The Kylie Ryans Series: Girl with Guitar, Girl on Tour, Girl in Love (extended edition)

by Caisey Quinn

  After working a few review problems and realizing her drink had gone cold, Stella heard her phone buzzing again. It shimmied across the table before she picked it up. The familiar 817 number flashed on the screen and she clicked accept.

  “Hi, Dr. Ramirez.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Chandler. You’re a hard woman to get ahold of.”

  This was true. In more ways than one. “Sorry about that. I’ve just been swamped with finals this week.”

  The doctor chuckled. “Oh, how I don’t miss those days. My condolences. But actually, I’m just calling to discuss the opportunity here at SCR. As I mentioned previously, the Board was extremely impressed with your credentials, both your experience growing up on your family’s ranch and your scholastic achievements.”

  “Thank you,” Stella said, even though being raised on a horse ranch wasn’t anything she did on purpose, just luck of the draw when it came to the family she was born into. She hadn’t decided yet if it was good luck or bad luck.

  The man on the other end of the line cleared his throat. “Yes, well, we’re hoping that when you come for a tour this weekend, you’ll accept our offer and begin work immediately. We have some high profile clients coming in at the same time, and I believe your skills could be quite beneficial.”

  She sipped her coffee, flinching when it scorched most of her taste buds off. “Um, okay. That’s certainly something to think about. But I don’t have an apartment in Dallas or anything yet. I’m still exploring my options.”

  “That’s not a problem, Miss Chandler. We have on site housing available for our staff. Speaking of your options, I also wanted to discuss with you the stipend provided should you choose to further your education.”

  Way to dangle the bait.

  Dr. Ramirez almost had her completely hooked. Stella wanted nothing more than to get her Master’s Degree in either Drug or Family Counseling. Or maybe both, crazy overachiever that she was. But her parents wouldn’t support that career path and she had no idea how she’d afford graduate school on her own.

  “I look forward to discussing all of that with you next weekend, Dr. Ramirez. I’ll see you on Friday.”

  “Yes, of course. I look forward to it as well. Best of luck on your exams, Miss Chandler.”

  Stella thanked him and ended the call. Checking the clock on her phone, she realized it was almost time for her second to last final exam. Not even graduated yet and the real world was pulling her in two different directions.

  The thing about Second Chance was, it was a dream job in so many ways. Working with animals, people who needed her, and on a sprawling ranch that would have all the comforts of home minus the insane pressure her mom put on her or the cold lack of affection from her daddy. It was just that, after applying for the job of Patient Care Coordinator and getting the offer, Stella had done some research. Research she should’ve done before sending in her resume.

  The “patients” at SCR weren’t regular folks who’d fallen down into a pit of addiction involving drugs or alcohol and were digging their way out. Those were the kinds of people she wanted to help. The Second Chance Ranch referred to patients as “clients” because it was primarily a celebrity rehab facility, known for high profile clients who checked in because they were suffering from “exhaustion” or some bullshit and desired the anonymity of a ranch in the middle of nowhere. Because being famous was just so damn tiring. Poor babies.

  Stella could give fuck all about those types. And she damn sure didn’t work her ass off to be some spoiled celebrity’s beck and call girl.

  But up against going home, where her mom would begin the relentless campaign of getting Stella back on the horse—literally while her daddy tried to pretend she didn’t exist, it sounded kind of like a dream come true. Or at the very least, a miraculous escape route, regardless of the clientele.

  TWO

  Fucking hell.

  Van Ransom opened his eyes just long enough to wish he hadn’t. His vision was blurred, probably from the skull hammering headache, and the lighting in wherever he was, happened to be bright as shit. Naturally.

  Groaning loudly, he threw a heavily inked arm over his face. “Someone turn that fucking shit off.”

  “He’s coming to,” a male voice near his head announced.

  “No, he’s not. Turn the goddamn lights off and go the fuck away,” he demanded. If there was one good thing about being the lead singer of a well-known band, it was that people did whatever you told them to. Or at least, they always had before. Even with his eyes closed, Van knew the lights were still on.

  “Mr. Ransom, can you tell me what day it is?” the same voice asked.

  If it didn’t require opening his eyes, Van would have glared at the stupid son of bitch. “No, but I can recommend you buy a motherfucking calendar and stop harassing me before I have your ass fired.”

  “Van, wake up. Look at me.” This time the voice came from near his feet and he recognized it.

  “Sid?” The blurry figure of his manager stood at the foot of…a hospital bed.

  What the hell?

  “Yeah, it’s me. You’ve been out of it for a few days.”

  Jesus. Must’ve been some after party if he was waking up in the hospital. Again. Usually he woke up to naked women and a huge fucking mess. Sometimes there was vomit involved, but that was just an occupational hazard as far as he was concerned.

  But this time his band, Hostage for Ransom, had been celebrating their freedom from a sadistic record label, aptly named Red Devil Records, which had damn near caused the band to break up. They were also just a few signatures away from signing with a label that actually gave a shit about them and their music, halle-fucking-lujah. So there’d been a lot worth celebrating. The party had been at a hotel, a nice one that, before he made the cover of Rolling Stone, he wouldn’t have been allowed to step foot in. That much he could remember. But that was about all he had.

  Sid pressed a button and Van’s bed angled upward.

  “Can I get something for this headache? Like ten minutes ago?”

  Sid nodded at a man in scrubs on his other side. Oh yeah. The asshole with all the questions. The man shook his head. Like hell.

  “Can we have a minute?” Sid asked before Van could go apeshit on the scrub wearing fucker. The man nodded and left the room.

  Still squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light, which someone had mercifully dimmed, he glared at his manger.

  “Get me the hell out of here. I don’t have time for this. If I’ve been out for days, aren’t we supposed to be meeting with Epitaph about now?”

  Sid raked a hand roughly over his face and stared at Van with bloodshot eyes. “I’m just going to give it to you straight because, frankly, I don’t have the energy for this anymore. The only epitaph you’re gonna land at this rate, is an actual one. As in, you are killing yourself. And everyone’s pretty damned sick of watching you self-destruct.”

  “That was very moving. Harvard would be so proud. But seriously, can we go now?” Van sat up and yanked out all the needles and tubes attached to him. Alarms began sounding all over the damned place. And fuck, he was going to vomit. And maybe pass out.

  Shitty day this was turning out to be.

  When he came to again, a young blond woman in dark blue scrubs was leaning over him. Her breasts brushed against him and he groaned with satisfaction. Yes, this was much better than the first time.

  “Morning beautiful. Can I convince you to join me in this bed? It goes up and down.” He knew his breath probably smelled like hell but surely she’d be willing to blow him or something. He was Van fucking Ransom after all.

  The girl’s fair skin turned a sexy shade of pink as she pulled back. “Um, I don’t get off until six,” she said, barely loud enough for him to hear.

  “Well, in that case, why don’t you come by at six so we can both get off?”

  Her responding giggle made his cock twitch. Yeah, she’d be back. Before he had time to lay any more game on her, S
id strolled into the room carrying a coffee cup.

  “Good, you’re awake.” His manager jerked his head at the sexy nurse and she shot Van a quick smile before leaving them alone.

  Once she was out of the room, Van glared at the man. “Well, thank you very much for the cock block. Remind me to return the favor, asshole.”

  Sid rolled his eyes and stepped closer. “Listen to me, you have much bigger problems than missing out on a blowjob.”

  Van grinned. Damn his manager knew him well. “Oh yeah, like what?”

  Sid sat his cup on the raised tray next to Van’s bed. “Like the fact that Epitaph has no intentions of signing someone who’s going to cost them more in damages than he’s going to sell in records. And they’ve placed a few stipulations on signing the band.” Sid checked his watch as if he had somewhere more important to be.

  “What kind of stipulations?” Van sat up straighter to brace himself for this bullshit.

  Sid cleared his throat before answering. “Either you successfully complete rehab in a facility of their choosing and agree to let a drug treatment counselor accompany you on all future tours, or the deal is history. As in, don’t call them and they won’t call you.” His manager shrugged like this wasn’t the shittiest news Lynyrd Skynyrd’s plane went down.

  Van ran and hand through his thick hair that was in serious need of washing. “What is wrong with everybody? Can you people not get online and search lead singer in rock band and catch a goddamn clue? This is how it is. I’m not doing anything that all the other guys aren’t. You all treat me like I’m the antichrist for doing a little blow.” He huffed out a breath and considered throwing something. Nothing in reaching distance would make a satisfying enough noise so he resisted the impulse. Barely.

  Sid’s veins throbbed in his bald head, a sure sign Van was pushing him past his limits as well. In a lot of ways his manager was the closest thing to a father he’d ever known. But he was on the payroll and needed to remember that.

  “Don’t bullshit me, son. Do the other guys get messed up from time to time? I’m not an idiot. I know they do. No one’s debating that. But you go at it like an overachiever with a death wish.” Van opened his mouth to interrupt, but Sid held up his hand, signaling him to keep it shut. “A few lines every now and then is ‘a little blow.’ Ten lines or more after a handful of painkillers and a bottle of whatever the hell you were drinking, is a suicide attempt.”

  Van tried not to let his fists clench by his sides but he couldn’t stop them. The needle jammed into the top of his hand pinched hard. Sid didn’t know the details about what happened with Val, so he couldn’t know how deep that word cut him. Van wanted to throttle him all the same.

  And the man wasn’t done. “Tell me honestly, do you want to die? Is this life so terrible for you? Millions of fans and a platinum album? Cause I gotta tell you, a lot of guys would kill to be in your shoes. And if you keep heading down this dark path at the rate you’re going, one of them will be. Soon.”

  Pieces of the party came back to Van in flashes. The pills a roadie slipped him. The eleven hundred dollar bottle of Bourbon. A redhead sucking him off while he snorted coke off a glass coffee table in a room full of people. Val would be disgusted by him. Hell, he was disgusted by him.

  Every time this happened, remembering it was like watching a documentary about someone else’s screwed up life. And he told himself he would tone it down a notch next time. But in reality it was more like he was constantly trying to one up himself every other night. Or maybe off himself like Sid suspected.

  “We’ve tried the rehab thing. Shit doesn’t take,” he said quietly, still lost in the memories of parties passed.

  Sid let a hand rest on the rail of Van’s bed. “It might have, if you’d stayed the course. You can’t just bail because someone or something pisses you off or doesn’t go your way.”

  Yeah, he was guilty of that. But the robotic drone doctors in rehab didn’t know shit about him and yet they pretended to have the answers to all his problems. Who wouldn’t bail?

  “So this is it then? No second chances? Epitaph is sending me to rehab and I have to fake my way into a whole new me or else I ruin it for the whole band? That’s some messed up shit, Sid.”

  Now it was the manager’s hand that fisted, clenching the rail tightly as he stared at Van in disbelief.

  “You have got to be screwing with me, kid. You’ve had more second chances than any other person on the planet. And as much as I hate to say this to you, if you don’t complete the program this time and get your shit together, Epitaph won’t be the only one washing their hands of you. This is your last second chance Van, plain and simple.”

  THREE

  Whoever the sadistic bastard was that invented stilettos, Stella wanted to knee him in the balls. Hard. Maybe more than once.

  An hour into her tour of the Second Chance Ranch, her feet were killing her. She’d worn the gingham shift dress she’d bought from White House Black Market with a smart blazer over it. She’d received her fair share of approving glances from the males on staff as Dr. Ramirez escorted her through the facility. Hellhole it wasn’t.

  Stella didn’t even feel like they should be able to call the place a ranch. She’d grown up on a ranch, a nice one even. Ranches included mud and straw and the ever-present stench of horseshit. This place was immaculate with a mahogany welcome desk the size of Texas and flat screen televisions and hardwood floors that shone like a glass. She’d seen the infinity pool and beyond that, expansive pastures dotted with the occasional horse, at the beginning of the tour. The top of the steel stables was visible from behind the enormous mansion-style patient housing facility.

  It was everything she could do not to gape in awe at her surroundings. Her heels clicked on the hardwood as Dr. Ramirez walked her through the grand foyer to glass entrance.

  “As I was telling you, many of our physicians and other staff members reside in them until they move into more permanent housing.” He gestured to the area downhill where the staff housing was located.

  Right. Because she wasn’t just going to work here, she was going to live here, too. Stella struggled to remain focused on the man giving her the tour as he began detailing the agenda for new employee orientation that would begin first thing Monday morning, if she accepted the job. He handed her two folders and a book thicker than any of her textbooks had ever been. She struggled with the added weight, attempting to shift it to the arm not shouldering her purse, but someone bumped her from behind.

  “Oh!” she cried out as the book and folders slipped from her arms and landed on the floor with a loud slap.

  Smooth, Stella Jo.

  The man who’d bumped her looked up from the slim black cellphone in his hand. Light gray eyes darkened to charcoal as he took her in. She’d never seen anyone like him before. At least not up close and personal like this.

  He was tall, looming over her despite the added height of the stilettos, and seconds from committing a felony, judging from the expression he wore. Dark tattoos wrapped around his arms and neck claiming his otherwise flawless skin. The black T-shirt pulled taut across his broad chest had faded script on it that she couldn’t make out.

  She knew one of them should apologize for the collision. But neither did as they were both paralyzed in the gaze of the other.

  Dr. Ramirez cleared his throat, snapping her out of her trance.

  Jesus. Where was she?

  Oh, right. Embarrassing herself horribly in front of her future boss.

  Choked laughter escaped her throat as she bent down to retrieve what she’d dropped. The man did the same and she caught a whiff of expensive cologne and liquor. Ah, he was checking in then. Dr. Ramirez leaned down to help, as did the bald guy with the man who’d bumped her.

  “Thanks,” she said to all of them as they handed her the papers. Standing upright, she allowed herself one more lingering look at whoever this creature was. His thick brows, straight nose, and square jaw created such perfect lin
es on his face she wondered if anyone had ever painted his portrait. If not, they damn well should. She could only imagine the muscles that would be underneath his clothes. And despite her best effort not to, imagine she did.

  She nearly died of humiliation when he handed her a form that had fallen from her folder and she had to take it from him with a trembling hand. No man had ever had this kind of an effect on her. Clearly she’d been single for too long.

  Snap out of it, Chandler.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, averting her eyes and snatching her hand back.

  She looked up just in time to see him raising a brow at her. “For slamming into you like a maniac?”

  Good Lord, the deep rumble of his voice was sensual music that weakened her knees.

  “Um, no, for—”

  “Are you all right, Miss Chandler?” Dr. Ramirez broke in.

  Was she? No, she sure as hell wasn’t. She was a few missed breaths away from panting or passing out. And light-headed. And unable to think straight because of the scorching heat burning her up from the inside out. And…wait. What was the question again?

  She sucked in a deep breath in an attempt to steady herself. “Yeah. I mean, yes sir. I’m fine.”

  Dr. Ramirez placed a hand on her elbow and steered her to the exit. As they began to walk away he turned and said, “Mr. Walker, everything is prepared for your stay. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to assist in making you more comfortable. If you ask for Celeste Bradshaw at the desk, she’s ready with your paperwork.”

  Stella watched as Mr. Walker’s expression darkened from pensive and amused to lethal and pissed off. Either he didn’t want her to know his name or he didn’t want her to know he was a patient. Or he hated Celeste Bradshaw with a vengeance. Stella didn’t know whether to envy the woman he was about to head off to or be worried for her.

  Once they were out of hearing distance, Dr. Ramirez stopped walking and turned to her. “Miss Chandler, I hate to pry, but do you know him?”

  “Who?” she asked, playing dumb even though she knew exactly who he was referring to.