I threw my hands up in the air. “Here it comes.”
“Why else would he keep silent? If her daddy was abusing her, and it sure sounds like he was, she was probably afraid. I bet she begged him to keep quiet. Made him promise or something.”
“You really think he kept his mouth shut for her? He did it to protect himself, Scar. He helped a sixteen-year-old girl run away from home. And her dad’s a judge. Can you imagine the trouble he would have been in? Don’t kid yourself. He wasn’t protecting her.”
“Why can’t you admit that maybe Dad actually did a good thing? Jenny said Dad found Callie hurt on the side of the road. He didn’t have to help her. He could have taken her home, or just called the police and let the sheriff deal with it. But he didn’t.”
I balled my hands into fists, my temper on the verge of snapping. Devlin watched us argue, eying me like he was ready to step in if he thought I was going to cross a line with Scarlett.
“Stop trying to make him into the hero,” I said.
“Oh come on, Gibs, what would you have done?”
“I don’t know,” I barked.
I would have kept her secret if it meant keeping her safe. But I was too mad to admit that to my sister.
She let out a breath. “This is all so crazy. Callie’s alive, and Dad knew, and now you were her secret friend? What else are we going to find out? That she’s been living out in some shack in the woods all these years and you send Henrietta Van Sickle out to her place with supplies once in a while?”
I shook my head, some of my anger dissipating. “I don’t know where she is. I always thought she was dead.”
“Oh, Gibs.”
Before I could stop her, she’d wrapped her arms around me in a hug. I didn’t like hugs, but once in a while, I had to tolerate one from my sister.
“You know what’s gonna happen now, though, don’t you?” she asked, stepping away. “The whole town’s gonna know about you and Callie in a hot minute.”
“No shit,” I grumbled.
“I assume Jayme’s already told you what you can and can’t say,” Devlin said.
“Yeah.” I plopped down on the couch and leaned my head back. “Basically, no comment.”
The muffled sound of a car pulling up outside carried through the walls. I groaned. Great, who else was here?
A few seconds later, someone knocked.
“Gibs?
Jameson.
Scarlett answered. Jameson barreled in, followed closely by his fiancée, Leah Mae. Jameson looked a lot like me, with dark hair and rough stubble. He wore a faded t-shirt with a couple of burn holes on the front. Leah Mae was tall, with blond hair and a few freckles. She had on cowboy boots with her sundress.
“Gibson was secretly friends with Callie Kendall, and he had a photo of the two of them together in his wallet,” Scarlett said before either of them had a chance to say a word—or ask a question. “But he didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance and didn’t know she was alive. He also doesn’t know where she is now.”
Jameson blinked a few times, like he was absorbing that information. “Well holy shit.”
“Can we talk about something else?” I asked. “Or nothing, and y’all get your asses out of my house?”
“Who else knows?” Jameson asked, ignoring me.
“Only us at the moment,” Scarlett said. “But that won’t last.”
“I’ll just stay here till it blows over,” I said. “I told the sheriff everything I know. People are gonna say what they say. I don’t give a shit what this town thinks.”
“Speaking of talking about something else,” Leah Mae said. She had her phone in her hand. “There’s something you might want to know.”
“What?” I grumbled. I was pretty sure I didn’t.
“This is amazing.” She paused, excitement in her eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What are you goin’ on about?” Scarlett asked.
“I saw it the other day, but with the wedding and everything, I didn’t want to make a fuss. And I can’t even believe it, the views must have doubled in just the last twenty-four hours.”
“Views of what?” Scarlett asked. “Did someone record Gibson giving Misty Lynn the verbal smack down?”
Leah Mae shook her head. “No, this is so much better. Someone filmed Gibson singing at the Lookout last week and put it on YouTube. It has over two million views.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” I stood and swiped the phone from her hand, only to have Scarlett immediately snatch it from mine. “Hey.”
“Let me see.” Scarlett tapped the screen and turned up the volume.
It was me. I looked over her shoulder and rubbed the back of my neck. The video was dark, but you could see me well enough. I sat on a stool, strumming my guitar, playing one of my songs. One I’d written myself.
“Oh my god,” Scarlett squealed. “This is incredible.”
“It really has two million views?” Jameson asked, pushing me aside to look over Scarlett’s shoulder.
“I don’t see why this is a big deal.” I went back to the couch and sat down.
“Gibs, this thing went viral,” Leah Mae said. “Look at all the comments asking who you are. People love it. They love you.”
I just grunted.
“You never know what could happen with something like this,” Leah Mae said. “You don’t have a manager, do you? You should really consider representation. If you need an entertainment lawyer, let me know.”
“Why the hell would I need an entertainment lawyer? Between Devlin and Jayme, I’m up to my nuts in lawyers already.”
Devlin rolled his eyes at me.
Leah Mae tilted her head, like she was explaining something obvious to a child. “All I’m saying is this could lead to something. There are lots of people whose careers began with a YouTube video.”
“I have a career.”
“Stop bein’ so grumpy, Gibs,” Scarlett said, handing the phone back to Leah Mae. “You know, some people would do anything for a big break like this.”
I grunted again.
“He’s hopeless,” Scarlett said.
I liked to play, but I’d never pursued music as a career. Never would. It was what my dad had wanted for himself. What he’d blamed me for never having. An unplanned teenage pregnancy had robbed him and my mom of their dreams. That baby had been me, and my dad had never let me forget it.
Besides, some video on the internet didn’t mean shit.
I had to tolerate four extra people in my space for another twenty minutes, which irritated the shit out of me—especially after everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. I’d already had to attend my brother’s wedding. Although I was actually happy about that, and it hadn’t been a bad time.
Until fucking Misty Lynn had broken a window out of my truck and stolen my wallet. And some psycho had kidnapped Jonah’s girlfriend Shelby right in front of Sheriff Tucker’s house. We’d found her, and she was all right, but then I had to deal with that business with the sheriff.
I was done with people in general. Just wanted my house to myself.
After snapping at everyone a few times too many for their liking—and Scarlett calling me grumpy again—they left. With my uninvited guests cleared out, I went to my back porch. Took a seat in my homemade deck chair—I only had one, to discourage company—and breathed in the silence. Birds chirped in the distance, and the August heat felt good.
Movement caught my eye near the edge of the woods. Might have been an animal, but I didn’t see anything. I narrowed my eyes, watching with mild curiosity.
Henrietta Van Sickle poked her head out from around a tree. I lifted my hand in a wave. She crossed my land sometimes when she was heading into town for supplies. Once in a while I gave her a ride. Even less frequently, she wandered down here and joined me on the back porch for a spell. I liked Henrietta, in large part because she didn’t speak.
“Afternoon,” I said
as she approached.
Her appearance put people off, and I wondered if she knew that, and did it on purpose. Her clothes were ragged, but she was always clean. Straggly hair hung from beneath her old Cock Spurs cap, and her shoes were looking worn. I made a mental note to pick her up some new ones and leave them where she’d find them.
She came onto the porch and sat cross-legged next to me. I didn’t get up and offer her my seat. Knew she wouldn’t take it. She never did.
We sat in silence for a good long while. Although I’d wanted to be alone, Henrietta sitting here on my porch didn’t grate on my nerves. We both just stared into the distance, enjoying the quiet.
“Surprised to see you,” I said finally. “After all the excitement, I figured you’d stick close to home for a while.”
Henrietta had probably saved Shelby’s life. The kidnapper had stuck her in the trunk of his car and drove her out to an old shack in the woods. Luckily, Henrietta had either seen or heard something, and followed them.
She’d called me—an actual phone call—and rasped out a few words. It was the only time I’d ever heard her speak. It had been enough for me to understand her meaning, and where to look for Shelby.
After we’d found Shelby and turned her over to the paramedics, I’d gone out and looked for Henrietta. She’d been watching not far from the road, keeping low behind some trees so she wouldn’t be seen. I’d made sure she was all right and offered to help her get home. She hadn’t taken me up on it, but that wasn’t unusual.
“Hungry?” I always offered her something to eat, but not because I thought she needed it. Her brand of subsistence living seemed to suit her, and she was good at it.
She shook her head, but kept looking at me, her brown eyes clear.
“Need help with something?”
She nodded and dug in her pants pocket, then pulled out her cell phone and handed it to me.
I’d gotten her a phone several years ago, mostly for emergencies. For a hermit who lived alone in the woods, she understood technology well. She used a computer at the library, and I hadn’t needed to show her how to use the phone. She didn’t text me very often—usually just wandered onto my land—but occasionally she’d text asking for a ride.
The screen had a big crack right down the center.
“That ain’t good. I’ll get you another one.”
She gave me a closed-mouth smile, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. Holding up a finger, she dug in her pocket again. Pulled out some wadded-up cash.
“Nah,” I said, waving her off. “It’s on me. Consider it your saving-Shelby’s-life present.”
Smiling again, she pocketed the money. I didn’t know where she’d gotten it, but she obviously had a supply of cash. I figured she’d brought it with her when she’d moved out to her little cabin some twenty-odd years ago.
I handed her phone back. “Keep this for now and I’ll have a new one for you soon.”
She took it, but kept looking at me, her eyebrows lifted.
“Wondering about Shelby?” I asked.
Another nod.
“She’s fine. Jonah’s taking good care of her. Cops have the guy who did it.”
That seemed to satisfy her. She put the cracked phone in her pocket, brushed her hands together, and stood, using the porch railing to help herself up.
“That was a real good thing you did,” I said.
She gave me a solemn nod, then walked back toward the woods. She limped a little—had ever since I’d known her. Some old injury. Like most things about Henrietta, I’d probably never know the story behind it. And that was fine by me. She was who she was, and the rest didn’t really matter.
I envied Henrietta’s life a little bit. She lived outside the rules. Made her own way in the world. People told stories about her, but the town gossip didn’t seem to touch her.
Gossip. I let out a long breath. There was going to be plenty of that, all with my name attached. That video was one thing. Two million views. How the hell did something like that happen?
But I had a feeling even a video of me going around the internet wasn’t going to hold a candle to the story of Gibson Bodine sneaking around with Callie Kendall thirteen years ago.
I’d lied before when I said I didn’t care what this town thought. I’d deny it till the day I died, but a part of me did care. I knew what they thought of me. Good for nothing son of a drunk. Goin’ nowhere fast.
Some of that reputation I’d earned. I was a grumpy bastard and an asshole to most people. I started bar fights to blow off steam, always spoke my mind whether or not it was what people wanted to hear, and didn’t have any patience for dumbasses.
But the rest of it was down to my father. A man who’d publicly deteriorated in a town where everyone knew everything. Saw everything. Judged everything.
I didn’t know if I’d ever get out from under the shadow of Jonah Bodine Sr.
3
MAYA
My body had no idea what time it was. The clock told me nine thirteen a.m., but I was still in a haze of jet lag. I took a sip of my triple-shot latte while the elevator rose. I was used to jumping around time zones, but I’d touched down in L.A. less than twenty-four hours ago. If Oliver, my boss, wanted a fully awake and alert Maya, he should have given me another day to acclimate.
I stepped off the elevator and flashed my ID badge at the receptionist. She gave me a polite nod. I’d never met her; it had been over a year since I’d been to Attalon Records headquarters. It looked the same as I remembered: sleek, modern furnishings. Framed awards and album covers on the walls.
Yui stepped out of her office, dressed in a black blouse, white skirt, and a pair of killer red stilettos. Her jet-black hair framed her face in a sleek bob and her lipstick matched her shoes. I glanced down at my clothes—plain white t-shirt, old jeans, and sandals—and decided I was too jet-lagged to care.
“Look who’s awake,” Yui said. “I didn’t think I’d see your face until tomorrow.”
I shrugged, cradling my coffee against my chest like it was a lifeline. “Oliver said he wanted to see me. So, here I am.”
“He probably doesn’t realize you basically just landed. You know how he is.” She tilted her head, looking past me. “His door’s still shut. I think he’s on a call. You might as well come sit.”
“Thanks.”
I went into her office and plunked my tired self down in a cream faux-leather armchair. Yui Ito had been with Attain Records for almost as long as I had. She’d started out as an intern and was now one of the independent record label’s top publicists.
She was also the closest thing I had to a long-time friend. We saw each other about once a year, maybe less. Sometimes I crashed at her place when I was in L.A. Yui was gorgeous, no-nonsense, good at her job, had a secret love of root beer ice cream, and never dated anyone for longer than six months.
And that was the extent of my knowledge of her. It was hard to stay in touch when I traveled so much, and while most people used social media to keep up with their friends and colleagues, I had zero social media presence. I didn’t even have my picture on Attalon’s website. Just my name and a vague description of my job.
“Your hair is cute,” she said, lowering herself into her industrial office chair. Her desk was glass and metal, her entire office impossibly cool. “I didn’t notice it last night.”
“Thanks. Mermaid hair.” I ran a hand down my thick, wavy hair. I’d let it grow the whole time I’d been on the road, so it was long. And multicolored.
I was a serial hair-colorer. Over the years, I’d dyed it almost every color imaginable. Platinum blond, red, brown, purple, blue, silver. I’d even had a regrettable black hair phase. Right now, my base color was my natural blond, but I had a partial rainbow of turquoise, blue, lavender, and purple mixed in.
“It works on you,” she said. “How long do you think you’ll be in town?”
“I’m not sure, but judging by Oliver’s early summons, probably not long. I’ll be
out of your way in a few days at most, I’m sure.”
She shrugged. “It’s fine. You’re easy company. I barely know you’re there.”
“Thanks. After all the hotels I’ve been in, it’s nice to sleep someplace where I’m not worried about what that stain on the wall might be.”
She winced. “Gross. How was the tour?”
I’d spent the better part of the last year on an international tour with Outbound Platinum. I loved those guys, but coaxing a rock band through their first completely sober tour had been exhausting. I’d been with them since they’d almost imploded while recording their last album. Oliver had sent me in to keep them from going nuclear.
My job title was producer, but around here I was known as the rock-star whisperer. I’d calmed the members of Outbound, soothed their frayed nerves and helped them redirect all that angsty energy into their music. The results had been fantastic. Their album was still topping the charts well over a year after they’d released the first single.
I didn’t always tour with artists. Usually I just went into the studio—helped with songwriting or got them back on track with the recording process. But Outbound had still been too fragile, and Attalon had a lot riding on their tour. So I’d gone along, like a glorified rock-star babysitter.
“Long. Busy. Exhausting. But also awesome. Pretty much everything you’d expect when you’re trying to keep five newly sober rock stars from killing each other.”
“I don’t know how you do it.” She tipped her fingers together. “You must have the patience of a saint.”
“Not really. I don’t even have kids, but I definitely had to break out my mom voice regularly. But they’re such good guys. They’re trying really hard to keep it together. I probably could have come back a month ago, but by that point, I figured I might as well finish the tour. Plus, the last stop was Australia and I’ve only been there once before. I really wanted to go back.”
“Please tell me you banged some hot Australian guys while you were down there,” she said. “The accents alone. My god.”
I laughed. My attempts at relationships never lasted. I didn’t stay anywhere long enough to make it work with anyone. A quick fling was nice sometimes, but those were starting to feel pretty hollow. “Not this time. But I totally agree about the accents. Hot.”
Highball Rush: Bootleg Springs Book 6 Page 2
