Already Gone

by Kristen Proby

  Already Gone

  Kristen Proby

  K.L. Grayson

  Copyright © 2019 by Kristen Proby and K.L. Grayson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locale, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Designer: Kari March

  Cover photo photographer: Sara Eirew

  Editor: Chelle Olson

  Proof reader: Tiffany Martindale

  Contents

  1. ~Scarlett~

  2. ~Tucker~

  3. ~Scarlett~

  4. ~ Tucker ~

  5. ~ Tucker ~

  6. ~Scarlett~

  7. ~ Tucker ~

  8. ~Scarlett~

  9. ~ Tucker ~

  10. ~Scarlett~

  11. ~ Tucker ~

  12. ~Scarlett~

  13. ~ Tucker ~

  14. ~Scarlett~

  15. ~ Tucker ~

  16. ~Scarlett~

  17. ~ Tucker ~

  18. ~Scarlett~

  19. ~ Tucker ~

  20. ~Scarlett~

  21. ~ Tucker ~

  22. ~Scarlett~

  Epilogue

  Also by K.L. Grayson

  Also by Kristen Proby

  1

  ~Scarlett~

  I’m not gonna lie. I fucking love being famous. And it’s not for the reasons you might think.

  Don’t get me wrong, the money is great. It affords me a lifestyle that most people pine for, and one that I never would’ve dreamed possible as a kid. And the perks of being a celebrity are endless. Private parties, fancy cars, more jewelry than most women could ever hope for, and A-list celebrities vying for front-row seats at my concerts. And my absolute favorite perk…award shows. There’s nothing better than strutting down the red carpet in a designer gown with an equally gorgeous escort.

  But here’s what it all boils down to: I love fame because it was my ticket out of New Hope, South Carolina, the small town where I was born, raised, and never truly fit in. It wasn’t until my boots hit the bustling streets of Nashville, Tennessee, that I felt at home.

  Music brought me fame, which in turn gave me the one thing I had been searching for: an identity.

  Of course, I worked my ass off to get here, and I have God-given talent that I’m eternally grateful for.

  So, when I burst out on the stage in front of a hundred thousand fans who all came to scream my name, it’s the thrill of a lifetime.

  Every damn night.

  “You’re on in three,” I hear in my ear. I’m in my green room alone, my hair and makeup done, and I’m wearing the first of twelve costumes for tonight. We’re on the last leg of my Starlight World Tour.

  This is show one hundred twenty-three of one twenty-five in four months, and I’m exhausted. My voice is tired, my body is beat, and I want nothing more than to curl up in my California king and take the longest nap on record.

  But not one soul in the audience will know that tonight. I’ll give them the best damn show they’ve ever seen in hopes that they come back for the next tour—and bring their friends.

  I take a deep breath, smooth my hands down my white, off-the-shoulder T-shirt and ripped jeans held on with a few strands and a prayer, then grab my rose gold mic and hurry out to my spot under the stage.

  The rest of the band is already in place, and I can hear the first few notes of one of my most popular songs, just as the stage floor opens above me, and I begin to rise onto the platform.

  “Hello, L.A!” I scream, making the crowd lose their shit. For the next two hours, I work the audience, running from one end of the stage to the other, moving down the catwalk, and belting the lyrics to their favorite songs. At one point, I’m hoisted fifty feet into the air on ropes. My show is physically demanding, with no room for error.

  If I screw up, I could get hurt, and I won’t let that happen.

  I also don’t allow for any lip-syncing in my show. I sing all of my songs live, something I’ve always prided myself on.

  After the fourth encore, I throw my hands into the air and decide to call it a night. “I love you, L.A.” A thunderous roar ripples through the stadium. Chants and screams, begging me for one more song. “You’re the best there is. I’ll see you soon!”

  I take a minute to soak in the noise, the faces, the energy, before running backstage to spend another two hours doing meet and greets.

  This is my life, and it’s amazing.

  Part of it is the attention it brings. I enjoy it, and I won’t apologize for it. But really, I love everything about my job. They want me to stand for hours meeting with fans for autographs and photos? No problem. They want me to go to hospitals to spend time with sick fans? My pleasure. Another city, another tour, another song? Whatever it takes to breathe life into what I love to do.

  But it’s not just the music and the notoriety, I also love the community of the country music scene. It’s smaller than you’d think. The artists are brilliant, kind, and down to earth, and writing music in Nashville is every musician’s dream.

  And I’m living it.

  I never plan to stop making music. I’ll do it until I’m on my deathbed.

  “Excellent show, Scar,” my manager, Susan, says after the final fan leaves and I collapse in my green room, still wearing my last costume—a rhinestone-covered jacket and booty shorts over fishnet stockings—a bottle of water clutched in my hand.

  “It was a fun one,” I agree with a sigh. Jesus, I’m sweating. My heart is still pounding, and I’m happily exhausted. “I can’t believe we only have two shows left on this tour.”

  “Well, we need to talk about that,” Sue replies, and the concern in her eyes has me sitting up.

  “What is it?”

  “You need to call your sister.”

  I frown. “You’ve spoken to Alexis?”

  “In the middle of Small Town Girl,” she confirms with a nod. “I reminded her that you were on stage and promised to have you call her when all of the madness was over.”

  “Shit,” I mutter, reaching for my phone. I’m not looking forward to this call. My younger sister isn’t my biggest fan. In fact, I’m not sure she’s a fan at all. We’ve never really gotten along, but I had hoped that would change when we became adults.

  It didn’t.

  I moved to Nashville to pursue my career, and she stayed in New Hope, married her high school sweetheart, and had two kids. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.

  It just wasn’t the path that I wanted for myself.

  And Alexis has issues with that.

  Here goes nothin’.

  I take a long swallow of my water, then dial her number and put her on speaker. She answers on the second ring.

  “’Bout time,” she says.

  “I just got back to the green room. What’s up?”

  “Daddy had a stroke.”

  I stand, my hand covering my mouth. “What?”

  “It’s not life-threatening, thank goodness, but it’s bad enough that he’s going to need some help for a while.”

  “Done. Whatever he needs. I’ll hire the best,” I say right away.

  “Your money won’t fix this,” Alexis snaps. “Jesus, why do you always think you can put a Band-Aid on everything with your damn money?”

  “Lexi, I’m saying that whatever he needs, he’ll have.
”

  “He needs you,” she replies simply. “You need to come home.”

  “Of course, I have a few days until the next show in Nashville. I’ll come home tonight, make sure he’s okay, and then—”

  “No, Scarlett, you need to come home to see this through. He’s going to need someone with him all the time, and I have a husband and kids. For the last ten years, I’ve been here making sure he has everything he needs and helping to maintain the house while you’ve been gallivanting around the world. I’m the one who makes sure he’s eating a balanced meal every night and making sure his house is clean, and the yard is maintained.”

  “I—”

  “You jet him from state to state so he can be at your precious shows so you don’t feel so guilty for not coming home, but that isn’t going to fly anymore. I’m done, Scarlett. Get your ass on a plane and take some responsibility for your family.”

  With that, she hangs up, and my jaw opens and closes like a dying catfish.

  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Your sister’s just a joy.” Sue rolls her eyes and is already tapping on her phone. “I’ll cancel the last two shows and whatever interviews we have scheduled.”

  “No,” I reply, shaking my head adamantly. “I’ll go home and see him, like I said, but I’m not canceling those shows.”

  “Scar, your father had a stroke today. And as much as I don’t like Alexis, this is one time that I agree with her. Go be with your family.”

  I get where she’s coming from, I really do. And I have every intention of going home and taking care of Daddy, but this is my family, too. The band, my dancers, my back-up singers, the crew, and the fans. They’ve been my family for more than a decade.

  I shake my head again, but Sue stands firm.

  “We’ll reschedule the shows for later in the summer. I’ve already got the crew working on getting us out of here, and I have you booked on a flight in three hours.”

  “I hate red-eyes,” I mutter. “I’m not complaining. I know I need to get to him. Lexi didn’t even let me talk to him.”

  The thought stops me cold.

  Daddy had a stroke. Can he even talk? I’ve heard of stroke victims losing use of their extremities as well as their vocal ability. The severity of what’s happening really hits home.

  This is my daddy.

  The man who played the part of mother and father. The male who learned to put my hair in pigtails because I wanted to look pretty and went without so he could afford to get me the dress I’d been dying to have.

  My face must show my turmoil because Sue puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Call him,” she urges me. “Your sister can’t stop you from talking to him.”

  I nod, feeling tears prick my eyes.

  “I just saw him last week. I flew him to the show in Miami.”

  “And he loved it,” Sue agrees.

  “Jesus, Sue. I haven’t been to New Hope since I was eighteen.”

  “Well, I guess you’re going now.”

  2

  ~Tucker~

  New Hope, South Carolina.

  Population 6,129.

  I know every soul represented in that number. Not a single one of them drives the shiny red Mercedes that just went speeding by.

  Seventy-five in a forty-five.

  I flick on my lights and press on the gas, sending my cruiser flying past the city limit sign and the godawful billboard that sits directly behind it; the one declaring New Hope home to country music superstar, Scarlett Kincaid.

  It wouldn’t be a big deal if this were actually her home. It’s not. Scarlett may have been born here, but her fancy boots haven’t landed on this soil in over a decade.

  All it took was one call from a hotshot music executive to send her packing before the ink was dry on her high school diploma. Scarlett flew from this town fast enough to leave our heads spinning. Before any of us could process what had happened, little Scarlett Kincaid—the same girl who used to build forts with me in my living room while my mama made us mac ‘n’ cheese—had a hit single sitting at number one on the Billboard charts.

  She went from homecoming queen and most likely to marry a rich spouse in our senior yearbook, to the queen of country music.

  The country loves her. Hell, the whole world loves her.

  New Hope…not so much. And it’s high time that fucking sign comes down.

  But first, I have to deal with this speed demon in the sexy red car.

  I sound the sirens, and the car pulls to the side of the road and waits while I walk to the driver’s side window. It’s still up, the heavy tint preventing me from seeing inside. With a hand on my holster—because you never know what you’re going to walk up on—I knock on the window.

  The dark glass lowers.

  My first thought: this woman is absolutely gorgeous. Long, dark hair. Pouty lips. And a tiny pink dress. Her eyes are covered by oversized aviators, but I’m sure they’re as pretty as the rest of her.

  My second thought: what crazy excuse is she going to come up with to try and get out of this ticket? It never ceases to amaze me the things women are willing to do to keep from getting into trouble. I’ve been offered everything from a blowjob to a pay-off to marriage.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over today, ma’am?”

  “Tucker?” The woman smiles, then pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head. And that’s when I see the brown eyes I’ve spent more than a decade trying to forget. “Tucker Andrews, is that you?”

  I step back and square my shoulders. “You can call me Officer Andrews. Do you know why I pulled you over today, ma’am?”

  “Tucker.” The woman laughs and shakes her head. “It’s me, Scarlett.”

  At the mention of her name, I’m met with an onslaught of flashbacks. Running hand and hand through the neighborhood with her, laughing and playing, only to have her ignore me the second we got to school. The popular crowd versus the nerds who desperately tried to fit in. She the former, me the latter, and the pain it caused every time she acted as though she didn’t know my name. For years, I pretended it didn’t bother me because I knew that when I got home, Scarlett would meet me at the fence, and the awkwardness from the day would dissipate as though it never happened.

  But it did. Day after day after day. I was a glutton for punishment. There was nothing in the world I loved more than Scarlett Kincaid, and it didn’t matter how badly she hurt me, I was always willing to forgive her.

  Her smile and laugh might’ve gotten to me in middle school and high school, but I refuse to let it affect me now.

  “I know who you are.”

  Her smile falters. “Don’t sound so excited to see me.”

  “Should I be? Twelve years ago, you got into your car, drove out of town, and never came back. Not a phone call. Not one single letter. Not a fucking word.” She opens her mouth, probably to try and put me in my place, but I hold up a hand, stopping her. “It’s funny that you showed up today because I was just thinking about you.”

  That has her perking up in her seat. “You were?”

  I don’t miss the way her eyes roam over my uniformed body. It’s something I’ve gotten used to over the years. All of my friends filled out around their eighteenth birthday. It took me until twenty to ditch the scrawny nerd appearance and start to look more like my dad and less like…well, my mom.

  The pimples disappeared, I ditched the shaggy hair, packed on about fifty pounds of muscle, added the police uniform, and the rest is history. And there’s something about a man in uniform that women can’t seem to resist.

  That’s not me being cocky, it’s just the God’s honest truth.

  “Yup.” I nod, offering her a fake smile. “I was looking at that billboard back there, the one with your face on it, wondering how hard I’d have to work to convince the city council to take it down.”

  “Take it down?” She shakes her head, clearly confused. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

  Resting a hand on her doorfr
ame, I lean down. “Where’s home to you?”

  She furrows her brow but answers the question. “Nashville.”

  Point made. “That sign back there says this is your home, and since you’ve just stated it’s not, I see no reason to keep it up. We should clear the space, allow for some other advertising to go up and draw people into the town.” And also because how in the hell am I supposed to forget how potent your smile is when I see it every goddamn day?

  Confusion and anger flash behind her eyes, and for about a millisecond, I regret my tone. Until she opens her mouth. “What did I do to piss you off?”

  “Sweetheart, that list is so long, we’d never get through it.”

  She opens her mouth again, and for a second, I think she’s going to fire off a comeback. Instead, she snaps her lips together and looks out the front windshield. “Are we done here, officer?”

  “Not quite. I still have to issue you a ticket. License and registration, please.”

  Her head snaps toward me. “Are you serious? We’re three miles from town. There isn’t another car in sight.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Law’s the law, and you broke it.”

  Scarlett rolls her eyes. It’s a gesture I often hate. But for some reason, when she does it, I find my dick getting hard, and that pisses me the fuck off.

  “You were going seventy-five in a forty-five.”

  “Come on, Tucker,” she pouts, and I know she’s about to start with the plea to get out of her fine. “If I remember correctly, we broke that law every night for a week straight when you turned sixteen.”

  “And we got pulled over three times.”

  Her red lips tilt up. “But not once did we get a ticket.”