Letting go of what I’m holding, the big ball of fur runs towards her. “Your dream dog,” I say.
“A St. Bernard!” Mae bends down, the dog kissing all over her face. At barely four months, the puppy already weighs close to fifty pounds. “I love him!”
“Her,” I correct, getting to my feet. “She’s already trained and everything.”
Mae leans over, planting kisses all over me. Apparently jealous, the dog now gets in on the action, jumping all over us, sending Mae into laughter. “What’s her name?” she asks.
“Brandy,” I say, trying to hold the puppy still and showing her the classic St. Bernard barrel around the dog’s neck.
Mae laughs. “You know that’s a myth, right? The breed didn’t actually transport booze in their barrels.”
“Maybe you should open the barrel, just to check.”
She gives me an odd look and unhooks it, finding a little black velvet box inside. Her face lights up. “Oh my God!”
Taking her hand, I get down on one knee, pulling out the twenty-carat emerald cut diamond on a platinum band—twenty carats for the twenty years I’ve known her.
Her mouth falls open, just as I hoped. She tries to settle herself and draws a deep breath, attempting to clear her head so she never forgets this moment.
I don’t have an epic movie line scripted by a team of Hollywood writers. But I only need two words.
“Say yes!”
“Yes!”
TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT
RYDER
RELEASING SEPTEMBER 2020
PROLOGUE
Ryder
A concert is a lot like love. There’s an opening act. The person that comes before you, either leaving the audience cold and distant, or wanting for more. That’s when you take the stage, front and center.
In love, like any good show, the beginning starts hot, full of passion, sparks, electricity. You’re on your best behavior. The middle tends to slow down, you settle in, get comfortable—introduce the band, sing a ballad. The end comes in a fury, a heat. You want to go out with a bang, leave them waiting more, leave with the last word.
But then the inevitable happens. The lights go out, everyone leaves, and you’re left alone with nothing but memories hanging in the air, like the faint echoes of notes strummed from your guitar.
My eyes land on the last seat in the first row. That’s her seat. Always will be.
CHAPTER ONE
THREE MONTHS AGO
*
New girl in a small town
You were sixteen and so was I
*
Ryder
“I love you,” someone screams from the audience. I’ve lost count how many declarations of love I’ve gotten tonight. I’m two-thirds through the show, so there’s no telling.
In a stadium of seventy thousand people, I only get a vague sense of where it came from. Smirking, I look toward the direction of the voice, the blinding stage lights preventing me from seeing past the first few rows. Most performers would yell back, “I love you, too,” but not me. I use a lot of four-letter words, but love isn’t one of them.
Thousands of people yelling how much they love you, holding up signs asking you to marry them—it’s something you never get used to. Ten years into my music career, and it’s still bizarre. Wish I could say I’ve never fallen for the trappings of their love, but I have—too many times, too many nights.
A pair of panties lands on top of my shoe, causing me to chuckle. Shaking my head, I wonder how many of these young ladies in the crowd are without underwear. Those are the trappings I’m talking about.
“Ryder,” the crowd chants.
My band starts the next song, and I kick away the thong, the soft strum of my guitar drowning out all the other noise. Women, music, and the road go hand-in-hand, but the curves of my guitar are all I’ve ever really needed. Some call me a loner. Country music didn’t initially know what to make of me. I don’t fit the typical mold—no boots or cowboy hats. Jeans, t-shirts and my guitar—that’s it.
Magazines have dubbed me as brooding. Truth is, everything I need to say comes out in my songs. I write my own stuff, always have. For some reason, it’s always been easier for me to say what I want in a song. Want to know me, then listen to the lyrics, because the stage show, the star, the “Sexist Man Alive” isn’t me. It’s all bullshit.
I was late coming into music, didn’t start until I was seventeen, but now, at almost thirty, I can play most any instrument, at least a little. But the guitar is my favorite. The curve of the wood reminds me of that beautiful curve of a woman’s body between her tits and her ass. My favorite spot. My fingers stroke the strings. Playing the guitar is like playing with a woman. Depending on how well you stroke, the sounds that come out could be soft moans or loud screams. The biggest difference between a guitar and woman is I keep my guitars around forever, and a woman is always gone the next morning.
Tonight’s show is the last of the tour. Over two hundred shows across three continents, and it ends tonight. The set we are playing tonight, I’ve played so often I could do it in my sleep. It’s all scripted—from the “how you doing tonight” to the “encore” performance. Same shit, different day. I might sound like an ungrateful asshole. I’m grateful. I know I don’t deserve what I have, but I don’t do what I do for the money, the fame. I don’t even do it for the fans. I do it because I have to. I could never write another song, do another show and retire today, but it’s not about the money. It never has been. It’s about salvation. Music is the place I find some peace.
Still, I’m ready to take a break, write, get back in the studio. We’ll still be doing a smattering of shows here and there, but on a smaller scale—charity gigs, awards shows, that sort of thing.
I hit the chorus of the song, my eyes scanning the first few rows of the crowd. I recognize a pair of blue eyes staring back at me. Has she been there the whole time? She’s not singing along. Her hands aren’t waving in the air. Her body doesn’t sway to the beat.
Kailey.
No last name.
Only Kailey.
Only one night.
The only girl I ever wanted another night with. The one that got away. The one I let get away. We hooked up in New Orleans, nowhere close to L.A., but I do remember her saying she was from California. I know stalking is illegal, but for her I might allow it.
Smiling through my lyrics, I wink at her. The girl next to her starts screaming, but Kailey’s eyes cast downward. Not missing a beat of my song, I follow her gaze.
To the little bump in her belly.
Shit!
ALSO BY PRESCOTT LANE
Ryder (releasing September 2020)
Just Love
A Gentleman for Christmas
All My Life
To the Fall
Toying with Her
The Sex Bucket List
The Reason for Me
Stripped Raw
Layers of Her (a novella)
Wrapped in Lace
Quiet Angel
Perfectly Broken
First Position
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I need to thank everyone! Everyone who waited for me to release while the world was turned upside down with a virus. Everyone who understood that I wasn’t comfortable talking about my book when the world was suffering. My whole team for seeing me through this process—no matter how long it got!
Nina Grinstead, (Valentine PR), Nikki Rushbrook (editor), Letitia Hasser (cover design), Michelle Rodriguez (beta reader), bloggers, Instagrammers, anyone who even mentioned this book, thank you so much.
Readers! Thank you for sticking with me book after book. And if you are new to me, thank you for taking a chance.
2020 has been a heck of a year. But here’s to hoping it ends with a HEA!
Hugs and Happily Ever Afters,
Prescott Lane
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRESCOTT LANE is originally from Little Rock, Arkansas, and grad
uated from Centenary College in 1997 with a degree in sociology. She went on to Tulane University to receive her MSW in 1998, after which she worked with developmentally delayed and disabled children. She currently lives in New Orleans with her husband, two children, and two dogs.
Contact her at any of the following:
www.authorprescottlane.com
facebook.com/PrescottLane1
twitter.com/prescottlane1
instagram.com/prescottlane1
pinterest.com/PrescottLane1
Knox (A Merrick Brothers Novel) Page 28
