by Rye Hart
“Your knickers are really in a knot this morning, aren’t they?” I asked.
“I’m fucking done with you,” Hank said.
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t walk away from me. You’re employed by me, remember?” I asked.
“No, better check your damn contract, buddy. I manage you. There’s a difference. And if I feel you need a fucking P.R. representative or an assistant or a fucking rehab for that matter, you’ll damn well do it! Otherwise, the concerts come with me, and I toss your ass out on the street. Got it?”
I clenched my fists as Hank left the bus. Who the fuck did he think he was? I was Drake fucking Blackthorn. He couldn’t get rid of me. I was half his damn paycheck every fucking month! He didn’t manage anyone else like me. He didn’t have some roster of fucking famous singers he could fall back on. I was the biggest name he had.
He needed me. Not the other fucking way around.
Long ago, I didn’t need a manager to tell me how to live my life. I was happy without a stadium full of fans. I performed in front of a crowd because it was my passion and it brought me to life.
Now, I barely even recognized that man. I was a fucking actor. I was in so deep in this fictitious character I’d created for myself, so I could avoid the reality of my fucking life. The reality that had I just driven them with me that night, Shannon and Ava would still be with me now.
That man was gone.
Now. I was just fine being an empty fucking vessel.
Fuck Hank.
Fuck the world.
CHAPTER 2
Delia
My phone alarm rang at exactly ten in the morning. I cracked my knuckles and pushed back from my desk, grabbing the yoga mat stored by my feet. I rolled it out in my little cubicle and started to stretch out my limbs, ready for my five-minute break. Working at a desk all day was murder on my back, so I had to make sure I kept moving. I stretched my hands down to my toes and flattened my palms onto my mat, then walked them forward. I groaned as my lower back stretched.
Working through college was tough, but I was getting by. I refused to go into debt with my schooling, so any debt I accrued was quickly paid off within weeks of taking out the loan. I was splitting my time between classes and being a personal assistant. I sat at my desk, helping people who bought my time to coordinate their schedules and make it to their meetings on time.
It was a decent job and one that paid well. Depending on the package someone bought, they got a certain amount of my time during the week. Sometimes, people wanted counseling, someone to talk to and use as a soundboard, sharing their frequently terrible ideas before I changed everything. Sometimes people wanted me to tap into their schedules remotely and help them with their time management skills. Every once in a while, people purchased more expensive packages that required face-to-face time, but luckily, I hadn’t built a reputation for any of that.
Instead, I was known for being able to whip people’s mindsets and schedules into shape—without ever actually having to meet them in person.
It suited me well, especially considering the degree I was obtaining. I was attending Vanderbilt University to study psychology, with a focus on helping those dealing with substance abuse. Part of helping people with those types of issues was finding the triggers throughout their day that spiraled them, which meant going through their schedule and analyzing every detail.
Doing that as a remote private assistant gave me the practice and experience I needed while paying me a decent paycheck as well.
I stretched back up to the sky, reaching as high as I could. I could feel my back popping, a sign that I wasn’t taking enough breaks. I stood on my toes before I slowly bent backward, working my way into my favorite position. It always helped to lighten the load on my lower back and rush the blood to my head. The light-headed sensation gave me a chance to breathe deeply and take a pause, which helped oxygenate my blood faster.
As I was bending backwards, I caught a glimpse of a picture I kept at my desk. It was of my mom, holding me close to her when I was only nine.
Tears sprang to my eyes as I held my position. Every time I thought about her, my heart ached. She was the reason I wanted to study psychology in the first place. I wanted to try and understand my mother better. Her battle with depression raged for most of my life, and I watched her bounce from medication to medication without any luck. Psychiatrists would try to load her up on different concoctions without so much as hearing her story first, and it spiraled her into darkness I struggled with all through high school.
I came home after my last day as a senior in high school and found that she had taken her own life.
No child should ever have to see their mother like that. No person should ever have to go through seeing a loved one in that position. I sank to my back, holding back the tears as I closed my eyes.
My psychology degree was all about trying to understand her, to try and unpack her mind to figure out how a mother could leave their child behind that way. Together with the addiction that had taken my father away from me as well, I had a wealth of personal experience to put to good use.
It led me to the passion I now had burning in my gut.
A ding on my computer interrupted my thoughts. I pulled myself from the floor and wiped at my face, hoping no one walked by to see my reddened eyes. I navigated to my email and clicked on the letter, hoping it was the updated assignment my professor had sent us an alert about that morning. Instead, I saw I had a new P.A. offer.
I clicked on the email and read over the details. The moment I saw what was required of me, I hovered my mouse over the ‘decline’ button. The whole point of me taking this job was because it worked with my school schedule. I could work in my little cubby and remotely from my apartment on the weekends, and I could help people while still doing my schoolwork. I could flip between someone’s schedule and my school assignment without ever skipping a beat.
But this assignment would definitely require hands-on work.
This assignment required real-world work. Constant face-to-face interaction. I sat down in my chair as I read over the details, my mind swirling with all the things that would be required of me: updates to a manager named Hank, time management of this guy’s schedule, keeping tabs on his drinking?
Who the hell was this guy?
I came across the name ‘Drake Blackthorn’ and did a quick Google search. The sheer amount of information that popped up on him was startling. He was a real rock star, by all sorts of definitions. What stood out most to me were his deep blue eyes. This man was incredibly attractive.
A country music singer with a penchant for drinking on stage, for one. I flipped back to the email and read through the personal message sent by someone named ‘Hank,’ outlining his plea for someone who could help him ‘whip Drake back into shape.’
I wasn’t a fucking personal trainer. I was a personal assistant whose specialty was helping people manage their time and their mindsets. What in the world did they think I could do?
Flipping through article after article on this guy, I did my homework. According to the tabloids, he struggled with a severe drinking problem. Every picture I found of him either had him on stage with a six-pack of beer or had him in a bar throwing back something that looked like whiskey. Possibly bourbon.
But the man did enjoy his beer.
I clicked through to YouTube and started listening to snippets of his songs. A couple of them I recognized in passing, but country music wasn’t really my thing. It was nice, and I enjoyed the culture and the relaxed atmosphere that came with the country lifestyle, but I grew up on different music. I grew up with my mother listening to jazz and the blues. Men who could wail on pianos and saxophones, and women who could pick a bass as good as any man. Those were the types of tunes I enjoyed. That was the kind of music that got me swaying in a crowd.
Not twangy banjos and chewed-up words.
I continued to play his songs on YouTube and actually liked what I heard. They felt raw and real.
>
I clicked back over to the tabloid articles as his voice filled my little cubicle, causing people to turn their heads and look at me as I scanned through his interviews.
One of the interviewers brought up the tragic deaths of his late wife and daughter four years ago, to a drunk driver. How awful. I thought about how that could have changed him. Something like that could break a man.
So why the hell was he living the life of a play boy? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a piece of work, a rowdy womanizer that wasn’t ashamed of it at all. He sugar-coated it nicely, but it was there. But as I looked deeper I saw there was something different about him. The sly grin on his face was indicative of a mask. His smile never reached his eyes.
Maybe he was still broken from his past.
One thing I knew for sure, he was miserable, and I could see it within the first few seconds of one of his most recent interviews.
If my goal was to help those struggling with substance abuse, then this was the perfect job for me. It was a hands-on assignment I could probably even pitch to the department for class credit, which would alleviate some of the stress I would encounter. Less time spent in class meant more time helping this guy, and then I could use the reference when trying to find jobs and sell myself as a counselor. Having the reference of someone like Drake Blackthorn could really catapult me into the field of study I wanted to work in, and I bit my lip as I weighed the pros and cons.
I found my mouse slowly moving from ‘decline’ to ‘accept,’ and squaring my shoulders, I clicked the button.
With this being my final semester of classes, it would be my busiest. Papers were going to be due, and final exams would be harder than ever. I was going to have to keep my nose to the books while I worked with this man. But if things went well with the department like I hoped they would, this could start me down a road toward success for myself.
Only seconds later, a barrage of emails began, which was normal when accepting a new job. Correspondence between my boss and this ‘Hank’ guy came up. Articles I needed to read on this guy were sent to me. Personal information, where to find him, and all of his contact information came in password-protected files. I opened up and printed everything out at my desk as I gathered everything into a folder. All of the preliminary stuff was in my hands for all the research I needed to do in order to be prepared for this job.
I wrote the day and time of my interview with Hank on the folder, then put it aside. I still wasn’t done with my stretches, and I wanted to work a few more in before my phone alarm went off signaling me to get back to work. I still had a long day ahead of me. I had schoolwork to complete as well as research to delve into. If I wanted to prove that I could help this man with his issues, then I needed to make sure I brought everything to the table. It wasn’t going to be enough to show off my studies and rattle off a few random facts from class. I was going to need to show this Hank guy that I was good at this.
My nonchalance to his celebrity status should also play in my favor.
If I could nail this interview, then I stood a real chance of helping this man.
There was always a trigger for why people delved into substance abuse, yes. But there was also always a personal reason for why they stayed in it. The first step to being able to help someone with a substance problem was getting them to admit they had one in the first place. No one could help those who couldn’t admit they needed it. If I could get Drake Blackthorn to admit he had an issue, it was easy to get him help. Fifty percent of the work of getting sober was admitting there was an issue in the first place, and I could tell by the look in his eyes in those interviews that he knew he had an issue.
I just needed to prepare myself from the anger and backlash that I knew would come my way from Drake. Celebrities had big egos, and they last thing they wanted was anyone telling them what to do – especially a student.
Nothing like jumping in with both feet.
CHAPTER 3
Drake
The sunlight streaming in through the window caught my attention. My body rose to the occasion, alerting me to the ranch life that needed tending to. It was a part of my past life that I stilled struggled to erase.
It brought me peace, so I just kept going back to it. It wasn’t like I couldn't afford to hire help - I could hire a bus load of full-time laborers, but I didn’t feel the need.
Animals needed to be fed and horses needed to be run. Crops needed watered, some picked, and vacant acres needed to be fertilized to replenish their nutrients. Life didn’t stop when I wasn’t on tour. If I wasn’t touring and pleasing the crowds, I was breaking my back on this ranch.
I sprawled out, allowing the sun to graze over the scars on my legs, illuminating the parts of my skin I could still feel and coldly throwing me back to that damn accident.
The accident that almost took my fucking leg off. Drinking and tractors don't mix apparently. Who knew?
Groaning, I rose up in bed. My head was pounding from the birds chirping at my window. If I had a pellet gun, I would’ve shot their asses off the fucking sill. They needed to shut up so I could wake up in peace.
I pulled myself from bed and shuffled into the bathroom. Getting my eyes to open the first day back from a tour was not easy. I’d gotten used to sleeping in, napping whenever I wanted, and performing instead of getting my hands dirty on farm. I splashed some water in my face and felt the stubble growing on my chin.
Luckily, on the ranch, I didn’t have to worry about shaving every damn day.
Dragging on a pair of jeans and my boots, I reached for a shirt I could get mud all over after running circles around the horses. I headed down to the kitchen to find something to eat, praying we had some damn coffee I could lay my hands on. I was looking forward to talking with Paul, catching up with my old school friend and figuring out what all had gone on at the ranch while I’d been off touring.
But Paul was like clockwork, so it shouldn’t have shocked me that he was already out with the cattle.
Grabbing the lukewarm coffee pot, I poured myself a cup and stuck it in the microwave. I watched Paul wrangle up the pregnant heifers as the vet’s truck came rumbling across the field. There were four pregnant ones when I left, but I saw Paul had rounded up seven.
Guess our bull was taking advantage of the prime time.
Grinning, I pulled my coffee out of the microwave. I drank it down, grimacing at the heat as it burned my throat. It was the type of pain I looked forward to every morning. It helped to wake me up until the caffeine could kick in and relieved my head of the pounding ache.
But once I finished slamming it all back, I heard voices coming from the living room. Hank was talking to my sister, Elsie. I didn't want to deal with Hank, but I felt bad for neglecting my sister. I'd been gone for months, finally come home and spend my first day back hungover. Yeah, I felt like a real asshole.
“What was your book about?” Hank asked.
“Human behavior. I’m trying to figure out why people lie,” Elsie said.
“Why would you be interested in something like that?” Hank asked.
“I was told people sometimes lie when the person they are talking to is not trustworthy, but I think I am someone who is easy to talk to. Do you think I’m easy to talk to, Hank?”
“I think you’re very easy to talk to, Elsie. So, what did you come up with?”
“People lie for four main reasons. One is to protect someone, another is to protect themselves. Another reason is to gain a strategic advantage, and the other is to hide.”
“To hide?” Hank asked. “What do you mean?”
“For some people, lying is a personal advantage. It helps them to—”
I hung onto my sister’s every word as she stopped in her tracks. It happened a lot with her. Her autism made some things difficult for her to process. Like wrinkles in her socks. She hated wrinkles in her socks and constantly described it as a feeling of sandpaper against her legs. If there was a wrinkle in her sock at any moment,
she would have to stop and fix it, otherwise, she couldn’t focus. As intelligent as she was in some areas, she was absolutely childlike in others. That was the push and pull of autism.
She was like that with a lot of things, and I listened as Hank helped her with her current issue.
Her fingers were sticky from the pastry he had brought her from her favorite bakery.
I set my mug in the kitchen sink as I walked into the room. Elsie’s head was on a swivel, her eyes darting everywhere as Hank wiped off her hands. Elsie was trying to get away from him, pulling and tugging as he tried to clean off her hands.
“You’re replacing one issue with another,” I said.
Hank whipped his head up as he let go of Elsie’s hands.
“It’s wet,” Elsie said.
“What would you like to use to wipe your hands off, sis?” I asked, my voice calm. I already knew the answer, but I tried to give my sister some sense of independence, to allow her to voice her own thoughts and opinions without making choices for her. She was perfectly capable of doing so, even if so many people, Hank included, treated her like she didn't.
