Hillbilly Rockstar

by Christina Routon

  "I told you he hit on me at Six Guns. I blew it off, telling myself he was drunk, he didn't know what he was doing. But when I went to his apartment --"

  "Wait, you went to his apartment? When?"

  "Last Monday. I went to go over the initial promotion materials with him. He kissed me."

  "And you're telling me this now? A week later?" Tanya punched Lisa in the shoulder.

  "Ow! What was that for?" She rubbed her sore arm.

  "For keeping that from me. You don't get kissed by a hot, sexy, famous singer and not tell your best friend."

  "I didn't want to say anything because it doesn't mean anything. All he's interested in is this." She ran her hands up and down her torso. "He wants the body, that's all. Just like Danny always said."

  Tanya walked around the table and hugged her close. "Sweetie, all guys are not like Danny. I hate what that idiot did to you."

  "Tanya, he never physically hurt me."

  Tanya hugged her again, then squatted in front of her friend, taking her face in her hands. "Lisa, he hurt you. He hurt you because ever since your divorce you either won't or can't imagine that anyone would be interested in you. That's how Danny hurt you. He took away your confidence. Listen to me, and hear me. You are a beautiful, smart, sexy woman. You are so much more than your body. Stop seeing yourself through Danny's eyes."

  Tears flowed down Lisa's cheeks, over Tanya's hands. She knew that Tanya, her friends, her family, they'd all tried to tell her something similar after her divorce. But Danny's words were too fresh in her head, in her heart, in her soul.

  "You're worthless," he'd told her the day they'd signed the papers. "You're never going to amount to anything without me." He dashed off his signature and left her sitting in the attorney's office, crying, wishing for what could have been, wishing for what she'd thought marriage would be like and feeling like a failure because it hadn't worked out.

  She swallowed back the tears and hugged her friend back. "You're a great friend, Tanya. Thank you for standing by me."

  "Where else would I be?" She gave Lisa another quick squeeze, then moved back around the table and took her seat. "When are you seeing him again?"

  "I'm going to the taping tonight. I wasn't planning on going, but he asked me to be there and I found myself saying yes."

  Lisa saw Tanya's eyes sparkle and a grin moved across her face.

  "No, I'm not going shopping or to a spa or nail salon. I'm going to wear what I have here. This is business."

  "No reason you can't have a little fun, too." Tanya took another bite of her pancakes, chewing thoughtfully. "How about my off-the-shoulder blue dress, silver chain and your boots. Maybe your cowboy boots instead of your dress boots. That could be cute."

  "Tanya, this isn't complicated. I'm going to the taping because he's my client. I'm not dressing for a date."

  "Okay, so don't dress for him. Dress to impress all the other performers there who need a manager. You don't need to show up in jeans, do you?"

  "I'm not going to wear jeans. I was going to wear my gray suit."

  "Your gray suit?" Tanya mimed a fainting spell. "Be still my heart. No business suits. The show is fun, it's energetic, it's all about having a good time. So go have a good time. Wear the blue dress and boots. I'll do something with your hair too. This will be fun."

  Lisa laughed and allowed her friend's good mood to rub off on her. She felt light. For so long she'd felt heavy, weighted down, as if she'd been carrying the world while Atlas enjoyed a coffee break. She listened to Tanya as her friend started to ramble again, this time about hairstyles and jewelry and sexy underwear, and she made a decision. Right here, right now, Lisa was taking control of her life. She'd been wrestling the reins away from memories of Danny, memories of other men, memories of well-meaning family. That stops, today, she told herself. And she'd wear the blue dress, silver chain and cowboy boots to the taping because Tanya was right -- she'd look damn cute.

  ###

  Lisa flashed her visitors pass to security and they led her to a seat in the front row near the stage. The energy in the building was palpable, and it made her nerves jump. She smoothed the skirt of Lisa's blue dress. The motion did little to calm her excitement at being in the studio, at seeing her success. And yes, it was her success. She was claiming it, damn it. She'd handled promotion, photos, interviews, blog posts, tweets and anything else she could come up with. As a result, the studio was packed with fans holding signs reading 'I LUV U, TRACE' and 'TRACE, WILL U MARRY ME?' She hadn't expected his appearance to turn out like this.

  The lights dimmed, the music started, the show began. Lisa was impressed with how smooth everything went, how well everyone worked together. The long hours the performers spent rehearsing were paying off. She paid close attention to one young performer, Molly Sims. When she hit the high note of I Will Always Love You, Lisa offered a standing ovation along with the rest of the crowd. She clapped vigorously as Molly took a bow. This girl had a future as a performer.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, that was Molly Sims from Fairhope, Alabama. Didn't she do a wonderful job? I know we'll be seeing more of that young lady, that's for sure." Michelle sounded natural and upbeat, even though Lisa knew she was reading lines from a teleprompter. "Our next performer is my co-host, a Grammy-award winning singer and songwriter from right here in Nashville. Give it up for Trace Harper." Lisa applauded along with Michelle and the audience before taking her seat. A blue spotlight hit the stage and there was Trace, his guitar slung behind his back, looking every inch the country-music icon that he was.

  The bright light didn't seem to faze him at all. He swung his guitar around just as the band behind him began to play the intro to Kenny Chesney's Living in Fast Forward.

  The crowd jumped to its feet and Lisa joined them, clapping and singing along. It was a perfect song for Trace, Lisa had to admit. It seemed to be written just for him, a man living out of control, afraid to slow down. She was sure he'd picked the song on purpose. Lisa sang, clapped, even joined in an impromptu line dance with the fans on the front row. She didn't remember the last time she'd had this much fun.

  Trace finished the song and bowed to a standing ovation. He slung his guitar around his back and tipped his hat to the audience. The crowd went wild again, the women screaming. Lisa heard a few call out, "I love you!" and "Take me home, Trace!"

  "Thank you," he yelled to the crowd. "Thank ya'll. I appreciate this. Thanks for making me feel so welcomed here on The Next Country Star."

  He paused, allowing the noise from the crowd to die down.

  "Now, how about one of mine?" He took his guitar again and started to play, caressing the strings, letting the music from his most famous ballad fill the air.

  Lisa knew the song hadn't been written for her. He'd written it years ago. It could have been for anyone. But she still teared up when Trace reached the chorus.

  " 'Til there was you, I never knew what love could be.

  'Till there was you, I didn't know what it meant to be free.

  And now you're here with me,

  I know I never really lived, 'Til there was you."

  Chapter Ten

  "Hey, there."

  Trace, in the middle of changing from his wardrobe to his regular clothes, paused and turned toward the voice. Lisa stood in the doorway.

  She was dressed in a brilliant blue dress made of some kind of shiny material that left her shoulders bare but had long sleeves that hugged the length of her arms. The top hugged her curves and the skirt fell over her hips to her knees. She was wearing boots. Not her dressy, black heeled work boots, but her dancing-in-the-aisles cowboy boots.

  His eyes roamed up her body once more and he let out a low whistle. She tossed her hair back and smiled, her green eyes shining in the bright lights of his dressing room.

  "I just wanted to come back and tell you you really killed it out there. It was one of the best performances I've seen from you in a while."

  "That means a lot, coming from you
." He moved closer to her, ran his fingers over her sleeve. Yes, it felt as soft as it looked. He felt her shiver at his touch. "Cold?"

  "It's a bit chilly in here."

  He smiled at her blatant lie. It was eighty if anything.

  "I'm glad you came, glad you enjoyed the show."

  "Me too. I almost didn't come, but I wanted to see you. I wanted to ask you something."

  He paused for a moment, wondered what she wanted. He knew what he wanted. He wanted to peel her out of that dress and take his time doing it.

  "Would you like to have dinner with me one night this week? Maybe Tuesday?"

  Dinner? That was unexpected. Trace looked into her green eyes, looked at her expectant face, and saw something he hadn't seen before. She was nervous, but there was a confidence that he'd only had glimpses of as they worked together. There wasn't a reason for her to be nervous as he'd made it perfectly clear he wanted to see her. But if she needed be in control, if she needed to ask him to dinner, hell, it was a start.

  "Tuesday's great for dinner. How's Millie's sound to you?"

  "Perfect," Lisa said. "Tuesday at six?"

  "Tuesday at six. I'll pick you up."

  "I can meet you there."

  He cocked his head and pushed his hat back. "Is this a date?"

  She blushed. He loved it when she blushed.

  "Yes, it is."

  "Then I'm picking you up."

  She smiled, and he took a step closer to her. He leaned in to kiss her, but before he could touch his lips to hers she rose on her booted toes and kissed his cheek.

  "See you Tuesday," she said, then turned to leave the room, her dress flaring around her legs.

  "Lisa," Trace called after her and she stopped, turned around.

  "What?"

  "Wear the boots."

  ###

  Lisa walked into the office at Cahill-Waters with a spring in her step. Today was the day. She was putting in her notice. By the time The Next Country Star wrapped, her management company would be official. She couldn't wait to tell Boyd Waters what he could do with his offer of keeping her on as his personal assistant.

  She greeted Ellen and a few other staff members as she made her way to her office to stow her purse. She'd just put it away and looked up from her desk when she saw Boyd Waters standing at the doorway.

  "Mr. Waters, I didn't hear you come in. How were your meetings in Atlanta?"

  He walked over to the desk but didn't sit. He flipped through the papers in her inbox, not saying a word.

  Oh, God. Did he find out about Trace? Did he find out about the job applications, the resume, the headhunter?

  "I thought we were clear, Miss Jenkins. You're my assistant now and you need to move your work area to my office."

  Relief flowed through her. He didn't know.

  "I need to speak to you about that, actually. I was going to set up a meeting with you today. I'm putting in my two-weeks' notice."

  Boyd stopped flipping through the papers and looked up at her. "What?"

  "I'm leaving Cahill-Waters. Or Boyd Waters Management, whatever the new name is. You can consider this my notice or I can send it to you in writing."

  Boyd sat, his girth making it difficult for him to sit in one of the Queen Anne visitor chairs in front of her desk. He folded his hands together as if in prayer, tapping his index fingers to his lips. Lisa thought about sitting in her chair, meeting him at the same level. But instead she remained standing on the other side of her desk. She wasn’t going to back down.

  "All right. You've given your notice and I approve. However, I believe you are contracted to work a four-week notice."

  "What? You're kidding me." Frustration took over her body, turning her good mood sour. "A two-week notice is customary."

  "Yes, customary. But you are the senior administrative staff person, and as such you are required to give a four-week notice. I can have one of the girls pull your file if you like."

  Lisa despised it when he called the other secretaries "girls." It wasn't 1950, although Boy Waters may think it was.

  All right, this is okay. You just need to make some adjustments

  "All right, four weeks. Go ahead and start looking for a replacement, and I'll have time to train someone. But I am leaving in four weeks."

  Boyd nodded. "Noted," he said, and rose, with some difficulty, from the chair. Lisa almost wanted to help the large man since he seemed to be having trouble clearing the arm rests that had squeezed his large frame. He finally cleared the chair and stood before her. "You're confidentiality agreement is enforced, as is your do not compete clause, Miss Jenkins. And until the time you are no longer employed here, you will continue to do your current job as well as assist me until I find a replacement. Is that understood?"

  "Understood," Lisa said, and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Boyd walked to the door of her office -- it was really more of a waddle, Lisa thought, and headed down the hall to his office on the other side of the floor. Glad he was gone, she sank to her desk, laying her head on the cool surface. How on earth was she going to continue to work full-time at the agency as well as manage Trace for the next four weeks?

  ###

  Trixie Harper was painting her toes with one foot down, one to go, the pink polish almost dry, when she heard his name on television.

  "Well, well, well," she said out loud, not moving a muscle as she watched her ex-husband perform. "Done got yourself on TV, now, Mr. Big Shot. I guess maybe was wrong about you."

  The phone rang and she answered, recognizing the ring tone. "Hey, Mama. Yeah, I'm watching him now. Can you believe it? And I thought he wouldn't amount to anything after he lost all his money. Now he's on TV."

  "You should get some of that money. You're his wife."

  "I was his wife, Mama. We're divorced now, you know that. He doesn't want me around anymore."

  "The Bible says you're still one, and I believe the Bible over some judge and papers. And I say you need to get some money out of the man. You got some from the bank."

  "We were still married, then, Mama, and I had his power-of-attorney. I don't have that anymore."

  "I need some money, Trixie. You need to see that man and get what's owed to you."

  Trixie rolled her eyes, knowing it was useless to argue. Her mother would never listen.

  "Don't you roll your eyes at me neither, Trixie Belle Harper."

  "How'd you know --" Forget it, she thought. Her mama knew everything.

  "Okay, Mama, okay. I'll go see him."

  She ended the call and watched the rest of Trace's performance, one foot still bare of pink polish.

  ###

  Tuesday's rehearsal had started out fine, but was not ending well. Nothing had gone right since the performers and crew arrived that morning at six. Equipment issues, lighting issues, camera issues -- Murphy had wrangled a visitor's pass to the set of The Next Country Star. It was a quarter to three -- almost eight hours in the studio -- but most of the performers, Trace and Michelle included, ended up spending the time in their dressing rooms or standing still. He was ready to bolt. He wanted a beer, he wanted a shower, he wanted to be with Lisa.

  Trace had spoken to Lisa a few times since Saturday evening. He'd kept her up late on Saturday night until she finally begged off the phone so she could get some sleep. He'd asked about seeing her Sunday -- a pre-date, date -- but she'd been vague about what she was doing that day and would only say she would see him Tuesday. A sickness knotted his gut at the thought that maybe she'd been out with someone else. Lisa wouldn't do that. Would she?

  Unable to sit anymore with those thoughts, he'd come out of his dressing room and was pacing the set like a cooped up cat in the zoo, trying to burn off energy, only to find the stage lights and spotlight blinking like a house lit up for Christmas. He headed toward the crafts table and grabbed a soda, the lights making the headache throbbing at his temples worse.

  Trace popped open the soda and started pacing again, more than re
ady to do something, anything. His head pounded. If the damn lights weren't fixed in the next thirty seconds he was going to shove a microphone up someone's ass.

  "Cut!" the director called again. "No, no. That's not right. You need to move left, remember? Stage left. And watch the marks on the stage. That's why they're there. Are you an idiot or something?"

  Molly, one of the youngest performers on the show, stood still on the stage. She'd practiced her performance three times since Trace had come from backstage and each time had moved right instead of left, forgotten to look towards the camera or the audience area, and missed an entire verse. Trace knew she was tired. Hell, they were all tired. He was ready to break the director in half, especially when the girl started to cry.

  "Dammit," Trace yelled, and stalked toward the director. "Hey, Buddy, what is wrong with you?" Trace was in the man's face, nose to nose. "She's doing her best. That's what rehearsal is for, Dumbass."

  "You are not directing, I am. You are the idiot they hired to host this crap. So shut up and get out of my face," he yelled back.

  Anger coursed through Trace's body, down his arm, into a fist. He punched the director square on the jaw with a powerful right jab. The director fell, knocking over a chair, a script stand, and almost hitting a camera. The crew and performers scattered, not wanting to get into the fray.

  "You do not call me an idiot, Idiot!" Trace towered over the man on the floor. "You do not call me anything, do you understand me? It is time to leave. It is time to end this, right now." Trace picked up the fallen chair and threw it toward the stage where Molly stood, frozen, tears streaming down her face.

  The chair hit the stage with a thud and the entire studio fell silent. Trace, his breathing heavy, his heart pounding, his fist clenched, came back to his senses and looked around. He saw the director on the floor holding his jaw, the girl on the stage crying, everyone staring. His fist loosened, his hand fell to his side. "Fuck," he cursed, and walked out of the studio.

  Chapter Eleven