by Terri Osburn
Though her morning sickness had begun to fade, Charley’s fear of heights had not, so she remained safely inside.
Grandpa had been sorry to see her go after such a short stay, but he’d given them both his blessing, and even let Dylan sleep in the house on the last night. Elvis was breathing better, and after a day of Dylan’s help stacking hay bales, in which no one died or cried “uncle,” he’d agreed not to hurt the “puny little singer.” His words.
Willoughby had been more than willing to give Charley her job back, and Matty had insisted that Elvis crash at her place after driving Charley’s furniture back to town. What went on during his visit, Charley didn’t want to know. But Elvis stayed an extra two days, much to Grandpa’s annoyance, since, as he repeated, the hay wasn’t going to cut itself.
The impending confrontation was the last step before the happy couple could focus on the future. The guys in the band, of course, knew that Dylan would arrive in time for the show, but they’d purposely left Mitch in the dark. Until now.
As they entered the large dining room at the end of the corridor, which served as the general backstage area, they heard the stressed-out manager yell into his phone. “I don’t know where the hell he is. That’s why I’m calling you. Aren’t the police supposed to find missing persons?”
“You looking for me?” Dylan drawled, keeping Charley close by his side.
Mitch looked up with relief that turned to fury the moment he spotted his client’s companion.
“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been searching high and low for you for four days, and you’ve been off getting a piece of ass the whole time?”
Dylan’s grip tightened. “You don’t need to search anymore.”
The older man looked around in stunned disbelief. “That shit don’t fly, Monroe. You’ve got obligations. You’re on tour, dammit. Where do you get off disappearing like that?”
Charley longed to scream in Dylan’s defense, but she’d promised to let him handle the situation his own way.
“The guys knew where I was the whole time. And so did Fran.”
Bloodshot eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t see any need to tell me?”
“Nope,” Dylan said. “No need at all.”
“Now you listen here, boy—”
“I’m not your boy,” he warned, stepping forward. “And you aren’t my manager anymore. Consider this your official notice. You’re fired.”
“Bullshit,” Mitch spat. “I’ve got a contract that says otherwise.”
Jaw clenched, Dylan shook his head. “And I’ve got a lawyer who says your contract isn’t worth shit. Go ahead and fight me. I can afford the fees. Can you?”
One of their tasks upon returning to Nashville had been to do a little research on Mitch Levine. Turned out he was buried in debt. They’d also learned that he’d transferred substantial sums out of Dylan’s accounts and into his own. The cheat would learn very soon that charges were pending.
A crowd had gathered to witness the confrontation, and Mitch didn’t seem to appreciate the audience. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” replied Casey, appearing through the crowd with Pam by his side, Easton and Lance close behind. “Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.”
Lip quivering in anger, the old man pointed a finger at Dylan. “This isn’t over.”
“Yes, it is,” Charley cut in. “Now get out of this building. You’re not wanted here anymore.”
Making one fatal mistake, Mitch lunged her way. “You little bitch—”
He never saw the punch coming. The crowd stood in stunned silence as Charley shook her hand. “That hurt like hell, but it was totally worth it.”
Dylan smiled with pride. “That’s my girl.”
The SOS call from Mitch Levine had been vague at best. The message had come at nine Clay’s time. He’d been in the shower after a workout and hadn’t listened to the voice mail until nearly ten.
“I don’t know where the hell Dylan is,” Mitch said. “Shit is about to blow up on this tour. Get your ass out here.”
Clay didn’t appreciate being told where to carry his ass, but his only artist going AWOL on a tour took precedence. A quick search revealed a not-surprising reality. Flights from Nashville to Billings, Montana, departed two times a day—first thing in the morning, and late afternoon. The first was no longer an option, and the second wouldn’t get him there before showtime. Calling in a favor, he’d chartered a private jet to leave before noon.
By the time he entered the Rimrock Arena, he was both relieved and annoyed to find Dylan Monroe standing around with his bandmates.
“I thought you were missing,” he said, interrupting what looked to be a celebration.
Dylan shook his head. “Nope. I’m right here.”
If this was some kind of a joke, Clay wasn’t laughing. “Then why did your manager leave me a message saying you weren’t?”
“Right.” The singer turned to his friends. “Could you excuse us for a minute?”
“No problem, man,” Casey replied, saluting Clay with his beer. “Take all the time you need.”
Once they were alone, he waited impatiently for an explanation.
“There’s something you should know about Mitch Levine,” Dylan said.
“What’s that?”
“He’s no longer my manager.”
An unexpected turn of events.
“Since when?”
“About an hour ago.”
Clay crossed his arms. Much had happened while he’d been thirty thousand feet up. “Is there someone else I’ll be dealing with?”
Dylan shared a smile that carried no worries. Odd for an artist who’d just fired his representative. “Not yet. But Wes is putting me in touch with his manager. Seems to think we might be a good fit.”
Samantha Walters was a powerful name in Nashville. She’d been the driving force behind more than one superstar in the industry, and she was known as a tough negotiator for her clients. Clay had encountered her on only one contract with Foxfire, and by the time they’d hashed out the deal, Samantha’s client had received the most generous offer in the label’s history.
“That would be quite a score,” Clay responded.
“Nothing is a guarantee,” the sensible young man replied. “But I’m hopeful.”
Knowing without a doubt that Shooting Stars would be offering Dylan another deal, he took the opportunity to broach what he assumed to be a touchy subject.
“I hear you’ve been writing songs.”
Dylan sobered. “From who?”
Clay shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I made some calls and got a copy of your first album. The one that never got released.”
“Why?” he asked. “That album is crap.”
Ignoring the comment, he said, “Every song on that album is one of yours.”
The singer took a long swig from his beer before answering. “Which explains the crap part.”
“Dylan, those songs aren’t bad. The arrangements are too pop, and the production is way overdone, but that’s on the producer, not the songwriter.”
“That’s not how the label saw it.”
Getting to the point, Clay said, “Well, that’s how I see it. I say we recut it. Maybe not every song, but the best ones. New arrangements. Better producer. Add in new material, and I believe you could have a gold album on your hands.”
As if the offer might be too good to be true, Dylan eyed him with caution. “Are you serious?”
“I don’t kid about making records.”
“And you want my songs?”
“I do.” He nodded. “And so do the fans. You’re talented, Dylan. You have something to say. Let them hear it.”
“All right then,” he replied, smile back in place. “Let’s do it.”
Exactly seven weeks later, a mere two weeks before Christmas, in a heated tent tucked into a corner of Centennial Park, Charlotte Marie Layton became Mrs. Dylan Cavanaugh Monroe in front of twenty of their closest friends
and family. The bride wore cowboy boots beneath her simple gown, and the groom couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“You know what this means,” Dylan whispered as they swayed on the dance floor.
“That I can finally have a piece of that cake?” Charley asked.
She’d been attacking anything sweet for the last month, claiming the baby had a sweet tooth. When Dylan had pointed out that the baby didn’t have any teeth yet, she turned surly and refused to kiss him for a painful twenty minutes.
“Almost,” he replied. “Now that we’ve tied the knot, I can officially call you my woman.”
Slender brows arched high. “Oh, I don’t think so. You married me. You didn’t buy me.”
“And you married me.” Dylan placed a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I’m still in shock about that.”
Her laughter would always be music to his ears. “Don’t be a nut. I had to marry you, remember?”
Dylan pulled back, but not too far. “Are you saying you wouldn’t have married me without that bun in the oven?”
Charley sighed. “No. I’m not saying that. You told me once that you fell in love with me that night you met me.”
“I did,” he confirmed.
“Do you know when I fell in love with you?”
“When I got you in to meet Jack Austin?”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh. When you sang me a song.”
“On the night we met?” Dylan asked.
“That’s right. So it looks like we fell in love at about the same time.”
Remembering the evening well, he pressed his lips against her ear. “Then why did you leave?”
“Because I was scared,” she replied, resting her chin on his chest. “You made me want things I’d never wanted before.”
“How about now? Are you still scared?”
She drew back to smile into his eyes. “If you aren’t scared, you aren’t living, right? And I plan to live with you for the rest of my life.”
The music faded to an end as he said, “That’s good. Because I’m never letting you go.”
Someone tapped a microphone, causing feedback that earned a groan from the crowd.
“Sorry about that,” Matty said. “Microphones aren’t my thing. But I’ve been told to announce that it’s time to cut the cake!”
“Finally!” Charley cried, dragging Dylan to the small round table in the corner.
But before she could grab the knife, he said, “Not yet. There’s something I need to say first.”
“You’re killing me, Monroe.”
“You’ll like this, Mrs. Monroe.” He turned to the crowd. “Gather round everyone. I have a secret to share.”
Charley squeezed his hand. “What secret?”
Dylan continued to address their friends and family. “As you all know, my wife and I are expecting a baby in May. And on Monday, we’re scheduled to find out what we’re having—a boy or a girl. What my wife doesn’t know is that I bribed the doc and got the answer early.”
“You what?” she snapped, dropping his hand. “That’s so unfair!”
“Hold on,” he said, tucking her against his side. “I thought it might be fun if we all found out together. The sex was written in an envelope that went straight to the bakery.”
“Then you don’t know?” Charley asked.
“No,” he replied. “I don’t.” Raising his voice for the crowd, he explained, “The top layer of the cake is either pink or blue. Should we dig in and see what we’re getting?”
His bride nearly bounced out of her boots. “Yes! Let me at it.”
Matty and Pamela, maid of honor and bridesmaid respectively, teamed up to lower the top tier to the table. With knife in hand, Charley and Dylan sliced through the frosting to find a pretty pink sponge.
“Oh my God.” Charley turned to Dylan, nearly stabbing him with the long blade. “We’re having a girl. Dylan, we’re having a girl!”
Removing the knife from her grip, he beamed at his joyful bride. “Looks like we are.”
After jumping up and down several times, she leaped into his arms. “I wanted a girl.” A quick kiss landed on his neck. “I hope you don’t mind.” Pulling back, she looked into his eyes. “Are you upset it isn’t a boy? We can have a boy later. But I really wanted a girl.”
Dylan was still getting used to the idea of one, let alone more down the line.
“I want a healthy baby and mama, and that’s all that matters.” Turning to their guests, he said, “Now let’s play some music!”
Though a DJ had been hired for most of the night, there was no way Dylan wasn’t going to climb onstage at his own reception. Their gear had been set up earlier in the day, and the band had done a sound check before the ceremony. Which meant a quick tuning and the concert began.
Charley even got in on the act, as Wes Tillman pulled her onstage and together they belted out an old Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn classic. To Dylan’s surprise, his bride could carry a tune. He beamed with pride as she cut loose, her fear of the spotlight seemingly cured. Which was a good thing, because he planned to drag her down red carpets for years to come.
As he’d once told a reporter—he was a very lucky man.
Epilogue
Charley Monroe had never been so nervous in all her life. Nor had she ever been so big.
Though eight months pregnant, waddling like a drunken penguin, and unable to endure more than four minutes between potty breaks, she refused to miss her husband’s first big awards show. Once Shooting Stars had released “Better Than Before” as a single, including Dylan and Charley’s impromptu kiss in the video, the heavens opened and Dylan had his first top-ten hit.
The time apart had not been fun, but he’d completed a six-week, small-venue headlining tour, which had resulted in packed houses from Houston to Hilton Head. And two weeks before the Country Coalition awards, he’d joined the Davis Daniels tour as the second act on the bill. Still an opening gig, but not the opening opener, which was a step up.
Considering Davis Daniels was up for Entertainer of the Year tonight, getting an invite to join his tour had been a huge accomplishment, thanks in no small part to Dylan’s new manager, Samantha Walters. She was brilliant and stunningly beautiful, and Charley had liked her from the moment they met. The savvy woman understood the business, supported her new client’s family-first policy, and had even sent a beautiful pink bassinet for soon-to-arrive Violet Matilda Monroe.
“Thank goodness your category is the first of the night,” Charley whispered to Dylan from their seats in the sixth row. “Violet is dancing ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ on my bladder.”
“Maybe she knows something we don’t,” he replied, squeezing her hand.
This was the only negative to Dylan being nervous. He nearly always crushed her hand in his effort not to look nervous. But Charley figured she’d be doing the same to him in four weeks’ time when the contractions started rolling in.
When the news had come in January that Dylan had been nominated for Best New Artist, the first thing he’d done had been to kiss his wife. Next, he’d called his bandmates, and then his parents. Once all parties had been notified, he’d settled on the couch with his cell phone, conducting interview after interview with everyone from E! Television to CMT.
And in every one, he thanked his beautiful wife for her love and support.
The memory brought tears to Charley’s eyes, which she promptly brushed away. This was not a night for crying. Win or lose, this was a night for celebrating, and though she wouldn’t be toasting champagne for many more weeks, Charley would hoot and holler and try to stay awake until the show was over.
“This is so nerve-racking,” Pamela whispered beside her. The pretty blonde clung to her fiancé’s hand on the other side. “How are you not leaping out of your skin?”
“I’m the size of an aircraft carrier,” the expectant mother pointed out. “I’m not leaping anywhere.”
Casey shushed them. “Here we go.”
Dylan�
�s grip tightened, but his face revealed nothing.
Please let him win, Charley prayed. Please, please, please.
“Good luck, buddy,” said Clay Benedict, tapping his artist on the shoulder. He and Naomi Mallard were seated behind Dylan and his band, while Samantha Walters had been seated with one of her other artists, who was up for Female Vocalist of the Year.
The artist who’d won Dylan’s category the year before announced the nominees, and Dylan had remained stoic as the mobile camera caught him for the big screen. By the time the last nominee was read, Charley had nearly lost feeling in her hand.
“And the winner of Best New Artist is . . .” The envelope was opened. “Dylan Monroe!”
Shock set in first, and then Charley rose to her feet faster than any woman in her condition had a right to.
Dylan wrapped her in his arms and placed a hard kiss on her lips. “We did it, baby. We did it.”
“You did it,” she said through a joyful sob, hands pressed against his cheeks.
Casey squeezed past Pamela to hug his best friend, Lance and Easton settled for handshakes, and Clay Benedict smacked the winner on the back.
“Congratulations, Monroe. You deserve it.”
As Dylan proceeded to the stage to receive his award, Charley clung to Pamela, wiping the tears away as quickly as they came. Though she’d never been a vain woman, the camera hovering two feet to her left meant there would be no ugly crying tonight. Naomi offered a handful of tissues from behind her.
“I can’t believe this,” Dylan said, award in hand. “Y’all have no idea what this means.” The applause faded. “I’m in shock, but I know I need to do this quick. To my parents, who are out there somewhere in this crowd, thank you for always believing in me and encouraging me to chase this crazy dream. To Clay Benedict and my record label, Shooting Stars Records. Samantha Walters, my manager. You are amazing. And to Rock Castle Publishing, with whom I hope to have a long and profitable relationship.”