmother and me several sleepless nights.”
Hand on her hip, she said, “Is this give-Charley-a-hard-time day? Because I have plenty of unpacking to do.”
Grandpa rose from the table. “I’ll leave you alone. I’ve got chores to do anyway. That hay ain’t going to cut itself.”
“Let Elvis do the heavy lifting,” she ordered. “And I’ll have lunch ready at eleven thirty. Don’t be late.”
Dylan thought he’d grown up in the country, but finding Charley’s home in Kentucky proved him wrong.
He’d gotten lost twice trying to find Welcome Home Road, which turned out to be a quarter-mile narrow dirt lane canopied by overgrown trees and populated by the occasional cow. The moment Dylan started looking for a place to turn around, the foliage cleared to reveal a one-story farmhouse set high off the ground with a wraparound porch and three dogs lazing on the steps. Except for one crooked shutter, the place appeared to be well maintained.
An ancient Chrysler pickup, two four-wheelers, and Charley’s Bronco crowded the gravel patch to the right of the house. Dylan parked his truck in the last remaining spot and marched toward the porch, wishing he’d have stopped for flowers.
Not that Charley was the flowers type, but showing up empty-handed felt lazy. Based on his brief visit with Matty, he knew two things—Charley thought she’d talked to Dylan two days ago, and she believed the crap about him and Denise. Add the lack of contact over the last week, and his initial reception was sure to be on the frosty side.