"It's what I want to do."
"But you could do so much more."
"I don't want more. I'm fine with my life. You need to accept that."
"We could have another big hit, Chelsea," he continued, paying no attention to her words. "My fans would love it, and your fans would be over the moon if you came out of retirement. I talked to Jonas, and Belmont is prepared to make you a very lucrative offer to come back."
"Austin—"
"Wait." He cut her off with one sharp word. "Let me finish. You don't have to perform the song. We could write it together, record it in the studio, and then you're done. You just sit back and collect your money."
"There's no way you'd be happy with that."
"You're wrong. It's the perfect scenario. You can make music without going on stage. You don't have to let your panic attacks take away everything."
It wasn't just panic—or at least not all of it. She'd tried to tell him that before, but it had gotten too complicated, so in the end she'd just let him believe that. "I'm not interested. I told you I was done with music. You need to hear me. You need to go back to Nashville."
"But why?" he asked, irritation in his voice. "I get that you suffered some kind of anxiety on the stage, but other performers have worked through that. And like I said, you don't have to perform. It's one song."
There was a desperate note in his voice. "What's this really about, Austin?"
"A fantastic opportunity for both of us."
"You're doing fine without me." She paused as she saw the evasive look in his eyes. "Or, perhaps you're not doing well. What happened?"
He stared back at her, his jaw tightening. "Sales fell with my last album. I took the wrong direction. I listened to the wrong people. You were right when you said I needed to get back to what made me good in the first place. I can do that with you. I can get back on the right road. When we sing together, it's magic. We have something special; we always have."
There had been a very brief time when she'd believed that, too. But no more. Still, she found herself feeling a bit of sympathy for his desperation. Austin had always needed the success, the fame, the feeling of achievement. He'd grown up with nothing and making it in music had made him feel like he was worth something. But he'd taken things too far. He'd let the fame go to his head. He'd gotten caught up in his self-importance. Even if her own problems hadn't overwhelmed her, they wouldn't have lasted. But that wasn't a conversation she wanted to have.
"I can't help you, Austin."
Disappointment and anger ran through his gaze. "I need this, Chelsea. Don't say no right this second—think about it. It's the perfect situation. You can write and sing without the pressure to go on tour."
"I don't believe that's true. If we wrote a song and sang it together, everyone would want me to perform it live with you."
"We all understand that's a deal breaker."
"There's no deal, Austin. I'm done with music. I don't want any part of that life ever again. I don't want to write or play or sing. I gave away my guitars. It's over. You have to believe me when I say that."
Surprise filled his eyes. "You gave away your guitars?"
"There was no reason to keep them."
"All because of stage fright? You don't think you can eventually work through all that? You were so good, so talented, even better than me. What happened to you, Chelsea? Why won't you tell me what set you off? One day you were great, and the next you were frozen on stage."
She'd tried to talk to him that night and in the days that followed, but he'd been on the other side of the world, and he hadn't been all that interested in her problems. He'd been riding a tidal wave of success and was consumed by his tour. It had been weeks before they'd actually seen each other in person. By then, she'd already decided to quit—not only music, but also him.
"Chelsea?" he pressed. "Look, I know I let you down. I wasn't around. I was taking you for granted."
"Stop, Austin. Please. This is pointless. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm happy in my life."
"You don't look happy. You looked strained."
"Because you're putting me in the position of having to disappoint you. Just take no for an answer. You can find someone else to write and sing with. I have no more magic in my soul. It's gone."
"That might be the saddest thing I've ever heard, Chelsea. Can't you use that feeling in a song? You always put your emotions into your music. It was what made you special, why the fans loved you so much. You were just like them."
She put up a hand, feeling more pain with every word. "Please stop talking. I have to go. And you have to let me."
"I can't take no for an answer. I'll get the label to sweeten the pot. Just think about it," he added, as she got in the car and slammed the door on his final words.
She wasn't going to think about it. She was going to drive away and get back to her life and find a way to be happy, so what she'd just said to Austin wouldn't be a lie.
Brodie got off work at five o'clock on Thursday, after a long day of disputes that had escalated into a stolen car, an assault and an alcoholic-fueled meltdown with a man holding his wife's bird hostage until she agreed to go to counseling. One of the best things about being a cop was that every day was different. That constant unpredictability was challenging and fun.
After changing into jeans and a T-shirt, he walked out to his car, wishing he had a date set up with Chelsea. Maybe he'd just walk over to her house later with a bottle of wine and see if he could talk her into a drink. He was curious to know how her day had gone, if Austin had shown up again, if she'd gotten anything new from Travis during her art period.
Smiling to himself, he realized that while all those things interested him, what he really wanted was to kiss her again, see if he could chase away the shadows in her eyes with pure, passionate pleasure.
His heart beat a little faster at that thought, but he needed to get a grip, because there was a good chance none of those things were going to happen.
As he got into his car, his phone buzzed with an incoming call from his father. He'd texted him back a few times, hoping to get him to say what he wanted in text, but his dad kept insisting they needed to talk. It was time to hear him out. "Hello, Dad."
"I can't believe you answered," his father said in a deep, brusque voice.
Justin McGuire could have done radio. He had the kind of voice that compelled you to listen, which was partly why Brodie had been avoiding him. His father had a way of persuading him to do things he didn't want to do.
"What's up?" he asked.
"I have an incredible job opportunity for you, Brodie."
"I have a job."
"Not like this one. LA Sports wants to give you your own show," his dad continued, ignoring his reply. "Remember when you talked about wanting the media to cover skiing in a different way? Well, this is your chance to make that happen. They want the human stories behind the superstars and while you can start with skiing, they want you on any sport where there's a story to tell. It will all be building up for the next Olympics, and you'll have a chance to cover the games, too."
He was surprised. He hadn't expected his father to have any kind of offer that would be interesting to him. However, he'd done some special news stories for the network back in his glory days, and he'd enjoyed taking the viewers behind the scenes.
But he was a cop now. And he was good at his job. He was helping people. He was protecting a community. His day had more value than any day he'd spent on a ski slope. And while the excitement of being a small-town police officer might not compare to downhill ski racing, what did? This was his reality now. He'd had his dream. He'd had more excitement in the last ten years than most people had had in a lifetime.
"Brodie, are you there?" his father asked impatiently.
"I'm here."
"Why don't you come to LA? We'll talk about it with the network executives. You can hear their pitch. I guarantee you're going to love the freedom they want to give you."
"I don't know."
"That's because you need more information."
"What I need is a little time."
"But you're not saying no?"
He should be saying no. Why wasn't he? Why was he even considering the offer?
"This is the kind of job you should have, Brodie," his dad continued. "I don't know why you decided to bury yourself in Whisper Lake like Pops, or why on earth you decided to become a cop, but you are meant for bigger things. You have so much talent."
"That talent disappeared when I crashed."
"You can still make a difference in sports. You won't be skiing, but you'll be on television. You'll have a platform to introduce and feature unacknowledged athletes to the public. It's a fantastic opportunity."
"Why do they want me?"
"Because you'll be a huge draw. You've been out of the spotlight, but you have not been forgotten."
"I doubt that's true."
"Oh, it's true. You've hidden yourself away, so you don't realize that the world still wants Brodie McGuire on their television screen."
"What's your role in all this?"
"I'll be the executive producer. But you don't have to worry, you'll have plenty of creative input."
"We don't always see things the same way, Dad."
"We can work together. We did for a long time."
His father's ambition had always been beyond his own. He'd wanted to ski, to win, to be the best, but all the endorsements and business opportunities had been his dad's creation, just like this one.
"Brodie, I'm handing you an incredible opportunity," his father pressed on. "I can't believe you have to think about it for a second. Let's get you on a plane. Can you leave tomorrow?"
"No. Let me think about it. I'll call you back in a day or two."
"All right. Take the weekend, but let's touch base Monday morning. I'll see if I can schedule meetings for next week."
"Don't do anything until we talk again."
"I'll just put out some feelers, that's all."
"Fine."
"Don't talk to your grandfather about this. He'll try to sway you. He finally got someone to follow in his footsteps. He's not going to want you to quit."
"I can make up my own mind. And Pops has never tried to persuade me to do anything. That's your game." He paused, hearing a loudspeaker in the background. "Where are you?"
"San Francisco. I'm about to catch a flight to LA. I'll talk to you soon."
As his dad hung up, he set down his phone, staring idly out the window at the line of police cars in the station lot. This was his life now. Did he really want to change it? Did he want to go back to some version of the life he'd had before?
He wouldn't be skiing, but he would be back in the world of sports. It was a world he'd avoided ever since he'd realized that he could never compete again.
Could he put himself back in that world, where he'd be talking to skiers, showing their struggle, honoring their achievements? Wouldn't that be just as painful as getting on skis and knowing he would never be who he was?
Or maybe enough time had passed…
He let out a sigh, realizing that he wouldn't know how anything would feel until he actually did it. But was he ready to make such a big change in his life?
Despite his father's request that he not speak to his grandfather, he found himself wanting to do just that. Perhaps he'd make a quick stop on the way home.
Chapter Nine
Wes McGuire lived in a two-bedroom home, deep in the woods on the west shore of the lake. The water was only fifty yards from his front door, and a long, narrow pier provided him plenty of fishing opportunities, something he was quite passionate about. Brodie might share similar traits with his grandfather, but a love of fishing wasn't one of them. It required far too much patience and quiet for his taste.
He knocked on the front door, and a moment later, it swung open with a rusty creak. Wes gave him a pleased smile. He was a square, stocky man, with pepper-gray hair and dark-brown eyes that were always cool and calm under pressure.
"Brodie, this is a nice surprise. What are you doing out here?"
"Visiting you. I thought you might be missing your roommate."
"I actually do miss having you around."
"I bet Janet doesn't," he said with a grin.
Wes smiled back. "Well, you might be right about that. Not that she doesn't like you, but sometimes she still feels a little shy about our relationship. Anyway, come on in. Can I get you a beer?"
"No thanks."
"Well, then sit." His grandfather waved him toward the couch as he settled into an over-sized and very comfortable armchair. "Tell me what's on your mind."
"I just got off the phone with Dad. He has a job offer for me—a television news magazine show celebrating athletes and sport. I'd be the host, in charge of finding stories, doing the interviews, setting up the programs, traveling the world to wherever the athletes are living and training."
"Sounds interesting. And your father's role would be…"
"Executive producer."
"So, he'd have some say."
"He always has some say, but he claims I'd have plenty of autonomy."
"What do you think?"
"I don't know. I never thought my dad could offer me anything I'd be interested in."
"But he did."
"I'm a police officer now."
"Do you still like the job?"
"I do. I feel like I'm making a difference in someone's life. I'm there at their worst moment, and I can make things better. Of course, it's not always like that. Some days I'm just chasing red-light runners and breaking up bar fights."
"Still important duties. I never found a better job, Brodie, but that's me. Being a cop was always my calling. You had another calling for a long time." Wes tilted his head, giving him a considering look. "Why did you really come here? Do you want my permission?"
"No. I don't need your permission. I wouldn't mind some advice."
"Here's my advice. It's your life. Do what you want with it."
He frowned. "That's not actually advice."
His grandfather smiled. "I just want you to be happy. You have to decide what will make you happy."
"You're the reason I became a cop. You showed me a way out of my head."
"And you've thanked me, but you don't owe me anything." He paused. "I will say this much. You know I love your father. He's my son, and as different as we are, I still care about him. But I also know that he almost always has a personal agenda. Just make sure you're doing what you want to do, not what he wants you to do."
"I've very aware of Dad's ambitions. And this isn't the first time you've warned me."
"You didn't listen much before."
"I was young. I had tunnel vision."
"And your dad rode the coattails of your fame. He pushed you too hard."
"I pushed myself."
"In skiing, yes, but all the side stuff…you didn't want to let him down."
"Well, I did let him down," he said somewhat heavily.
"Not by choice. You had an accident."
He shrugged, knowing that deep in his heart he still believed he could have prevented that accident if he'd just done something differently.
"Anyway, I've said my piece," his grandfather continued. "I don't know that I helped."
"I just wanted to hear what you had to say. I respect your opinion."
"Don't let your father hear you say that."
His father and grandfather had been estranged about as long as he'd been alive. They tolerated each other when they had to, but that was as close as they got. He'd once tried to bring them together, but that had blown up in his face. From then on, he'd let them be.
"What else is going on with you, Brodie?" his grandfather asked. "How's the new house?"
"It's good. I still need to unpack and buy furniture."
"Have you met any of the neighbors?"
He couldn't help but smile at that. "One very attractive an
d complicated woman. She wants little to do with me, but I'm trying to change her mind."
"You've always had a way with the ladies."
"I must take after you."
"I think you've got your own game going," Wes said with a laugh. "Do you want to stay for dinner? Janet is coming over. You know what a good cook she is."
"Thanks, but I might see if I can hit up my neighbor to have a drink with me."
"Then I'll let you go."
His grandfather got up to walk him out. They were almost to the door when the bell rang. "That must be Janet," his grandfather said, a happy look on his face. He threw open the door to reveal a slender, brown-haired woman dressed in white slacks and a silky top. Janet Robbins was in her early sixties, but she could have easily passed for fifty.
"Let me take that," Wes said, grabbing the cake container out of her hands. "Is this what I think it is?"
"Your favorite—strawberry shortcake," she replied. "I hope you got everything else at the store, so I can cook you a good meal."
"I did, and I plan on helping you cook."
As they exchanged a warm, intimate look, Brodie cleared his throat, feeling very much like a third wheel.
"Oh, hello, Brodie," Janet said. "I didn't see you there. Are you staying for dinner?"
"Not tonight."
"Are you sure?"
"I am."
As she stepped into the house, she added, "I'm glad you're here. I was wondering about those fires. Is there anyone in custody yet?"
He saw the worry in her eyes. "Not yet. We're still looking for leads."
"It's terrifying knowing there's someone out there who could strike again at any time."
"Luckily, the arsonist has only hit empty houses so far."
"But that could change at any moment. Any one of us could be a target. That's how it happened before."
"Before?" he echoed.
"Don't you know?" she asked in surprise. "My house was set on fire by an arsonist sixteen years ago. My husband was killed, and my son was severely burned. The fire investigator and a Detective Cole came to see me two days ago to talk about it. They said they were going through the files for all the suspicious fires set in Whisper Lake over the past thirty years."
My Wildest Dream: Whisper Lake #2 Page 8