by Terri Osburn
Charley brushed her hair out from under her ear. “That’s six weeks into the tour.”
Dylan continued to stare at the phone as if the dates might change. “Cincinnati isn’t that far. We’ll be there the third week in.”
“But that’s a weekday,” she pointed out. “It’s easier for me to get away on a weekend.”
“Okay, then, what about Little Rock? Four weeks in on a Saturday night.”
Remembering a trip they’d taken when she was a kid, Charley said, “That’s at least a seven-hour drive from here. It would suck, but I could do it.”
Setting the phone on the bed behind him, Dylan rolled to his side. “Why don’t you let me buy you a plane ticket? Then you can come see me anywhere.”
Letting him buy meals was one thing. Letting him buy plane tickets was another.
“I’d rather not cost you that much.”
Planting a quick kiss on her lips, he said, “They don’t cost that much. I want to see you.”
She traced the line of his jaw. “I want to see you, too. But what happens if we get caught on camera somewhere? What are you going to say? That your friend Charley just happened to be in the neighborhood. In Indianapolis.”
“This damn article better be the greatest thing to ever happen to my career, or I’m kicking Mitch’s ass.”
Charley felt the same way, but she’d agreed to these terms and would abide by them.
Cuddling in closer, she said, “Maybe we should stop worrying about what happens weeks from now and focus on the moment. You did promise me a long night, remember?”
“I like the way you think, Miss Layton.” Dylan shifted her up onto his chest. “And I really like when you’re up there.”
Leaning up enough to brace her hands against his chest, she straddled his hips. “Are you offering me a ride, Mr. Monroe?”
“That I am,” he replied, skimming his hands along her thighs. “Ride away, darling.”
Chapter 19
Clay almost felt bad watching the crew load into the van. Almost.
“I expect nothing but good results,” he said, clapping his hands like a coach rallying his team. “Pictures and videos need to be shared on all platforms. Ralph, you’ve got the label accounts for the next ten days. Make him look good.”
“Will do, boss.”
“Dylan, you’ve got the easy part. Flash a smile, sing ’em a song, and leave them wanting more.”
“Right,” the groggy artist replied. “No pressure there at all.”
Having watched Dylan and Charley say their goodbyes, which they did more than fifty feet from the departing van, Clay knew exactly why his young hopeful could barely keep his eyes open.
Turning to his PR expert, Clay said, “Naomi, any words of wisdom before we send them off to make a mess?”
She shook her head, sending the black-as-night ponytail swinging. “Dylan is a publicist’s dream. He’ll be great.” As if unable to help herself, she added, “But don’t party so hard I have to explain why you were dancing on a table with your shirt over your head.”
“What a killjoy,” Casey murmured with a lopsided grin.
“Do what she says, Flanagan.” Clay and Naomi stepped back from the van. “Drive safe, Clifford. And no buying cigarettes on the company credit card.”
“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled the bus driver, put out by his demotion down to a minivan. The only reason he’d agreed to take the quick ten-day job was the promise of being Dylan’s official bus driver once the Tillman tour hit the road.
With a wave, Casey closed the side door, and the Odyssey rolled into motion.
“They’re going to be miserable by the time they hit Milwaukee,” Naomi predicted.
Aspiring artists often lived on the notion that life in the lights would be one big luxury ride. If they were lucky, they learned the truth.
“I doubt it’ll take that long. Wednesday they’ve got a drive from Columbus to Philly.” Clay swatted away a persistent fly. “If they don’t kill each other by the end of that one, the rest of the tour will be a breeze.”
Naomi turned to her left and spotted the woman sitting in the older-model Ford Bronco. “Is that . . .”
“We’re supposed to pretend we don’t see her,” he whispered.
“Why is she lurking over there?”
“Because Mitch got Dylan into some eligible bachelor article that comes out later in the year, and he’s convinced the lovebirds to keep their romance private so as not to make our young star appear ineligible in the meantime.”
Cutting disbelieving eyes his way, she said, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Clay agreed, but he also understood that fans wanted to see their idols as accessible, and what was more accessible than a single man?
“Once the article comes out in December, they’re free to go public. Though I get the feeling Mitch would prefer they not make it that far.” Leading his publicist to her car, he asked, “Have you thought any more about my Chance Colburn idea?”
As expected, Naomi visibly tensed. “No, I haven’t.”
A lie, and they both knew it.
“I don’t know what your history is with the man, but I suggest you find a way to deal with it. I’ve sent the contract to his manager. Chance is expected to sign next week.”
Lips pursed, she locked eyes with his. “Why would you risk a fledgling label on Chance Colburn? Broadway is crawling with artists, any one of whom would be a safer bet.”
Clay didn’t need to defend his decision to anyone, but in this instance, he made an exception.
“We’ve spent the better part of a year launching a brand-new artist. A total unknown. Add up the man-hours and the advertising alone, and we’ve spent roughly a quarter of a million. Signing Colburn means cutting that price tag in half, at least. He has awards on his shelf, two platinum albums on his wall, and a built-in fan base that we can build on.” He opened her car door. “This is a sound business decision, Naomi. He’s clean, and he’s ready to work. With you by his side to keep the press positive, we all win.”
Hazel eyes flashing, she tossed her ever-present planner onto the passenger seat. “That doesn’t sound like a winning plan for me, but as I said before, it’s your call.”
As she slammed the key in the ignition, Clay asked, “Am I going to lose you over this?”
Naomi Mallard wasn’t the only publicist in town, but she was the best. Losing her would put a major dent in the team, and in all honesty, he wasn’t sure anyone else could handle Colburn.
Debating her answer, she tapped the steering wheel for several seconds before finally looking his way. “I’m not giving up anything for Chance Colburn. Not this time.” With that cryptic reply, she shut the door and drove off.
So there was history between them. Clay wasn’t sure if this development would play in his favor or not, but the decision had been made, and he wouldn’t rescind the offer now. Naomi was a professional. She would do her job. With luck, Colburn would cooperate. Because if he didn’t, the fragile walls of Shooting Stars Records could come tumbling down, and Clay would be damned if he’d let that happen.
Charley had to stop checking Dylan’s Instagram account every five minutes. She’d done well for the first couple of days. They’d exchanged texts, with Dylan telling stories of Clifford the driver stopping every hour to smoke, and Ralph Sampson’s previously unknown tendency toward car sickness. Getting the smell of vomit out of the van had required two scrubbings, three passes with a vacuum, and seven pine-scented air fresheners hanging throughout the vehicle.
But by Friday, every new picture he shared featured another pretty girl with her hands on Charley’s man. She reminded herself that they were fans. Listeners excited to hug the hunky new singer passing through their town. The silent pep talks worked for a while, until she made the mistake of following Casey’s Instagram account. That’s where the evening shots were shared. The guys gathered around a table covered in beer bottles and fruity little umbrella drinks for
all the pretty girls who’d joined them.
In no picture were there less than two skinny, boobilicious females hanging on Dylan’s arms. Or his neck. The neck she wanted to strangle. In dire need of reassurance, she’d asked him about Casey’s account and all the partying they were doing. Not only had he taken six hours to respond, but his answer had been less than reassuring.
We’re having fun, babe.
That was it. That was his entire response. No they mean nothing to me or I’d rather be there with you. Just that they were having fun. Well, she could see that they were having fun. That was the damn point.
“You’re going to drive yourself crazy,” Matty warned as Charley punched a couch cushion.
At nearly midnight, Casey had shared a picture of Dylan surrounded by six women, one of whom sported an I’M THE BRIDE sash. They’d clearly stumbled into a bachelorette party, and Charley knew exactly what drunk women did the night before their weddings.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, lying through her teeth.
“You knew this was coming.”
Charley knew that Dylan was going out on the road to work. This did not look like work.
“I know that Dylan isn’t doing anything wrong,” Charley said, determined to be sensible.
Matty poured herself another glass of wine. Since Charley hadn’t felt well for two days, she stuck with hot tea.
“This is going to be ten times worse when he goes on a real tour,” her roommate pointed out, qualifying as the least helpful statement of the night.
“I’ve thought about that, and so far, I’ve come up with two solutions.”
With a cynical expression, Matty said, “Do enlighten me.”
“I can trust him and realize that none of this means anything. Or I cancel all of my social media accounts and go off the grid.”
“Two entirely sensible options. Or maybe you accept that life with Dylan will involve watching women throw themselves at your man, and be confident in the knowledge that he’ll always choose you over them.”
Who was this woman, and what had she done with Matty?
“You don’t even like him. You’re the one who says all men cheat and break your heart and aren’t worth the bullet it would take to put him out of your misery.”
Pressing Charley’s hair off her forehead, she mumbled, “Don’t be silly. I’d never shoot anyone.”
“But you don’t—”
“Like him. Yes, I know.” Matty shrugged. “Which makes this next statement even harder to say.”
Charley waited with arched brows.
“The truth is, I think he’s for real. I think he really likes you, and if he makes you happy, then you should have him.”
Lifting her chin off the floor, Charley said, “Did you spike my tea? Because I’m not understanding the words that are coming out of your mouth right now.”
Matty rolled her eyes. “Come on. He looks at you like you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. And when you talk, his face . . . changes. Like he’s listening to poetry or the best song ever written. That boy is in love with you, Charley, and you love him, too. That’s worth ignoring a little drinking on the road.”
“I don’t . . . I . . . ,” Charley stuttered, unable to process this new declaration. “I don’t love Dylan.”
“The hell you don’t.”
“I think I would know if I loved somebody,” she scoffed, hopping to her feet. “I mean, I’ve only known him for, what? A few weeks!”
As if she’d suddenly become an expert on the subject, Matty said, “Love doesn’t have a set time frame. It can happen in three years. Or it can happen in three weeks. So you got the fast track.”
That was impossible. Charley paced the length of the couch, forcing Matty to pull her legs up or be stepped on.
“You’re clearly seeing things that aren’t there. Besides, you don’t even believe in love.”
“I don’t believe in love for me,” the jaded woman corrected.
“Nope. You said for everyone.”
“Fine.” She threw her hands in the air. “I’m a bitter woman. We say stupid shit. I don’t really not believe in love. I’m annoyed with it. I don’t necessarily like it or appreciate what it’s done to me, but I haven’t written it off entirely.”
Charley dropped onto the sofa. “You really think he’s in love with me?”
“Please. That boy is so far gone, he doesn’t know which way is up.”
“And I love him, too?”
Matty leaned forward. “Don’t you?”
Before she could answer, Charley’s phone dinged and she dove at it like a pigeon on a crust of bread.
I miss you, baby. A few more days. Can’t wait.
Staring at the screen, she whispered, “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Overwhelmed by the rate of change in her life, on Saturday morning Charley sought out the sanest person she knew. She’d gotten up early to place the call, knowing she’d miss him otherwise.
“Hello?” he answered after the third ring.
“Hi, Grandpa,” Charley said, never so happy to hear his voice. “How are you doing?”
“I’m shuffling along, as always,” Maynard Layton replied. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. How’s my baby girl?”
A pinch of guilt mixed with a heavy dose of homesickness. “She’s good. Missing home, though.”
“Now, darling, you know you’re welcome to come back anytime. Is the big city not treating you right?”
Charley plopped down on her bed and pulled her knees up. “The city is great, Grandpa. I’ve just been really busy. A lot of changes to get used to, you know?” With one change that seemed bigger than the rest. “Tell me what’s going on up there. I want to hear all the gossip.”
Though Gramps claimed not to be the gossipy type, he always knew the latest dirt and never hesitated to pass the news her way.
“Let’s see,” he mumbled, as if considering where to start. “Old man Bailey quit the radio station.”
“He what?” Charley sprang up on the bed. “He’s been there for nearly forty years. What happened?”
“Wilma at the co-op said they took away his job of picking the new music to play and gave it to Terry Parsons. Bailey got so mad, he quit right on the air. No warning or nothing. Then he packed his stuff and went to the house.”
The change didn’t surprise Charley, since Dean Bailey had little interest in the music he was supposed to be programming. The man didn’t even have a radio in his truck and likely had never read a magazine in his life. She herself had attempted to show him how to find the latest industry news on the Internet, but Dean had only growled and walked away.
“I can’t believe he’d just quit like that.” Charley would have bet money that he’d take his last breath in the halls of that station.
“Heard it myself. Only later found out that it was a shock to the rest of the staff, including Fanny.”
Fanny Carmichael had inherited the station from her father, and she’d been like an extra grandmother to Charley. She ran a tight ship, but had a heart of gold, and was a beloved member of Liberty society.
“Have you talked to her about it?”
Voice a little lower than before, he said, “She mentioned it over dinner the other night.”
Charley flipped to her knees. “You had dinner with Fanny Carmichael? Are you two dating?” Gram had been gone for four years, and in that time, Grandpa hadn’t so much as looked at another woman.
“Dating is for younger folk,” he explained. “People in their sixties visit and hope neither one of them keels over in their soup.”
He wasn’t fooling anyone. “You are dating!”
“Don’t be getting any ideas, now. Fanny and me are spending a little time together. That’s all.”
Knowing Grandpa wasn’t sitting home alone every night put a smile on Charley’s face. For a farmer, he was a social creature, and she was glad he’d picked Fanny to be with. Or maybe she’d picked him. Either way, the new developme
nt eased her worry about leaving him behind.
And since they were on the topic, Charley delved into the real reason she’d called. “I’ve been spending time with someone, too.”
“Oh yeah?” Grandpa asked. “Do you like him?”
“I do,” she answered. “A lot.”
Reading between the lines, he said, “I see. When are you going to bring him home so we can meet him?”
Charley knew exactly whom he meant in that we.
“Maybe soon, but the last thing I need is Elvis scaring him away.”
Her oldest friend, who’d grown up on the farm next door, found his greatest entertainment in chasing off any boy who dared try to date her. A former marine, and roughly the size of a barn, Elvis Marigold would do anything for Charley. Except let her have a love life.
Though, to be fair, she’d done her share of alienating his potential dates. It wasn’t her fault that none of them had been good enough for the big jerk.
“If the boy can’t stand up to Elvis, he isn’t good enough for my baby girl.”
Dylan would stand up to him all right, but that didn’t mean Elvis wouldn’t do something stupid like coax him out on a four-wheeler and then leave him to find his way back. Between the two farms, there were nearly two hundred acres of uncleared land, populated by enough wildlife to make the terrain even more dangerous for someone who didn’t know the area.
And then, of course, there was Dylan’s touring schedule, which made taking him home to Grandpa even more difficult.
“Maybe over Christmas,” Charley replied, hoping she’d survive the three months until then with her sanity and heart intact.
As if sensing her troubled thoughts, Grandpa grew serious. “There’s something you aren’t telling me. Do I need me to come down there, honey?”
She’d give anything for him to come down and hug all her problems away, but Charley wasn’t a little girl anymore. Nor did she really have any big problems. Most women would be ecstatic to realize they’d fallen in love with a man like Dylan. And she was . . . mostly.
But the night before, a traitorous thought had entered her mind. If she quit her job, she could travel with Dylan, and they wouldn’t ever have to be apart.
