Hillbilly Rockstar

by Christina Routon

Lisa could not believe what she was seeing. Tanya had called her not five minutes earlier and told her to check her email for a link. "It's everywhere," she'd said.

  "What's everywhere? I'm trying to get ready for dinner, Tanya. I just put on my dress. I don't have time to watch puppies or something on You Tube."

  "Check your email. You need to see this," her friend said before ending the call.

  Lisa watched in horror as Trace -- his image grainy from the cell phone recording but still recognizable -- yelled at the director of the show, punched him, threw a chair toward the stage where Molly Sims, the young girl Lisa had seen perform Saturday night, was standing on stage, and stalked out. The video's description named Trace directly and brought up a few of his past exploits, enough to make him seem temperamental and unstable. Comments offered ideas on what the argument had been about. "Did someone eat his strawberries?" one commenter asked.

  Lisa watched the video three times, still not believing Trace had done those things. "Why? Why would you do this?" she asked the image, no explanation clear.

  She dug through her purse and found her cell phone. As she dialed his number she heard familiar sounds from the television behind her. She'd turned it on for noise as she got dressed and now the video was being played on the five o'clock news.

  "Grammy-winner Trace Harper, as seen in this video, apparently had a break down during a rehearsal of his new reality show this afternoon. Harper is a well-known former country singer and local favorite. He's known for his antics after a show, but this is a side of him that no fan has seen before. We have reaction from some local fans."

  The camera cut away from the studio to a man-on-the-street interview.

  "Yeah, I saw the Trace Harper video on the Internet. I've been to a concert, I know he gets kind of wild. But that was crazy. I mean, throwing the chair at that girl and punching the director? I think the director's right. He is an idiot."

  Lisa sat through the entire segment. It couldn't have lasted for more than two minutes, but by the end of the segment she'd heard supposition that Trace was an alcoholic, he was high on something, he had anger issues, he'd been having an affair with the young singer on stage -- that was a very interesting premise -- and there was speculation on whether he had been a good choice for the show and if he would be cut.

  "If Trace Harper is cut from The Next Country Star, that would mean the show has gone through three male co-stars in as many years," the reporter stated. "Could the show be cursed when it comes to male performers?"

  Frustrated, Lisa hit the off button on the remote. She had to fix this. This was her job. The date would have to wait. Unfortunately, she sighed. She opened her dresser to drag out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt to change into when her doorbell rang.

  ###

  "Trace, what are you doing here?" He stood on her front porch, dressed in his usual outfit of jeans and button-up shirt, boots, black hat. "I was just about to call you."

  "Let's go. I need to get out of here." He reached out, tried to take her hand.

  "Wait, what happened at the studio?" She pulled her hand out of his reach.

  He pushed his hat back, his eyes narrowed. "How do you know something happened?"

  "Trace, it's all over the Internet. Someone took a video with their phone and uploaded it to You Tube. It was just on the news."

  "Shit." Trace stomped, walked in a circle, his hands clenching into fists.

  Lisa heard her cell phone ring. "Come inside, let me get my phone and change."

  He followed her into the small house, stopping in the entry way instead of following her to the bedroom. Her phone had stopped ringing. Lisa checked the screen -- missed call from Leon. She sighed. She wasn't looking forward to that conversation.

  She tossed the jeans and shirt she'd grabbed out of the dresser on the bed. "Let me change clothes, then we can talk about what happened. That was Leon on the phone, but I won't call him back until I hear your side of this."

  "Wait," Trace said, appearing at her bedroom door. "Let's go, right now. I want to take you somewhere."

  Lisa looked down at the green dress she'd bought Sunday. "Trace, I'm a bit overdressed, considering we can't go on our date. I need to deal with what happened."

  He stalked to her, crossing the room in two giant steps. He ran his fingers through her hair, skimmed his hands over her body. They slid over the slick material of her dress, around her waist and down her butt. He pulled her close and lowered his lips to hers, kissing her like he couldn't get enough. He punished her mouth with his lips, his tongue forcing its way inside. She opened to him, her arms snaking around his neck for balance. Just as her knees sagged and her body grew limp, he was gone, pushing her away. But not a rejection, a pause, a brief delay.

  "Put on your boots and let's go. It's not far."

  Lisa fumbled in the closet and grabbed her favorite pair of cowboy boots. In seconds, she'd pulled on her socks and the boots. She snagged her purse from the chair next to the bed.

  "Let's go," Trace said, reaching for her hand. This time she took it.

  They headed out of the city, taking the interstate south for a few miles before exiting onto a two-lane country road. It had been a long time since Lisa had been out of the city, had explored the more rural area outside of Nashville. She'd found a few places to ride when she'd first moved to the city but as life got busier it was easier to stay close to work and friends and fun.

  "Where are we going?" she asked. Trace lifted her hand, kissed it, then lowered it to the seat. He still gripped her hand -- he hadn't let it go since they'd climbed into the cab of his F250. When he didn't say anything, Lisa gave up, looked out the window. Hay, cows, trees, barns. For almost twenty minutes they sped through the Tennessee countryside.

  Trace slowed and turned into a rutted, gravel driveway. He was cautious as he drove, making sure the truck didn't bounce as he avoided the trench eroded in the middle of the dirt.

  “Where are we?” Visions of haunted houses and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre crept into Lisa's mind.

  “My house.”

  Trace pulled up in front of an old farmhouse surrounded by a fenced pasture overgrown with grass. An old barn was further up the hill to the right.

  Lisa got out of the truck and walked toward the house. She was quiet, in deference to the serenity and sacred feeling the old house inspired. It looked lost and alone. But as she stepped closer, she felt a quiet anticipation, as if the house was sitting, waiting on them to do something. Trace walked up the drive and stood beside her.

  “You have an apartment in town.”

  “I do. It's more convenient. But this is where I grew up, mostly.” He passed her, heading up to the porch. “Come on, let's go inside.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Is it safe?” The grass seemed to have been kept trimmed, as well as the bushes growing near the house. It wasn't overgrown with vines, the porch didn't sag and the windows weren't broken. But Lisa felt it was better to be safe than sorry.

  “Sure, it's safe. I make sure all repairs are made, grass cut, everything. Sometimes I'll come out here, stay for a weekend if I need some quiet.”

  She climbed up the porch stairs behind him and followed him inside, not sure why he'd brought her there.

  “This was my grandparents' house. They pretty much raised me during the summers and I moved here when I turned eighteen.” They entered a large living room, a fireplace against one wall. The floors were hardwood with scratches from generations of Harpers that had come before Trace had ever been born. Furniture was covered with white sheets and dust floated on rays of diluted sunshine from the windows.

  “I'll show you around. The kitchen's back here.” Trace led her through an archway into a comfortable, modern kitchen. “I had this remodeled for my grandmother after my first album went platinum. She had a blast picking out the appliances, the tile, the counter tops. The exterior is pretty much the same, but I did have some insulation blown in and some other work done to make the house more com
fortable for them.”

  “That was kind of you.” Lisa touched his back, listened to him speak of the people he obviously cared about.

  “It was the least I could do.” He walked over to the counter, ran his hand over the granite surface. “Come on, let's go upstairs.”

  They passed under the arch again and climbed the stairs, Lisa holding onto the railing. She'd seen a tiny half-bath under the staircase as they'd passed. The wall leading up to the second floor was bare, but she could see outlines where photos had hung for years and left their square shadows behind.

  At the second floor landing he took her first into the large bedroom at the end of the hall, then the smaller one in the middle.

  “The large one was my grandparents' room, and this was mine. We started with just the one bathroom at the end of the hall, that way.” He pointed to the opposite direction. “I added the half-bath downstairs later.”

  They entered his boyhood bedroom. The walls were bare, like the ones downstairs, but there was furniture covered by sheets here as well – a desk where she imagined him reading or working on a project, a full-size bed, a four-drawer dresser.

  “It's not much, but I loved it here. Grandpa taught me how to play the guitar. We'd sit outside on the porch after supper, and while the sun went down Grandma would swing on the porch swing and Grandpa and I would sit on the steps. He taught me the basics, of course, then some songs. Dixie, Rocky Top.” Trace smiled and Lisa could only imagine the visions, the memories running through his mind. “They died six years ago, left the place to me. And now I could lose it.”

  “What do you mean, lose it?” Lisa touched his arm, looked up at him with concern. “How?”

  “If I lose the show because of what I did today, I could lose this place.” Trace sighed, took off his hat and set it on the dresser. He sat on the sheet-covered bed and ran his fingers through his hair. “My ex-wife, Trixie, she had my power-of-attorney while I was on tour. She went to the bank and took out a loan on this place. I never knew about it, not until Charlie got sick and then I guess the bills stopped getting paid. I was paying on a loan and never knew it. How messed up is that?”

  Lisa sat next to him, smoothing her dress behind her as she sat. “So did you work it out with the bank?”

  “I have payment arrangements. I have to pay it all off by the time the show ends. Otherwise they're going to foreclose.” He looked at Lisa and she saw the tears in his eyes. “I can't lose this place. This house, this land, this was home to me. Not my mom's apartment in Chicago. Not my dad's house with his new family. This was my home.”

  Lisa took his hand in hers, tangled her fingers between his, and lifted his hand to her lips. She kissed it, the same way he'd kissed her hand in the truck on the ride over.

  “Trace, I don't know what Leon is going to say about what happened. I need to call him soon. But no matter what he says, I will do everything in my power to make sure you don't lose the show or your home.”

  He leaned over, still holding her hand, and kissed her. Her lips parted and she returned his kiss, letting him know without a doubt how she felt about him. She released his hand and skimmed her hands up his arms, up his shoulders, into his thick hair. Trace leaned her back on the bed, his hand trailing down her hip and lifting her booted legs from the floor, spreading them open and settling between her thighs.

  He broke the kiss and rose above her, moving his hands up her thighs, under her dress. Oh, God, a thong. He caressed her through the thin black fabric. Lisa moaned, her eyes closed, and writhed against his hand. Trace trailed a finger down the curved band, moved it out of the way, and touched her, felt her grow damp.

  "Please," she said, her hands moving up and down his arms, her hips writhing against his finger.

  "Not yet," he said, moving his hands away from her center. He paused for a moment, nestled between her thighs, his hands itching to touch her again, and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it and the T-shirt he wore underneath off and dropped them on the floor. He pulled off his boots, letting them land on the hardwood with a thunk. He rose on his knees over her, releasing his belt and unsnapping his jeans, but didn't them yet. He had to touch her again.

  Trace moved his hands up her dress, pulling the spaghetti straps down her shoulders, pushing down the bodice. She wore a lacy, strapless bra. He unhooked the front snap and her breasts fell free.

  Trace lowered over her, raining kisses down her face, her neck, her chest. Her beautiful, creamy chest. He nestled his face between her breasts, loving the smell of her, the faint trace of the vanilla perfume she wore. He ran a finger over her nipple, lowered his head, took it in his mouth.

  He heard her gasp and her arms wound around his bare back, her legs gripped his thighs. His erection, hard and stiff, was evident even through his jeans, and she moved under him.

  "Trace, please." Lisa called out his name, and it took everything he had not to take her right there. But there was so much more he wanted to do now that he finally had her in his arms.

  He moved away from her breasts, his hands once more moving under her dress, up her hips, and he grasped the edges of her thong, pulling them down. She lifted her hips and he removed the black lace, over her knees, over her boots.

  Trace looked down at Lisa, laying under him, her blonde hair splayed over the white sheet, her green eyes bright with desire, the top of her dress lifting her creamy breasts, the skirt pushed up her thighs, her bare legs open to him, and her boots rising over the curve of her calf. She was a goddess.

  "You are so beautiful."

  "Show me," Lisa said, raising her arms above her head and lifting her hips.

  Accepting the invitation, Trace lowered his head toward the damp curls at her center, and kissed her intimately.

  She gasped, a jolt of electricity running from her core throughout her body. Helpless, her arms shot down her body, down to his head, and she ran his fingers through his dark, thick hair. Lisa writhed under his mouth, his tongue, gasping with pleasure. She clutched his hair in her hands, her body tense as sensation after sensation washed over her. When she couldn't take more, the dam broke. Lisa cried out at the release, her hands pushing his head to her, her hips rising to meet him. Even then, he didn't stop until the tremors eased and she released her grip. Lisa relaxed, lowering herself to the bed, and only then did Trace rise from between her thighs. He moved up over her, kissing her breasts, her neck, her mouth. She tasted herself on his lips.

  "Please," she said again, and lifted her hips against him, grinding against his erection.

  "I don't have anything," Trace said. "This wasn't planned. Not here, not now."

  Lisa rolled on her side, reached for her purse. She unzipped a pocket on the side and took out a foil package.

  "It's a good thing I planned ahead, then, isn't it?"

  He took the condom from her hand and got up from the bed, just long enough to push his jeans and boxers down to the floor. He pulled off his socks and kicked everything to the side. Within seconds he was kneeling before her again, thick and hard, ready for her.

  He pulled the condom on and lowered his body, his hands braced at Lisa's sides, and entered her with a thrust.

  Lisa moaned, her hips bucked to meet him, her arms wound over his back to pull him closer. Her earlier orgasm had faded, but more was there, right below the surface. Trace moved within her, his body close, kissing her neck, her face, her lips. His tongue darted in and out of her mouth. She gripped his shoulders, opened her legs wide, thrust her hips against him.

  They found their rhythm, his thrusts meeting her rising hips in perfect time. Low gasps of pleasure changed to loud cries. Lisa felt it again, the ebb and flow of current moving through her body, her thighs tightening, her toes curling. She moved up the peak, touching Trace, whispering in his ear, telling him what felt good, telling him where to touch her, consciously seeking her release. Her cries grew louder, desperate, before an orgasm exploded within. As she cried out his name, Trace let himself go.

  The orgas
m rippled over him, down his legs, tightening his thighs. He pumped up into her again, feeling the contractions inside of her. He continued to move, letting the sensations flow over him. As he felt her relax he stopped, resting his body on top of hers, his breath fast, his brow covered in sweat.

  Lisa lay still, unable to move, feeling so much it was impossible to decipher everything. Her breath steadied, her body relaxed under his.

  "Wow," Trace broke the silence.

  "Yeah, wow." Lisa held him close, holding on to the moment. She held on to everything he'd said to her, everything he'd done to her. Danny's voice was in her head, but in the distance. Her memories of him were fading, being replaced by the man who held her in his arms, the man who'd said she was beautiful. Right here, in his arms, his weight settling into her, his breath in her ear, she believed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lisa sat downstairs at the uncovered kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of her. Trace was at the counter, making his own cup. It had been an hour since they'd made love and cleaned up in the bathroom upstairs. Now it was time to talk about what happened at the studio that day. She needed to know. Lisa fought the urge to check her phone, to call Leon, to explain -- what? There was nothing she could tell him, not yet.

  Go easy, she told herself.

  "How often do you come out here?" She decided to start with a safe topic -- the house.

  "Every few months or so, or when I just want to be alone. That's why I keep the water and power on, and a few supplies, even if it's just instant coffee. If I know I'm coming out here, I bring food." He carried his coffee to the table and sat next to her.

  "I'm glad you kept some towels in the linen closet." Lisa smiled at him over her coffee cup.

  "Yeah, I don't think drying off with sheets would have worked out too well." Trace carried his mug of coffee to the table and sat next to her. "Well, now you know about the house, you know about the money, you know a little bit about my ex-wife. Why don't you tell me who hurt you?"