Falling Star (A Shooting Stars Novel Book 2)

by Terri Osburn

  Dawn hugged her three favorite humans all at the same time before asking, “Who wants Popsicles?”

  Squeals of delight bounced off the walls as Grammy led her darlings into the kitchen. Mary Beth took a seat beside Naomi at the dining room table and surveyed the diagram before her.

  “If this thing gets any bigger, they’re going to need corporate sponsors.”

  “Tell me about it. Have you seen the newest addition? I have a feeling your munchkins are the reason for this.” Naomi stretched to point to the bounce house card, causing her sleeve to ride up.

  “Oh my gosh, Naomi. What happened to your wrist?”

  She tucked her arms under the table. “It’s nothing.”

  Her sister was not dissuaded. After a short wrestling match, Mary Beth examined the bruises. “The heck it is. Your arm looks awful. Who did this to you?”

  Naomi broke her sister’s hold and shoved the sleeve back down. “Be quiet before Mom hears you.”

  “Did that Michael guy do this? Is that why you broke up?”

  “How do you know we broke up?”

  “Mom told me in a text about forty-five minutes ago.”

  Unbelievable. “How could she have done that? She never left my sight.”

  Mary Beth propped her arms on the table. “Did you use the bathroom?”

  “Dammit!” Naomi’s bladder had betrayed her. “I knew I shouldn’t have told her.”

  “It’s cute that you think you can keep secrets from a pro like Mom.” Her sister sobered. “Seriously, though. Did Michael do that to you?”

  “Yes.” Shame tasted bitter on her tongue. “I thought he was a nice guy, but I was wrong.”

  “I’m sorry, hon. Maybe you should let Mom set you up with Neal.”

  Naomi burst from her chair. “Not you, too.”

  Mary Beth followed her into the living room. “Come on, sis. How many times have you dated a guy, had it blow up in your face, and then said the exact same words you just said about Michael? I’m sorry, but you suck at picking men. Neal has a great job, looks like a freaking fitness model, and asked about you three times last night.”

  This was insanity. “He hasn’t seen me in years. And back in high school, he only talked to me to get my notes from every class we had together. He probably only passed med school because some gullible woman gave him all her notes.”

  She dropped onto the couch and hugged a coral pillow to her chest. Her mother had a weird obsession with coral.

  “Fine,” Mary Beth said, plopping down beside her. “He was a typical male in high school. But considering the guys you’ve gone out with, it couldn’t hurt to at least give Neal a chance. After all, I let Mom fix me up and look how well that turned out.”

  Naomi hated when her sister was right. But before admitting defeat, she asked one important question.

  “What if the problem isn’t the guys that I’m choosing? What if the problem is me?”

  A loving arm pulled her in for a squeeze. “Why would you say that? You’re a great person.”

  “But I’m a terrible girlfriend.” She settled her head onto her big sister’s shoulder. “I’m overbearing and bossy. I take charge of everything. And according to Michael, I’m cold.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “Others have said the same.”

  Mary Beth spun on her cushion, holding Naomi by the shoulders. “You’re a beautiful, kind, generous person. You’d give the shirt off your back to anyone who needed it, and when the right guy comes along, he’s going to thank his lucky stars every day for having you in his life.” Her green eyes glowed with love and support. “Now, no more of this crazy talk, you hear me? You’re perfect just the way you are.”

  This sounded very similar to what April had preached the night before.

  “Okay. No more wallowing.” Accepting her sister’s hug, she said, “You know what would make me feel better?”

  “Hmm . . . a Popsicle?” Mary Beth darted off the couch. “I call grape.”

  Leaping after her, Naomi banged her knee on the coffee table and locked her lips against a slew of profanity. Breathing through the pain, she yelled, “Save one for me!”

  He’d tried the back deck, the table, the couch, and the front porch. Two hours of pen to paper, and Chance still couldn’t write another song.

  So much for the night before breaking the dam.

  His trusty notebook had grown considerably thinner as page after page hit the floor. Some covered with gibberish. Others with two or three lines that went nowhere. One page contained a list of words that rhymed with pants. Because everyone knew heartbroken cowboys liked to water their plants.

  Five of the discarded sheets contained actual tunes. Three were virtual copies of his past hits, one had taken such a sappy turn that Chance wouldn’t be able to sing it with a straight face, and the fifth one just sucked.

  “Do you have any marketable skills, Willie?” he asked the tabby stretched out on the wooden boards at his feet. “Because it’s looking more and more like I’m washed up.”

  The cat blinked and raised his head as a car pulled up the drive. Recognizing the vehicle, he surged to his feet and ran inside. Willie wasn’t a fan of Shelly’s youngest. Unfortunately for the feline, Shelly’s youngest was a fan of Willie.

  Chance set his notebook aside and sauntered to the end of the porch. He hadn’t expected visitors today. The second the car came to a stop, Tristan bolted out the back door and sprinted for the porch.

  “Uncle Chance, we’re gonna have a baby!”

  “I heard,” he said, sweeping the boy into his arms.

  With a milk-stained frown, the youngster aired his disappointment. “But Mama said we was coming to tell you! It’s supposed to be a supwise.”

  Shelly shot Chance a dirty look. “Have you checked your phone today?”

  “No.”

  “Forget it, then. Just play dumb.”

  She cut around to the passenger’s side and helped Debra get out of the car. Years of hard living had taken their toll, and bad knees, likely from being thrown around one too many times, limited her mobility. Once Shelly had eased her stepmother from the Lexus, Izzy handed over her cane.

  As the trio made their way to the porch, Chance whispered in Tristan’s ear. “Pretend I don’t know and tell me again.”

  “All right. We’re gonna have a baby!”

  “Good for you, buddy.”

  Debra beamed from the sidewalk. “I was just thinking I could use another grandbaby to spoil. Ask and ye shall receive.”

  Religion had come along with sobriety for Debra. Chance hadn’t embraced that part of the program, but his mother had gone all in. Her mistakes far outweighed his own, and he didn’t begrudge her any source of peace.

  “I guess one more rug rat won’t be so bad,” he replied.

  Tristan squirmed to get down. “Where’s Willie? I want to tell him about the baby.”

  Chance set his nephew’s feet on the floor. “He’s in there somewhere. Go have a look.”

  Izzy climbed the stairs with her lips sealed tight, then flopped into a rocker.

  “How’s it going, squirt?”

  She shrugged. According to Shelly, getting braces had turned her sweet little girl into a sullen teen. Chance figured her age was more to blame than the metal in her mouth. At eleven, she was well on her way to being a tall, blonde replica of her mother, but still too young to recognize her own potential. Before long, she’d be breaking hearts and taking names.

  And once she gave him the names, Chance would be breaking heads.

  “I’m not prepared for entertaining,” he said as Shelly helped Debra onto the porch.

  “Dang it. I forgot the sandwiches in the car. Izzy, go get them, please.” With a huff, the child exited the chair and stomped off toward the car. Shelly exhaled. “Pleasant, no?”

  “A virtual bucket of sunshine.”

  “How are you, son?” asked the older woman. “Sorry I missed your party.”

  �
��I’m good, Debra.” Chance had taken to using her proper name years ago. “No worries. You didn’t miss much.”

  “Well, happy birthday to ya.” She patted his arm on her way into the house.

  Shelly stood beside him, watching the frail woman disappear inside. “I don’t know how much longer she’s going to be around, Chance. You need to find a way to forgive her before it’s too late.”

  Chance retrieved the notebook and pen. “It’s already too late. I’ve given her a nice place where she can live out whatever time she has left. And she has you and the kids. That’s probably more than she ever expected.”

  “You’re her son.”

  “The son she let be beaten and bullied.” Some chasms were too deep to cross. “Let it go, Shell. Let it go.”

  Chapter 7

  Clay held his temper in check. Barely. “Explain this to me again. You were at the Songbird Cafe with our recovering alcoholic artist when he assaulted a guy. All while standing right next to you.”

  Though Naomi had called him Saturday night with a brief overview of the encounter, what Clay had read on the Internet Sunday morning bore little resemblance to the story she’d shared. Which resulted in this early meeting in Clay’s office to get the facts straight and determine a plan of action.

  “Chance wasn’t drinking. And he didn’t assault anyone.”

  “Michael Swanson says differently.” This was not what they needed right now.

  Naomi’s face reddened. “Michael started the whole thing. He confronted Chance over something stupid, then taunted him into a confrontation.”

  This wasn’t anything Clay didn’t know, but dammit, she’d been right there. “Why didn’t you get Chance out of there before the situation escalated? And why were you there with him in the first place?” Three days ago, she’d resented the idea of being his babysitter. A day later she’s with him at a bar?

  Unpolished nails tapped the arm of her chair. “I wasn’t there with Chance. I was with someone else and had no way of knowing he’d show up. I only approached him to get him to leave the bar.” Naomi bolted from her seat. “Everything would have been fine if Michael hadn’t gotten jealous.”

  “Wait a minute. You were there with Swanson?”

  Shoving a loose lock of hair behind her ear, Naomi paced his office. “I’d rather not bring my personal life into this.”

  “A little late for that.” One of the many stories posted the day before had cast the scene as two rivals fighting for the same woman. Clay never would have imagined that woman was Naomi.

  “Look,” she said, slamming her hands on the front of his desk, “If men weren’t so damn stupid, none of this would have happened.”

  Clay let the insult to his gender slide.

  “But it did happen, Naomi. And now I’ve got speculation that my new artist has gone off the wagon and trashed a Nashville landmark.”

  She shoved off the desk. “He didn’t trash anything. And there are plenty of witnesses to back that up.”

  She couldn’t be that naive. “You know as well as I do that this isn’t a trial by jury where witnesses matter. This is trial by public opinion, and history is not on his side.” A knock sounded at Clay’s door. “Yes?”

  The receptionist, Belinda Wallace, leaned in. “Chance Colburn and his manager are here.”

  “Thanks, Belinda. Show them into the conference room and we’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Will do.”

  Once the door clicked shut, Clay rose from his chair. “We need to cut this off now. Swanson’s smear campaign hasn’t gained media coverage, though I’m sure it isn’t for lack of trying. He’ll suck every ounce of attention out of this, and not give a damn what happens to anyone else.”

  “You know Michael?” Naomi asked.

  Clay wished he didn’t. “He played a showcase for Foxfire years ago. When we passed, he bad-mouthed us to anyone who would listen.” The memory still pissed him off. “Within a month of Dylan hitting the charts, Swanson started campaigning to get one of his songs on the list for the new album. That isn’t going to happen.”

  The color drained from his publicist’s face. “I see.” Her hazel eyes locked on the corner of his desk, and Clay could almost see her mind racing.

  With real concern, he asked, “How long have you been seeing him?”

  “Six weeks.” Her jaw worked forward and back as she continued to avoid eye contact. “Guess I should have done my homework. He went after me to get to you, didn’t he? Or to Dylan. Michael kept asking about coming with me to the next Shooting Stars event, but rarely agreed to accompany me anywhere else.” Naomi shoved a hand through her hair. “I’m an idiot.”

  Clay felt for her, but doubted Naomi was the first woman Swanson had manipulated. “You aren’t an idiot, Naomi. He is. Now we just have to show him he messed with the wrong label.” Gesturing toward the door, he motioned for her to go first. “Let’s go see what Ms. Needham has to say for her client this morning. We’ll deal with Swanson later.”

  She pressed a hand to his arm. “This wasn’t Chance’s fault, Clay. If Michael hadn’t . . .”

  “Hadn’t what?”

  Naomi crossed her arms, tucking them tight against her body. “He just shouldn’t have confronted Chance like that. He was looking to make a scene. He knew Chance had more to lose.”

  There was something she wasn’t telling him, but Clay didn’t have time to push. “Like I said. Swanson will get attention any way he can. Is there anything else I need to know before this meeting?”

  “No.”

  Clay rounded the desk and opened his office door. “Then let’s get to work.”

  Clay was wrong. Naomi was an idiot.

  Most of this town liked to pretend that making music was about making art. And for many artists, it was. But on Music Row, making music was about making money. For Michael Swanson, the best way to make money was to get his songs cut by the most successful artists. The ranks of which Dylan Monroe was well on his way to joining.

  If she’d known that Clay had shut the door in his face, Naomi might have recognized his true intentions sooner. But that was no excuse. She’d allowed a man to use and manipulate her, and that was no one’s fault but her own.

  When was she going to wake up and stop choosing the wrong men? A laughably ironic question to ask herself before walking into a meeting with her biggest mistake of all.

  “Good morning, Chance,” Clay said, holding the door for Naomi. “Shelly. Thanks again for coming. It’s a good thing we had this scheduled today, considering the events over the weekend.”

  Shelly sent Naomi a heated glare as she and Clay took their seats at the table. “I think we need to once again address Ms. Mallard’s role with my client. I’d like to suggest a replacement.”

  “What?” Naomi and Chance chimed in stereo.

  The manager ignored them both. “I’ve compiled a list of three candidates. All are available, and have excellent credentials.” She slid a sheet of paper toward Clay. “I’m willing to let you choose the final candidate.”

  This couldn’t be happening. Naomi was the public relations director of Shooting Stars Records. A position she’d fought long and hard to achieve. Too stunned to speak, she turned wide eyes toward her boss.

  Clay ignored Shelly’s list. “We will not be replacing Naomi. Your client signed a two-album contract with Shooting Stars Records, and we expect him to fulfill his side of the agreement. That contract does not give you the power to dictate how or with whom I run my company.” Leaning forward, he shoved the paper away. “Now, if Mr. Colburn no longer wants to pursue his relationship with this label, he’s welcome to buy out the contract and seek another deal elsewhere, but I highly recommend he think that through before making any regrettable decisions.”

  Naomi had never been the high-fiving type, but that speech deserved at least a fist bump.

  The hateful woman opened her mouth to reply, but Chance cut her off.

  “I’m not buying out anything, and
I have no problem working with Naomi.”

  The simple dismissal of his manager’s agenda only intensified the tension in the room.

  “We’re happy to hear that.” Clay leaned back in his chair. “Now, the purpose of this meeting was to discuss our publicity plan to get Chance back in the public eye in a more positive way. Our original agenda included interviews starting later this week, but, given recent events, I suggest we accelerate our efforts.”

  Shelly shook her head. “That’s out of the question. If recent events have proven anything, it’s that Chance needs more time.”

  For a manager, Naomi marveled at the woman’s lack of public relations knowledge. “Ms. Needham, with all due respect, we cannot sit back and allow someone else to use slander and lies to further smear Chance’s reputation.” She stabbed a finger into the table. “This requires an immediate response. The public needs to see that Chance is different now. Not a man who got drunk and attacked another man, unprovoked, at an area restaurant.”

  “We both know Chance’s actions were not unprovoked, don’t we, Ms. Mallard? From what I understand, you played a critical role in this weekend’s events. Perhaps an immediate response should have occurred when your boyfriend picked a fight with my client.” Shifting her attention to Clay, the manager continued. “My job is to represent and protect my client. I cannot do that when your publicist is an active part of the problem.”

  Naomi leaped from her chair. “Yes, Chance was provoked on Saturday night, but he wasn’t completely innocent, either. In hindsight, I recognize that I should have taken action sooner to defuse the situation, but I did not intentionally set out to harm your client. In fact, if your client is still not ready to handle interviews, perhaps he was also not ready to visit a bar.”

  Her opponent rose to her feet. “Chance being in a bar wasn’t the problem. Encountering you there was.”

  “Enough,” barked Chance. Both women fell silent but continued to exchange hostile glares. “Clay, I need a minute with my manager.”

  “That’s a good idea.” The label head pushed away from the table. “Naomi and I will be in my office when you’re ready to continue.”