by Kristi Gold
A look of apprehension passed over Brett’s face, his dark brows furrowed into a frown. She sensed the conversation had gotten a bit too heavy when he failed to answer.
Lighten up, Camille. Don’t back him into a corner.
She kissed him softly and playfully rubbed his thigh through the soft-washed denim of his jeans. “Why don’t we go upstairs and I’ll show you what comes next.”
He took his arm away. “You go on up. I’ve got to finish this tonight.” He stood and shuffled through the pages of a notebook. “I’m running out of time.”
So am I. She rose to her feet and held out her hand. “Surely you can spare a few minutes for the sake of a desperate woman—”
When Brett refused the gesture, she felt as if someone had run a stake clean through her heart. “You don’t understand, Cammie. It’s not a game. Tim’s on my ass big-time—he says I’m not concentrating. You and I both know he’s right. I’ve got to cut two more tracks for the new album and they’ve got to be fresh. If this project falls short, then someone will come along to claim my place, someone younger with bigger dreams.”
Tim was obviously the reason for his bad mood. “You’re only thirty-three. That’s a little young to worry about being replaced.”
“You get old quick in this business. Hundreds of singers—eighteen-to-twenty-year-olds—are champing at the bit to move me out of the way. Not to mention those that are my age or older. People like Mark Jensen. It’s a constant battle to stay on top.”
It was a side of him that she’d seen before, right after Pat left. The brooding Brett Taylor. His mood had little to do with being driven to succeed and more to do with fear of failing in every aspect of his life—professional and private—just like Mark. Only Brett dealt with his fears by withdrawing into himself instead of relying on the bottle.
She could only offer reassurance. Whether it would make a measurable difference remained to be seen. “Mark isn’t half as talented as you are. He doesn’t write any of his material and most of his ticket and record sales come from a lot of butt-shaking in the direction of screaming women. It wouldn’t be fair even to compare yourself to him.”
His expression stayed serious, almost cold. “Nothing’s fair about the music industry, Cammie. It takes a lot of blood, sweat and ass-kissing to get anywhere in this town. And a hell of a lot of luck. I’ve got some nice things now, but it took me years to get them. Boats, houses, buses, a production company. But in one minute—” he snapped his fingers “—gone. Just like that.”
“You worry too much, Brett.”
“Lately I haven’t been worrying enough.” He tossed the tablet aside and came to his feet. “Did you know Jensen’s a nominee for Male Vocalist?”
Cammie wasn’t surprised by the information, just surprised he’d waited until that moment to mention it. “I’ve never paid much attention to that.”
“Well, he is, so it looks like more than a little butt shaking’s going on. In fact, he had three top-five songs last year, two went number one.”
After all the success Brett had enjoyed, he was still plagued by serious insecurities. “Come on. Mark isn’t even close to being your competition and he certainly doesn’t measure up to you in the butt department.”
Brett picked up his guitar and turned his back on Cammie, but not before shooting a cynical glance in her direction. “At one time you must’ve liked his ass, at least enough to almost marry the son of a bitch.”
His sudden reversal in attitude astounded her. Just a few minutes ago he’d listed all the reasons she was special. Now he seemed poised to go off like a time bomb. Did he really believe Mark Jensen was still a threat to their relationship? Or was it the fact she’d been involved with Mark long before they’d met, coupled with the possibility of Mark garnering the accolades that Brett so obviously coveted?
He strummed a few chords, walked around the room and, when she didn’t leave, reluctantly faced her again. “I don’t know how to make it more clear to you, Cammie. I can’t come with you upstairs because what I might need or you might need takes a backseat to the work.”
She cringed at his harsh words, but she wouldn’t let it go. “So you’re saying even if you wanted to make love to me right now, you couldn’t because work is more important?”
“Yeah. Welcome to the world of country music. It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.” He went back to his random strumming.
Cammie couldn’t leave now. Not now. He might turn away, but she had to take the chance. “What about emotional needs?”
The sound the guitar made was tuneless, hollow. “You get what you can when you perform.”
“What are you afraid of?”
Brett stopped, dropped his hand from the guitar strings and raised his eyes to her. “I told you. I’m afraid of being washed-up before I’m ready.”
Cammie took two hesitant steps toward him. “That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about feeling something beyond what you get from your music and performing. Don’t you ever get tired of being alone? Do you ever wonder if there’s anything else?”
She took another step until they were almost touching. “Or do you think a commitment to something or someone other than your music won’t mean as much as singing to strangers, that you can’t have it both ways? How do you know you can’t have it all?”
“I can’t risk finding out, Cammie.”
Seeing the despair in his eyes, the futility in the hard line of his mouth, made her want to reach out to him in some way, make him realize how good they were together. “So where does this leave us?”
He lowered his eyes. “Honestly? I don’t know right now. I like things the way they are. Don’t make this any harder than it is, and don’t ask more of me than I can give you right now.”
Cammie reached for his guitar and, surprisingly, he relinquished it to her even though he looked put out by the gesture. She rested it against a table, then slipped her arms around his waist. Brett remained very still, fists clenched at his sides, as she touched her lips to the pulse point at his throat. “Are you mad at me for asking, or are you mad at yourself because you care more than you’re willing to admit? Maybe you’re just afraid if you let yourself care you won’t have any excuse not to let go of the past. After all, it’s much easier not to take a chance than to risk getting hurt again.”
He said nothing, which made her believe she was on the right track. At least she could hope. Hope might be all she had left once she was finished.
She whisked a kiss over the cleft in his chin, then laid her hand on his cheek. “I should be afraid. I’m risking as much as you are, maybe more. But I’m not afraid of what I feel for you.”
His expression looked pained, like he was battling his emotions, his desire, every step of the way. “Don’t, Cammie.”
She ignored his demand and plied his face with soft kisses. “Don’t you think I know how good it feels to be in front of that crowd? Performing is a rush, but as great as it is, it can’t compare to what I feel when you’re inside me. When I lose all control while you have your mouth and hands all over me.”
She could see his resistance waning, could sense immediate surrender when his respiration picked up speed. “So don’t be mad at me, or afraid.”
Cammie slid her hands underneath Brett’s shirt and ran her fingertips over his chest, waiting and hoping he’d respond. And he did by tilting her head back and kissing her breathless. Then suddenly he stopped.
“I’m sorry,” B
rett said, one hand still wound in her hair. “I can’t do this right now.”
She’d never felt so humiliated—and defiant—in her life. “All signs point to the contrary.”
“Let me rephrase that,” he said. “I could make love to you right now, up against the wall without a thought. But it wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“The bruises on my backside would be worth it.”
“I’m serious, Cammie.” His expression confirmed that. “I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have tonight.”
That certainly wasn’t up for debate. “You’ll hurt me more if you keep pushing me away, and I don’t mean in a physical sense.”
“I’m trying to include you, but sometimes I have to deal with things on my own.”
She felt he wasn’t trying hard enough, but she was too tired to revisit the same issues tonight. “Fine. I’ll leave you alone. I’m going back to bed.”
As Cammie started away, Brett caught her hand, wrapped his arms around her and hung on for the longest moment before he let her go. “Cammie, I know this life of mine isn’t easy on you, and it might not get any easier for a long time. If you want to go, I won’t stop you. If you can live with one day at a time, I want you to stay. But it’s your decision to make.”
Not exactly what she wanted to hear, and a decision she’d have to make sooner than later. “I’m pretty stubborn, so I guess you’re not going to get rid of me that easily. Besides, there’s no swimming pool at the old home place.”
Brett smiled in his beautiful way. “Now you want me for my pool.”
Cammie turned away before he could see her tears. “And don’t forget your body.”
Once again, she went to bed alone, Brett’s words tumbling around in her restless mind. He might never love her the way she needed to be loved—unconditionally. Even if they somehow made it past this current bump in the long road, she could always play second fiddle to his career. And someday soon, she would have to choose between settling for what he could give her, or standing her ground, even if it meant leaving him.
Just before dawn, Brett came to bed and made love to her again, slowly, sweetly, taking his time, talking to her in soft whispers as if she was the most important thing in the world to him—even though she acknowledged she wasn’t and never would be. She clung to him long after it was over, fighting the tears as he held her.
“I want to believe people can have it all,” he said, breaking the silence. “But sometimes I think that might be too much to ask.”
“It’s not if you really love someone.” Now that pivotal moment of truth. “And I do love you, Brett.”
Her worst fears came to pass when Brett failed to respond. The possibility they could have a future together faded with his obvious inability to love her back, his lack of faith in what they had, and himself.
But Cammie would still cherish these moments in his arms, knowing in her heart they would probably be some of the last.
* * *
BRETT DROPPED THE PHONE back onto its cradle after hanging up from the disturbing phone call.
“Who was it?” Cammie called from the down the hall.
“Just my publicist.” A very nervous publicist. She’d spent the past twenty minutes explaining to Brett that word was out in Nashville he and Cammie were living together. Of course, the story appeared in two well-known tabloids, not any of the more reputable country-music magazines.
But that wasn’t the only revelation. The topic had come up during an interview with Mark Jensen. The jerk had said Cammie had dumped him to pursue another singer with more status—namely Brett. He didn’t dare mention it to Cammie. He could tell she was upset enough about not attending the award ceremony with him tonight. In fact, she’d been upset for the past week, and he thought he knew why, even if she wasn’t saying why.
Little by little, his life was wearing her down, as well as his inability to commit completely to her.
She walked into the bedroom but stayed right inside the door, arms crossed beneath her breasts, a shoulder pressed against the frame. “What time do you have to leave?”
He took his belt from the bureau and slipped it through the loops. “The walk-through starts in about an hour and I should be home by four. That’s just enough time for me to come back here, get dressed and get back to the auditorium by five-thirty for the damn red-carpet walk.”
“Then why bother to come back here? You could just take your clothes with you.”
After he tucked in his shirt, zipped his jeans and hooked his lucky buckle that didn’t seem so lucky anymore, he faced her. “I thought maybe we could spend some time together.”
“Save your spare fifteen minutes, Brett. I don’t need them.”
“Look, I know you’re mad about not going with me tonight, but—”
She straightened and sighed. “I’m not mad. I’m resigned. This is just the way it is. The way it will always be.”
“Not always,” he said. “I’ll have a break at the end of the summer.”
“Two whole weeks before the CD’s released,” she reminded him, although she didn’t have to. “Let’s not forget all the personal appearances and press conferences and preparation for the upcoming tour. And I believe a few more award shows where you’ll amass another dozen or so trophies.”
He didn’t feel up to explaining again the pitfalls of his career or arguing with her over the schedule. Not when he had one of the most important milestones hanging in the balance—his first nomination for Performer of the Year. “Yeah, it’s going to get crazy. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
“Of course. All on your own.”
He didn’t know what to say to her to make it better, so he chose to switch the subject, which wasn’t much better. “Tim’s still riding me about you singing with me. What do you want me tell him?”
“No.”
“That’s it? Just no?”
She straightened and strolled into the room, keeping her distance. “I’ve told him why I’ve never wanted this, and those reasons still hold true. Now more than ever.”
Brett caught a glimpse at the wall clock and realized he had to leave or show up late. “We’ll talk about this later. I’ve got to go.”
She swept her hand toward the door. “By all means, go. Far be it for me to hold you back.”
He hated leaving her this way—so damn angry at him. He put on his hat, picked up his keys and stood in front of her. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”
“I’ve got a few finishing touches to put on the guest room.”
The project she’d been working on in secret while he’d been taking care of business. “When am I going to get to see it?”
“I’ll be done by tonight, so you can take a look then,” she said. “I hope you like it.”
“If you did it, I’m sure it’s great.”
“We’ll see.”
He wished she would yell at him, tell him he was a selfish bastard. He wished she’d say she still loved him, then maybe he’d have the courage to tell her he loved her, too. But that old saying about love sometimes not being enough was sure enough true.
He rested his palm against her cheek, expecting her to flinch or pull away. Luckily she didn’t. “Cammie, when I come back from the rehearsal, we need to talk. I can’t stand seeing you so unhappy.”
She laid her hand on his and smiled, but it didn’t make it all the way to her eyes, which were rimmed with tears. “You’re right. We do need to
talk if you can afford the time.”
Brett sensed he couldn’t afford not to make the time. “I’ll try to get out of there early to give us plenty of time.” Maybe even enough time for a little lovemaking. Time to show her how much she meant to him.
When Cammie said, “I’ll be here,” he wondered how long that would remain true. He took a risk when he took her into his arms, but she held on tightly like she didn’t want to go. He didn’t really want to go, either, but he didn’t have much choice.
He released her and gave her a kiss, then hurried out of the house and into his truck. For a few moments he sat there immobile, keys dangling from the ignition. He should call Tim and tell him to find a way to get him out of participating tonight. He could ask him to accept any awards, if he actually earned any. Then he could stay home with Cammie and convince her that she was more important to him. But he had obligations that he needed to fulfill in order to stay afloat.
As he finally drove away, he had the strongest feeling that he might regret the decision. Little by little, he saw Cammie slipping away from him. And in some ways, she was already gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SHE HAD A BORROWED CAR in the drive, her packed bags in the trunk and a burden as big as the Mississippi.
While she waited for Brett’s return, Cammie sat in a chair on the deck counting the seconds and dreading each one, knowing that in a matter of minutes, she’d be leaving him for good. From her perch above the grounds, she saw the black truck traveling up the lengthy drive and swallowed around the threatening tears. For hours she’d considered what she might say. What she might do if he tried to convince her to stay. How she would feel if he didn’t.
When Cammie heard Brett call her name, she swore her breaking heart skipped several beats. “Out here,” she called back, her hands tightly clasped together on the tabletop.
He opened the glass door and walked toward her, a little slower than usual. “Is someone else here?” he asked.
