by Terri Osburn
He spun the bottle on his thigh. “That’s a fair assessment, sure.”
Shelly burst from the chair. “Do you know how hard she worked today to get that story pulled? That poor girl spent an hour on the phone with Eugenia Parker trying every way possible to find some shred of decency in that old shrew. And she did it for you. She left her home, alienated her family, and slacked on her professional duties because you needed her. And you accused her of this?”
Shelly stomped across the hardwood for her purse. “You know what, Chance? Crack open old Jack and have a pity party. Why not, right? Why spend the night working on a way to win back the best thing that ever happened to you when you can drink yourself into a stupor and give her one more reason to believe you’re a worthless piece of shit?” Hauling the door open, she added, “Call me when you sober up, asshole.”
Chance stared at the closed door with Shelly’s words echoing in his ears. Win back the best thing that ever happened to you. And then Naomi’s words joined the playback. I’ve made the mistake of loving you twice. Mistake or not, she loved him. She’d always loved him.
Rising off the couch, Chance carried the whiskey to the counter. Hugging the bottle tightly to his side, he spun the top off and tossed it aside. And then he poured the whiskey down the drain.
“It pains me to say this, but my mother was right.” The words made the chocolate-caramel gelato taste bitter on Naomi’s tongue.
“Don’t worry,” April mumbled around a mouthful of brownie-bite ice cream. “I won’t tell her.”
Ten minutes into the drive from Chance’s, the tears had dried up. She wasn’t doing this again. Not over a jackass who didn’t deserve the salt it took to make a single tear, let alone a pillowful. Her chest hurt like crazy, and she’d been ricocheting from furious to devastated seven times an hour, but Naomi was done crying over Chance Colburn.
“You know what he is?” Naomi asked, loading her spoon for another bite.
April didn’t miss a beat. “An ungrateful prick who wouldn’t know an honest emotion if it bit him in the balls.”
Not what Naomi was going for, but an accurate description. “He’s that, and he’s a chickenshit. Perfectly happy dishing out multiple orgasms a night, but tiptoe a little too close to that big ball of mush in his chest and he spooks like a bee-stung racehorse.”
A spoonful of melting goodness hovered in the air. “Hold on, sister. Did you say multiple orgasms?”
“The orgasms are not the point.”
“Easy to say when you’re getting multiples a night.” The spoon hit the bowl. “Why is it always the strong and silent types? Why can’t the hapless charmers ever be good in bed?”
“Can you focus on something other than sex for five minutes?”
“It’s been eight months, woman.” April waved her spoon in the air. “Eight months.”
After a string of bad dates and a one-night stand that had ended in tears—on the guy’s part—April had taken a temporary vow of celibacy.
“You can end that anytime you want. I cannot undo what happened today. So tonight is about me.”
Both women continued to eat in silence, until April asked, “Are you going to keep working with him?”
Naomi had assured Clay that she would do her job no matter what happened between them, but she couldn’t imagine sitting across a desk from Chance and pretending that he hadn’t ripped her in half. Seven years ago, she’d been heartbroken, but sleeping with her boss was oddly less heinous than declaring the woman he pretended to care about to be a vile human being.
When confessing his reason for sleeping with Martha, Chance had called his actions the worst thing he could do. He sure as hell raised the bar on that one today.
“I don’t know if I can. Being in the same room would be tantamount to jabbing an ice pick through my ribs.” Stirring her gelato, she considered her options. “He goes into the studio next week, so the publicity tour won’t pick up again for a couple of months. Maybe by then I’ll be able to at least feign indifference.”
Turning to press her back to the arm of the couch, April slid her toes between the cushions. “I know that we’re talking about an unrepentant asshole. A repeat offender, if you will. But what if, just to play devil’s advocate here, Chance apologizes? What if he tries to win you back?”
The possibility was preposterous. “That will never happen,” Naomi declared with utter confidence. “At best, he might claim he had reasonable cause to make the assumption by pointing out the coincidence of telling me his secrets and then this story coming out a week later. But to jump to that conclusion is still unforgivably insulting.”
“Good,” April said. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Because if you give this loser one more opportunity to stomp on your heart, I’m going to kick your ass myself.”
“No worries.” The women clinked spoons. “Short of some ridiculously epic grand gesture, Chance Colburn will never get me back again.”
Chance was happy to see Thompson back at the front of the room.
The meeting started off the same as always, but instead of resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Chance gave the proceedings his full attention, echoed all the usual responses with conviction, and waited for his opportunity to speak.
Right on cue, Thompson said, “Does anyone want to share today?”
Hesitating, Chance watched to see if anyone else would stand. When no one did, he rolled to his feet.
“Chance,” the leader said, surprise widening his eyes, “you have something to say?”
“I do.” Odd that being a performer didn’t make standing in front of a roomful of alcoholics any easier. “My name is Chance and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Chance,” his fellow attendees responded.
“I’ve been sober for just over a year.” A smattering of applause began. “But I spent last night with a bottle of whiskey.”
The applause died away as a dozen pairs of eyes reflected understanding and support.
“The good news is, I didn’t open it. But I wanted to. I really wanted to.” Rocking on his heels, he rubbed the back of his neck. “You see, I hurt someone I care about yesterday. I was stupid, and fell back on old habits. Not the ones that I’m here for, but others that are just as destructive. Like some of you, maybe, I drank to keep from feeling. There’s an article out today—if you haven’t seen it, I’m sure you will—that gives you an idea of the kind of stuff I was trying not to feel. The problem is, while working so hard to block out the dark stuff, I closed out the light, too.”
Chance glanced around at his fellow addicts and saw not an ounce of judgment or condemnation. “Anyway, I poured the liquor down the sink and decided that I needed to share this story as proof that this whole sober thing is possible. Because my life has been pretty fuc . . . I mean, messed up.” Quiet laughter rolled through the gathering. “So if I can do it, so can you. And if anybody here gets to the point that I did last night and needs someone to call, I’m available. Most of the time.”
Returning to his seat, Chance appreciated the words of support offered from all directions.
Harmon leaned in. “I’m proud of you, son.”
No one had ever said those words to him before. Chest tight, he rubbed the back of his hand under his nose. “Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”
Chapter 28
Naomi’s cheeks ached from fake smiling. So far, she’d dished out twenty-seven slices of cake, fifty-four cups of punch, and opened thirteen bags of chips.
The Mallard Family Memorial Day Cookout was in full swing when April arrived at the snack table. “You look miserable.”
So much for her acting skills. “I thought I was smiling.”
“Is that what you call it?” April surveyed the offerings. “Grimacing is more like it.”
“Did you come over here to harass me?” Naomi handed a cup of punch to the Palluch boy from down the street. “Because I’m not in the mood.”
April joined her behind the table with a sizab
le slice of cake in hand. “What did Snoop Doggy Dawn say when you told her about Chance?”
Pointing up, Naomi said, “See that pretty ball of fire? Don’t be surprised if it explodes tomorrow. Because given the opportunity, my mother did not say, ‘I told you so.’”
“You’re lying.”
“I am not.” Her niece Felicity walked up to the table. “What can I get you, sweetie?”
“Madison wants some pretzels.”
“Then Madison will have them.” Naomi filled a small Styrofoam bowl. “Here you go.”
“Thanks!” Felicity yelled over her shoulder before running straight to her father. Lawrence winked at Naomi as he took the snack.
Unbelievable. He’d just made his own daughter lie. “Dad of the Year, Lawrence!” Naomi yelled, and was ignored by her brother-in-law.
“You know,” April said, “since you refuse to let your mom find you a man, why don’t we pretend that I’m her kid and let her find me one?”
“You want my mother to fix you up?”
“Based on my track record, she couldn’t do any worse than I’ve been doing for myself.”
Naomi handed off another piece of cake before spotting Neal headed their way. He wasn’t remotely April’s type, but he was a doctor. She could do worse.
“Then get your game face on, because candidate number one is stepping in.”
At the exact second that April shoved a large bite of cake in her mouth, Neal arrived. “Hello, ladies. I hear this is where the good stuff is.”
Ignoring the choking woman beside her, Naomi said, “It sure is. Pick your poison. Cake, cookies, or chips. And if you’d like to make the Mallard Cookout highlight reel, I have a secret stash of spiked punch under the table.”
“Baker warned me about that punch. I’ll stick with a piece of cake.”
April set her plate on the table. “Good choice,” she said. “The icing is amazing.”
“I bet it is. You’ve got a little extra there on your lip.” Before her best friend could react, Neal leaned over the table, swiped the bit of white frosting off the corner of her mouth, then licked the sweet stuff off his finger. Naomi held up her friend when April’s knees weakened. “Perfection,” he declared.
“Uh-huh.” April appeared to have lost brain function.
“Okay, then.” Handing over a piece, Naomi was about to suggest Neal and April go get her a hamburger when the doctor spoke first.
“Where’s Chance today? I expected Dawn to put him to work dazzling the crowd.”
Naomi swallowed hard. “Chance isn’t here.”
“That’s too bad.” Neal slid a plastic fork through his cake. “How’s his hand doing? Any progress on moving the fingers?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure. Chance and I aren’t together anymore.”
The surgeon tilted his head. “Really? You two seemed like such a great match. What happened?”
With a white-knuckle grip, Naomi clung to the table to keep from falling apart. “We—”
“You know what, Neal,” said April, circling the table to wrap her hands around his arm, “I was just thinking I need to check out the carnival games. Would you be kind enough to escort me over there?”
“Sure. I’m pretty good at the ring toss. I could win you a prize.”
April turned up the southern charm. “That would be ever so sweet of you.” As the pair walked away, she sent her friend a hang in there look.
Collapsing into the metal chair behind her, Naomi reached for a generous serving of cake and proceeded to eat her feelings.
“Push me higher, Uncle Chance,” Tristan demanded, kicking his feet forward and back.
“You’re going high enough, munchkin.” Chance shielded his eyes from the sun as he watched Izzy cuddle Willie on his back porch.
The swing set, a new addition installed the previous day, had so far diverted Tristan’s attention away from the cat. No longer being constantly pursued, the feline had joined the family outside. But as far as Chance could tell, the animal had yet to forgive him for chasing off his toy provider. Willie and Naomi had fallen into a nightly routine that involved her working on her laptop on the couch, and Willie perched comfortably over her shoulder.
If the cat thought he was the only one missing her, he was wrong.
“I think the swings are a hit,” Shelly said, handing him a glass of lemonade she’d fetched from the house. “Thanks for buying it, but I hope you’re prepared for what this means. He’s going to be begging to come visit all the time now.”
Chance gave his nephew another push. “Bring him anytime. Besides,” he said, “we had to outdo your ex, right?”
Tristan had spent two weeks telling anyone who would listen about the cool fort his dad had gotten him. Now, he had a fort and a swing set and a climbing wall just his size.
Leaning against the wooden frame, she said, “That kind of competition can get costly.”
“I’ve got the money. Might as well spend it on a kid who will appreciate it.” Shelly chuckled, her eyes watching something in the distance. Chance could tell she had something on her mind. “I’m not going to like whatever it is you’re trying not to tell me, am I?”
She straightened off the post. “Naomi sent me a text. She asked me to pack up her things and bring them to her office at Shooting Stars.”
Nope. He didn’t like it. Some naive part of him had hoped she’d come for them on her own. Maybe once she’d cooled off and didn’t hate him quite as much. Then the realist in him had a good laugh and he’d eaten one of the chocolate muffins she’d left behind. Replacing liquor with snacks probably wasn’t a smart way to go, so he’d dusted off the neglected gym equipment in the room over the barn to balance things out.
Naomi had been gone for forty-eight hours, and it felt more like forty-eight days. The first night he’d ripped the sheets off the bed, unable to sleep with her scent surrounding him. And then he’d thrown them back on the mattress, unable to let her go. Determined to get on with things, he’d spent the previous day carrying her belongings down to the guest room. Though he had every intention of begging for forgiveness, Chance held no illusions that Naomi would ever come back to him.
“You don’t have to pack anything,” he said. “It’s all in her suitcase in the guest room.”
“Are you in that much of a hurry to get rid of her?”
Chance gave Tristan another push. “You can’t get rid of someone who’s already gone, Shell.”
She rubbed his arm. “Have you tried calling her?”
“Yeah. She didn’t answer, so I hung up.”
“You could have left a message.”
Chance shook his head. “What I have to say won’t fit in a voice mail.”
“Then how do you plan to get her to listen? I doubt she’ll agree to meet with you.”
He’d done a lot of thinking about this question and had come up with an idea. “I’m hoping you can help me with that.”
She stiffened. “I’m not tricking Naomi into anything, Chance. That isn’t fair to her.”
There would be no tricking. Not exactly. “I’m not asking you to. Will you call up Sam and get me a meeting with Dylan Monroe?”
“But how is that—”
“Shell,” he cut in, “will you do it or not?”
Eyes narrowed, she said, “What are you up to?”
Snagging Tristan’s belt loop, he brought the swing to a halt, ignoring the toddler’s protests. “Just get me the meeting, okay?”
Shelly pulled her son off the swing. “All right. I’ll call Sam tonight.”
With his good hand, Chance swung the squealing child onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Thanks. Now let’s go eat some burgers.”
The net worth of the Shooting Stars conference room quadrupled in a matter of minutes.
Orchestrating this gathering had not been easy, especially the day after a holiday. Putting four label heads in the same room at the same time without throwing an awards show took cons
iderable logistics. But once all parties understood the purpose, schedules had been adjusted. Ironically, getting the guest of honor to appear had taken little more than a phone call.
“Thank you again for coming today, gentlemen.” Clay unbuttoned his suit jacket as Belinda took coffee orders.
Some of the biggest names in the business were seated around his conference table. Tony Rossi, his former business partner and the current head of Foxfire Records, which they’d started together, sat at the opposite end of the table from Clay. C. W. Clementine, head of Blackstone Records, and Ulyss Kosta, head of Maverick Records, occupied one long side. Both C. W. and Ulyss had worked with Chance in the past. They’d both dropped him due to his inability to keep himself out of trouble, but neither had disliked the man. Their decisions had been purely business.
Foxfire had never had Chance on their roster, but Tony did have some of the fastest-rising artists on the radio today, which meant adding his firepower to this coalition would strengthen the message about to be delivered.
“Do we have proof of the crime, so to speak, before we take this too far?” C. W. asked. Clay didn’t blame him. His label had celebrated three number-one songs in the first four months of the year, thanks to the person in question.
“Directly from the source,” Clay replied, meaning the response literally. Eugenia Parker had been very clear about who’d sent the reporter to her doorstep.
“Personally, I’ve never liked him,” Tony said, acknowledging Belinda as she set a cup in front of him. “If the boy couldn’t write a hit song, I doubt anyone in this town would give him the time of day.”
“But he can write a hit song.” Ulyss also acknowledged Belinda’s silent delivery. “Aren’t we screwing ourselves by doing this?”
Clay settled into his chair at the head of the table. “There are hundreds of songwriters in this town, many of whom are as good as or better than Swanson. Neither the quantity or quality of songs available to our artists will change.”
Ulyss raised a brow. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got Chance Colburn in your pocket, and from what I hear, Dylan Monroe is no songwriting slouch, either. As of now, you don’t need to tap the vein of songwriters in this town.”