by Caisey Quinn
“That so? Well, that’s interesting, considering.”
“Considering what?” Kylie asked.
“Oh, you know. The reports that your guitar player leaves your apartment at all hours.”
“We write together,” Kylie said through gritted teeth. “And we’re friends. Like, actually friends. Not pretend friends for the sake of the media.”
“Is that a dig at someone specifically?”
Josh was starting to irritate her.
“No,” she said evenly. “It’s just, sometimes you read that people are in a relationship or just friends or enemies, or whatever, and really it’s just media hype for their next album, or a tour or something.”
“I see. Care to give an example?” Josh arched an eyebrow under his over-styled-to-look-intentionally-messy brown hair.
Suddenly she felt extremely stupid. As if stringing words together into sentences was a feat more complicated than she was capable of. She’d never liked talking things out very much. She preferred to write songs about her feelings.
“I don’t have one.” She sighed and watched Trace warming up on stage. “I just meant that I’m not playing anything up or down with Steven Blythe. We’re friends. We hang. We have a good time. My regular guitar player’s wife just had twins. He needed some time off and Steven’s band was taking a breather. It was perfect timing and it’s nice to be on tour with a friend.”
“Would you call Trace Corbin a friend?”
Geez. This guy. Kylie stared at Trace on stage. A few VIP fans had won tickets to some promotional thing he was doing before the concert. They were all female and squealing and jumping up and down. She was pretty sure one of them started crying when he hugged her and signed her shirt.
“No, I probably wouldn’t.” She bit the inside of her cheek harder than she meant to and tried to think. It was important not to say anything that could be twisted into something negative later. Or that the label would give her hell for. “But not because I have bad feelings towards him or anything. Just because at one point we were sort of involved and now we’re not. It’s like dating someone you work with and then breaking up. But you still have to work in the same office. You don’t hate each other, but the dynamic of your relationship has changed. So it’s not something I can label for you. It’s not friendship and we’re not a couple. We’re just on tour together.”
“And why is that?”
Kylie pulled her eyes from Trace. “Why is what?”
“Why are you on tour tog—”
Before he could finish, her phone rang again. She offered him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. One sec.”
Glancing down at her phone, she didn’t recognize the number. But the way this day was going, it could have been anyone.
“Hello?”
“Kylie? Kylie Ryans?” The voice was female and super high-pitched.
“Um, yes? Who is this?”
She heard squealing in the background. “Oh my gosh! It’s really you! Can I ask you a question?”
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“Are you and Trace Corbin really getting back together? Because you should know, he hooked up with my friend Kelly and she—”
Kylie hit the disconnect button and did her best to smile at Josh. “I’m so sorry but I need a minute. I need to make a phone call.”
As she was pulling up Chaz’s number, Hannah appeared in her line of vision. She hung up before Chaz answered and waved the girl over.
“What’s wrong?” Hannah asked as soon as she was in hearing distance.
“I need a new phone number,” Kylie informed her. “Like now.”
“On it,” Hannah promised, retrieving her own phone from her pocket.
“I’m sorry, you were saying?” She turned back to Josh, who was busy jotting something down in a little notebook. “Damn. Now you’re going to write that I’m a huge diva who orders my assistant around, aren’t you?” She smiled her sweetest smile and winked at him.
“Nah,” Josh scoffed. “Not in those words anyway.” He winked back, and she sincerely hoped he was kidding.
Her phone rang again and she glared at Hannah’s back. Again, it was a number she didn’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Is this Nashville’s Sweetheart?” a deep, male voice asked. “Because if it is, I just wanted to tell you that if I was Trace Corbin I’d come into your room at night and lick—”
“I’m not Nashville’s fucking sweetheart, you sicko,” she yelled into the phone. She wanted to thrown the damn thing into the nearest river.
“Hannah!”
The girl turned and came running back in her direction. “Kylie, I’m so sorry. It looks like Lily Taite lost her cell phone in a club and someone leaked all of the numbers in it online. I’m doing everything I can to get yours changed right now.”
“Great. That’s just great.” She silently vowed to kick Lily’s ass both for being in a club and losing her phone the next time she saw her.
“Kylie,” Pauly Garrett called out to her. “Trace is all done. You’re up, darlin’.”
Turning to Josh, she apologized a dozen times. “I know today wasn’t the greatest, and I appreciate your time. If you want to continue this by phone later, I can have Hannah get you my new number as soon as I have it.”
“I think I got everything I needed. Have a great show.”
She tried to ignore the lump in her throat as she thanked him again. The entire day had been a disaster, and she was damn near positive she was not about to have a great show. And she was cancelling her subscription to Rolling Stone magazine immediately.
FOUR HOURS later, Kylie slid into the back seat of a black SUV with windows tinted so dark she couldn’t see out of them.
“Just the nearest place with greasy fast food where no one will see us.” She’d wanted to drive her daddy’s truck, but in this part of town she would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb in an ’88 Chevy pickup.
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Lulu reassure her. “I mean, he has to know you can’t help that your number was leaked and you were getting prank calls all day.”
“And,” Steven chimed in, “the interview was supposed to be about your music. Not your love life. He shouldn’t have even been asking those questions.”
She sighed and leaned her head against the blackened window. “He’s a reporter. He can ask whatever he wants. And he can write whatever he wants. And I was a bitch to Hannah.”
“You’re a celebrity. You can be bitchy. Totally acceptable,” Lulu said, shoulder bumping her.
“Yeah right,” Kylie mumbled. It didn’t matter how many albums she sold. She would never think of herself as a “celebrity.” They were an alien race she had no plans to join.
“For the record, I wouldn’t be mad if you went around telling people I was your boyfriend. I’ve been called worse.” Steven slung an arm around her shoulders.
“I was trying to be honest. Fat lot of good that probably did me.”
“Let’s just say you’re portrayed in a negative light in his article? You really think it’s the end of the world?” Her best friend got out her cellphone. “Watch this.” With a few quick touches, she pulled up a screen with search results for Kylie’s name.
Kylie let her eyes roam over her friend’s findings. A few YouTube music videos, her official website, social media sites, a few fansites, some mentions on TMZ, and celebrity gossip sites.
“Your point?” she asked, looking at her friend.
“My point is, this is just the part of you that you let people see. It’s the public version. The private version of you is yours. And it belongs to you and whomever you decide to share it with. For God sakes girl, you’re on a tour named after a song you wrote about the fact that you don’t let everyone see that side of you. The real side. So to hell with what one reporter or one magazine prints. You know who you really are, and at the end of the day, that’s what matters.”
The lyrics she and Trace had written floated through
her head. At one point, he’d been the one she shared that side of herself with. And that hadn’t turned out so well.
It still hurt. Hurt bad. Deep down in that private part of herself she kept hidden away, there was nothing but pain. There was a reason she kept it hidden.
She’d opened her heart and soul to someone who’d chosen to walk away from everything she’d had to give.
One of many memories she’d shoved out of her head with all her might forced its way back to the surface. I love you, she’d told him in the cab of her daddy’s truck.
That look on his face, the shock and the panic, was one she’d never forget. And it wasn’t what he’d said afterwards that still stung. It was what he hadn’t said.
She forced a smile for Lulu and Steven. They were sweet and they cared about her. But for reasons she couldn’t explain even to herself, she took that part of herself, the part she didn’t share with the world, and tucked it away.
Silently, she promised herself she’d never share it with anyone again.
“SO THIS is it,” Trace told the girl stepping onto the bus behind him. “Kylie and I each have our own living quarters, which I can’t show you. But we do have a kick-ass media room and big screen.” He grinned at the lady from the radio station and she blushed. It was kind of nice to know he still had it. Touring with someone who was completely immune to his charms didn’t do much for his ego.
The camera guy followed them onto the bus and Trace waited for him to give the thumbs-up signal before he began talking. He flirted and cracked a few jokes during the interview.
Just as they were about to wrap it up, the door to Kylie’s room opened. He turned and looked at her. Red-rimmed eyes told him she’d been crying. He did a mental recall of the last few days. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done that might have upset her.
If Blythe had screwed around on her, he would kick the little fucker’s ass. And then dance a jig probably. But only because he’d be out of the picture.
He moved to block the camera guy’s shot of her. “Well, thank y’all so much for coming. See y’all at the show tonight.”
The lady with the microphone protested as Trace all but shoved them off the bus. Once the crew was gone and the doors were closed, he headed back towards her. Her pain was apparent on her face, and it weighed him down. The urge to reach out and wrap his arms around her was powerful and overwhelming, but she’d asked him not to touch her and he was trying his damnedest to respect her wishes.
“You okay?” He wanted to slap himself. That was a stupid question since she’d obviously been crying. People who were okay didn’t cry.
“I’m fine,” she answered, stifling a sniffle but not completely. “Just tired.” She pulled her oversized sweater around herself. He was kind of grateful that he couldn’t see her body so he wouldn’t be tempted to do things to her that he shouldn’t.
Yeah right. He was pretty much always tempted around her. She could wear a brown paper sack.
“You’ve been crying.” Master of the obvious, here.
She shrugged. “Do you know if there’s any ice cream on the bus?”
“Um, hang on. I’ll check.” Trace turned and beat it into the kitchen. He was grateful to have a task. Crying women made him feel helpless. What the hell were you supposed to do? Ask them about it? Not ask? Get tissues? Shut the hell up? Be there for them or get out of their sight? He never knew.
After checking the freezer thoroughly, he returned to her empty-handed. She was sitting on the couch, curling her legs up to chest. She looked so…lost. The need to make whatever was upsetting her all better was more than he could handle.
Dropping to his knees before her, he looked up into her eyes from below. “Mint chocolate chip?”
Her lower lip trembled and she nodded.
“Okay.”
Trace sprang into action and practically sprinted off the bus. He grabbed the first person he saw. It was Hannah, Kylie’s manager slash assistant or whatever she was.
“I need ice cream. Now. Where the hell are we?”
“We’re outside of Lubbock. Drivers needed a rest. We got fuel about an hour ago and I haven’t seen any places since. I’m guessing she saw it?”
“Saw what?” He was scared to even guess.
“The article. It wasn’t great.” The short dark-haired girl retrieved an iPad from her purse and pulled up the latest issue of Rolling Stone.
Trace let his eyes drink in the vision of perfection on the cover. It was Kylie. She was in a tight plaid button-up but none of the buttons were buttoned. A lacy black bra thrust her full breasts up just below her collarbone. Her eyes were sultry and her fingertips lingered by her full, pouty lips.
The wanton expression on her face made him want to run back onto the bus and do unspeakable things to her. Well, unspeakable in front of Hannah.
The idea of the entire world seeing it made him want to hit something. Hard.
“She looks…amazing,” he choked out.
“It’s not the picture she’s upset about. It’s the headline.”
He looked at the bold print on the bottom of the cover. Kylie Ryans: Not Nashville’s F@#*ing Sweetheart, it read.
Aw hell. Trace swiped the screen until he came to the article about her. There was another picture of her scantily clad body sprawled out next to a guitar. She was smiling this time. Again, he was struck dumb and breathless. He forced himself to look away from her and skimmed the article.
Very concerned about how she’s portrayed and whether or not the world thinks she’s a diva.
Below that was a breakdown of a day in the life of Kylie Ryans, and the writer had taken the time to add that she “barked” at her assistant every other hour and that she “handled” people like equipment. He called her performance with Trace that night in Connecticut “cold and automated.” He even hinted that she herself had said that the whole tour was a farce and she and Trace had no chemistry. Which the asshole made sure to mention he agreed with.
Trace let out a low whistle. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. I tried to steer her away from the magazine stand at the last few stops but I guess she ventured online. How is she?”
“I need ice cream, Hannah. A large amount. Mint chocolate chip, stat. Can you help me with that?”
She nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” She pulled out her phone and he left her to it.
Trace headed back onto the bus. His heart sank when he saw that Kylie hadn’t moved an inch since he’d left her.
“Hey, um, Hannah’s working on the ice cream situation now. Anything else I can do? Order a pizza? Put on a movie? Kick the Rolling Stone reporter’s ass?”
She sighed. “I guess you saw it then.”
“Eh, I’m half illiterate according to that guy so I could barely read it.”
“He called you illiterate? I must’ve missed that part. What a dick.” She frowned and Trace couldn’t help but smile at the cute little thing her forehead did when she was mad.
“Not in your article. A long time ago when I was first starting out. He made a reference to hillbillies and the inability to read. He was surprised that one of my songs contained a reference to a Keats poem. Said I couldn’t have written that myself because surely stupid ol’ me had never read anything other than girls’ phone numbers on bathroom walls in bars.”
Kylie’s expression melded from annoyed to outraged. “I’m sorry. I never would’ve even given him an interview if I’d have known he said that about you.”
He shrugged. “No big. Trust me, in this business, you learn to let things like that go.” Their gazes met as he spoke. “But I guess you know that already. You’re on tour with me, after all.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath, but before she could say anything, the sound of several people boarding their bus distracted them both.
They turned to see Lulu, Mike, Steven, and Hannah all clomping onto the bus. Mike held a brown paper sack that Trace hoped contained ice cream.
“There was
n’t any mint chocolate chip at the Stop-N-Shop we found,” Mike began. “But there was chocolate chip cookie dough, double chocolate chunk, and chocolate fudge swirl.”
“Which one did you get?” Kylie asked, looking slightly amused.
“All of them,” Steven said, pulling out several spoons from a drawer next to Trace. “We figure you can mix them all together. If you want, I’ll squirt some toothpaste on it and it will taste just like that disgusting stuff you love so much.”
Kylie laughed, really laughed, and the sound both warmed Trace’s heart and cut into at once. Steven made her laugh. Steven made her happy. She needed that. She deserved it.
So he did what he knew he should. He moved out of the way so Steven could sit next to her.
“Ohh, let’s make milkshakes,” Lulu suggested as he made his way off the bus.
“If there’s not a blender on this bus, you guys are up a creek. I’m not procuring a blender just because—”
He didn’t hear what else Hannah said. He couldn’t be a spectator in Kylie Ryans’s life.
After what had just happened in there, he was pretty sure he couldn’t be a part of her life at all.
TRACE WOKE up in the floor. The covers were wrapped around him as if he’d been wrestling them into submission. He was covered in sweat. He racked his brain and tried to remember if he’d had anything to drink earlier that night.
He hadn’t.
It was another nightmare then. Great. They were back. Another highlight of sobriety.
Yanking himself out of his bed sheets, he stood and smoothed out the fitted sheet that had rolled off his mattress just as he had. He tossed his comforter back onto the bed. Just as he was about to step out into the kitchen for a glass of water, his door opened.
“Trace?” her soft voice whispered.
He froze. Kylie stood in his doorway, illuminated by the light behind her. Her legs were bare under her over-sized T-shirt.
He swallowed hard and worked to locate his power of speech. “Yeah?”
“Um, you okay in here? I heard yelling and then a loud noise.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Fantastic. Just what he wanted. For her to know what a weak-ass baby he was. “I’m good. Must’ve been dreaming. Rolled out of bed.”