Nashville - Combined Edition - Part One and Part Two

by Inglath Cooper

  “Yes,” Macey answers. “CeCe, meet Huxton. Huxton, CeCe.”

  “Hey,” he says. “Any friend of Macey’s—”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m fine with the water. I should go find Beck.”

  “He asked me to tell you he’s grabbing a game of ping pong downstairs. Why don’t we grab a chat and get to know each other a bit?”

  You know that little voice that dings inside you when something isn’t quite right, but you can’t pinpoint it closely enough to act on it? I’m hearing the ding, but she is Macey Canterwood. Her music is being played all over the radio, and what do I have to lose by trying to leave here tonight with her as something closer to a friend than an enemy?

  “Go snag that sofa for us,” Macey says. “I’ll get our drinks.”

  I push away from the bar and do exactly that, even as I ask myself what the two of us could possibly have in common. Except Beck, of course. And the fact that she obviously wants him, and sees me as a threat.

  The couch is cushy and comfortable. I sink onto it with a sudden awareness of fatigue and exactly how long this day has been. What I really want is to go home and curl up in bed with Hank Junior.

  Macey strides over in her four-inch heels – she must wear them all the time to be that competent in them – and hands me a glass that at least looks appealing. “A little something I like before a show – nothing crazy - just knocks the edge off.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Pineapple and Goji berry juice. Which is really good for you, by the way. I’ll let you guess the rest.”

  I’ve never been one to feel peer pressure. It’s not something I ever bought into in high school. I had my thing – music – other kids had their thing. I didn’t yearn to be someone that I wasn’t.

  But here, in this place, in Nashville, I realize just how far at the bottom of the totem pole I am. How high the climb is. And when someone from way on up the ladder, reaches down and offers you a hand past some of those rungs, it’s pretty tempting to take it.

  I sip the drink tentatively, expecting somehow that it will taste gosh-awful. Only it doesn’t. “Um, good,” I say.

  “Told you you’d like it,” she says, turning up her own glass and then stretching back on the couch. She crosses her incredibly long legs in front of her. Next to her, I definitely feel like the country mouse. “What are your goals, CeCe?”

  “To sing,” I answer.

  She laughs. “But where?”

  “Wherever anyone will listen, I guess,” I answer simply but truthfully.

  “I remember that feeling,” she says. “But you probably shouldn’t say it out loud. It has a hint of desperation to it.”

  “But aren’t you here because you love to sing?” I ask her.

  “Yes. But other things go with it that I also love.”

  “Such as?”

  “Recognition. Adoration.” She laughs. “I get how that sounds. But if you’re here, trying to make it in this business, you like those things, too. Maybe you’re not willing to admit it yet, but you do.”

  I take another sip of my drink and wonder if it’s true. “I’ve never thought about that part of it.”

  “We’re all a little narcissistic at heart. At least when we get the chance to be. Don’t you think we’re always looking for that chance?”

  The edges of my vision start to fuzz, and I blink to clear it away. “I like to think I’m looking for the chance to do what I love to do.”

  “At the risk of someone else getting to do what they love to do though, right?”

  I’m not sure how I’ve waded into this conversation, but it’s starting to feel like quicksand, and I’d like to back out. Only my legs feel heavy and weighted, or is that my thoughts? “I don’t know. I don’t feel exactly—”

  “What’s wrong?” Macey asks, her voice sounding like it’s coming to me remixed with heavy bass.

  I try to stand. My legs feel as though the bones have been removed, and they won’t hold me upright. I drop back onto the couch, grabbing a cushion to right myself.

  Macey stands, staring down at me from what seems like a thousand feet up. I can barely hear her voice when she says, “Good luck with your ambitions, CeCe. Just don’t let them get in the way of common sense, okay?”

  She turns and walks away. I raise a hand to stop her, to ask her to get Beck. Only I realize I can’t make the words come out. I slump back against the sofa, trying to hold my eyelids open. They’re so heavy, weighted with stone. Maybe I can let them close for just a minute. Just long enough for me to work up enough energy to fight back to the surface.

  But it feels so good to give in. Float along with the current carrying me away. Warm sun. Ocean breeze. Oblivion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Holden

  I can’t sleep.

  I try, staying to my side of the bed, Sarah to hers. She’s been asleep for a while as far as I can tell, but I don’t think either of us wants to talk to each other, so she could be pretending, I guess.

  I look at the clock. 1:15.

  CeCe’s not home yet. I’ve been listening for the door, and if I’m honest with myself, that’s why I’m still awake.

  I can’t quit thinking about her with him. Can’t quit wondering what they’re doing. If he’s tried to kiss her yet. If she’s let him.

  That last thought catapults me out of bed. I grab a t-shirt, shrug into it and leave the room. Patsy and Hank Junior are hunkered together on the sofa. They raise their heads and look at me with sleepy eyes. “Anyone up for a walk?” I ask.

  Patsy ducks her head behind the pillow, giving me her answer. Hank Junior hops down and trots over.

  I pick up his leash, grab my keys and cell phone from the table by the door, and we head outside. The night air is cool. At the bottom of the stairs, I hook on his leash. We walk fast down the sidewalk, and when Hank Junior clearly wants to go faster, I decide to run.

  Hank’s couch potato lounging could fool you about his athletic ability. The dog can run. He’s made for it, and he loves it. I love it, too. We let it rip for a couple of blocks, Hank sprinting in pure joy, me trying to drain the battery of my imagination.

  And it works, until we both start to tire. We drop to a jog for several blocks, and then a walk during which Hank is intent on letting others know we were here.

  I’m breathing hard and heavy, but I’m right back to thinking about CeCe, wondering why she’s not home yet.

  “Should I call her, Hank?”

  He turns to look at me with a raised ear and wags his tail.

  “That a yes?”

  He barks once.

  “All right, then.”

  I tap her name under recent calls and wait while it rings. Twice. Three times. Four. Voice mail picks up.

  “No answer,” I direct to Hank. He looks up at me and whines.

  “Yeah, me, too,” I say. We turn around at the end of the block and start walking back.

  It’s not my place to worry about CeCe, but I am worried. About her safety or what she might be doing with Beck? Both, I guess.

  Everything about what I’m feeling is so messed up. She has every right to be out with Beck Phillips or whoever else she wants to be out with. I’m the one without that right.

  We’re just short of the apartment building when a black Ferrari turns into the parking lot. I recognize it as belonging to Case Phillips and assume Beck drove it tonight.

  The car pulls in front of the building, and the engine goes silent. I stop before they spot me, wondering if I’m going to have to wait here in the shadows while Beck Phillips makes out with CeCe.

  The driver’s side door opens with a wachunk. Beck slides out and jogs around to the passenger door. He opens it, then disappears from sight. I see him squat down, wait for him to stand back up. A minute. Two. Four. Okay, seems weird.

  Deciding I’ m not waiting any longer, I lead Hank through the parking lot and past the car. He turns around and barks, then starts tugging at the lead.


  Beck stands and calls out, “Hey, man.”

  His voice doesn’t sound quite right. I turn, glimpse the concern on his face.

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “CeCe’s kind of out of it,” he says, raking a hand through his hair.

  I jog over behind a still tugging Hank Junior who wedges in between Beck and the car to plant two paws on the seat and begin licking CeCe’s cheek.

  I look past Beck to see CeCe out cold, not responding at all to Hank’s licking. “What the—” I start, shoving Beck around to look at me. “What did you do to her?”

  Beck holds up two hands, backing away. “Hold on, man. It wasn’t me.”

  “Wasn’t you what?” I hear my voice rising and force myself not to go ahead and punch his country-music-star-rich-kid-ass all the way back to his daddy’s estate.

  “A girl at the party put something in her drink to make her sleep.”

  “Why?” I ask, biting out the word.

  “We used to date,” he says, to his credit, sounding miserably sorry. “I never should have left CeCe alone with her.”

  “What did she give her?”

  “Sleeping pill.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “Because I told her I’d tell my dad what she’d done if she didn’t tell me, and I would ask him to tell everybody he knows in the music business.”

  I believe him. I can see he’s telling the truth, and that he feels guilty as all get out.

  “Let’s get her upstairs,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Beck agrees.

  We both lean in at the same time to lift her out and knock foreheads.

  “Crap!”

  “Ow!”

  We jump back, glaring at one another while Hank Junior looks up at us like we’re the two biggest dufusses he’s ever had the misfortune to run across. And he might be right.

  “I’ll get her,” I say.

  Beck stands back, two hands in the air, as if in concession to the fact that I have some unspoken right to being in charge from here on out. I’m not about to tell him I don’t.

  I swing CeCe up in my arms and head for the stairs, Hank Junior at my heels. I hear the car door thunk closed, look over my shoulder to see Beck striding after me. “You should go home,” I say.

  “I’m not leaving until I know she’s okay,” he shoots back, and I can hear him digging in his heels.

  I decide at that point to ignore him and head up the stairway with CeCe tight against my chest. I dig my key out of my pocket and decide to make use of Tag-Along, after all. I hand it to him, then barely wait for him to get the door open, before pushing past him into the living room.

  I lower CeCe onto the sofa, propping her head up with a pillow. I sit down beside her then, rubbing my thumb across her jawline. “Hey, CeCe, wake up. CeCe?”

  “I’ll get a glass of water,” Beck says, heading for the kitchen.

  Hank Junior jumps up on the couch and starts licking CeCe’s face.

  Realizing he has a better chance at being Prince Charming than I do, I don’t ask him to stop.

  She moans a little, and I feel a ping of relief at the sound. She flops the back of her hand across her face in response to Hank’s kissing. He wags his tail and licks harder.

  But she’s not responding now, and I get that sick feeling of worry in my stomach again.

  Beck returns with the water, and he holds the back of her head up while I try to get her to take a sip. But she won’t, and it trails down the side of her face instead.

  “We could put her in the shower,” Beck says.

  I glance up at him with enough dagger to make him take a step back.

  “With her clothes on, of course,” Beck says quickly.

  “I assumed as much,” I say, giving him a square look.

  I pick her up from the couch and carry her down the hall to her room. As soon as I open the door, the scent of her perfume meets my nose, sending a curl of memory up from somewhere inside me. And then I’m thinking about the last time I smelled this scent on her neck and how I would forever associate it with the taste of her kiss.

  Hank Junior follows us into the room and hops up on the bed to survey our intentions, I would guess. I leave the bathroom door open and ease her onto the shower floor.

  Beck tests the water and makes sure it’s warm enough before turning on the spray. We point the nozzle at the top of her head and wait for it to work. It takes a surprisingly long time. Maybe it’s seconds, but it seems like minutes. Several. I’m holding my breath, and only realize it when she begins to shake her head, batting a hand at the spray.

  She moans and says, “Stop. What is that—”

  “CeCe,” I say. “It’s me. Holden. You’re back at the apartment. In the shower. We’re trying to wake you up. You’ve kind of been out of it.”

  “What happened?” she asks, her voice groggy and a little slurred.

  “Someone spiked your drink,” Beck says, stepping into view.

  She looks up, her eyelids so heavy she can barely hold them open. “Who would do that?”

  I turn to look at Beck, admittedly feeling a little pleased with the guilt he feels.

  “Maybe we should talk about it when you’re feeling better,” he says.

  “Are you all right, CeCe?” I ask. “I can take you to the ER and get you checked out if you want.”

  “No, no,” she says. “I’m okay. I’m just…really sleepy.”

  “What’s going on in here?”

  I turn to find Thomas standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of polka dot boxers and running his hand through sleep-wild hair.

  I raise an eyebrow and drop a look at the boxers. “Seriously?”

  “Gift from Mama,” he says, sheepish.

  “Scary,” I say.

  Thomas peers around me. “What the heck happened to CeCe?”

  Beck hangs his head and says. “Victim of one of my messed up friends.”

  “You all right, CeCe?” Thomas asks.

  “Yeah. Can I just go to bed?” she says. “Alone.”

  The three of us guys look at each other, and take a step back.

  “Sure,” I say. “If you need some help getting—”

  “I don’t. I’m all good. Really.”

  “All right if I call you in the morning?” Beck throws out behind me. “I have some serious apologizing to do.”

  “She’s working tomorrow. Today.” Whatever. Anything to get him to leave.

  “Can I drive you?” he asks, peering over my shoulder and trying to make eye contact with CeCe.

  Sarah appears in the doorway then. She’s wearing a strappy pink nightgown, and her hair is tousled from sleep. “What’s going on in here?”

  CeCe looks at her and then glances back at me. “Nothing,” she says. “Everybody go back to bed.”

  She starts to get up, falters a little, and grabs on to the side of the shower.

  “Here,” I say, reaching out a hand to steady her.

  But she avoids my touch and says, “Please. Can everyone just leave?”

  We back out of the bathroom, Sarah asking, “What happened to her?”

  Thomas takes Sarah’s arm and says, “Come on. Let’s go.”

  They leave the room. CeCe reaches for a robe on the back of the door, pressing it to her chest, and without either looking at Beck or me, says, “Goodnight.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” I start.

  “Yes. Please. Go.”

  “I’m really sorry, CeCe,” Beck says. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”

  “Thanks,” she says.

  He turns and walks out of the room then.

  Once he’s gone, I look at CeCe and say, “I can stay. Just to make sure—”

  “I don’t want you to,” she says. “Sarah’s waiting for you. In your room. Go.”

  I hear the frustration in her voice. “What happened tonight, CeCe?” I ask.

  �
�A jealous girl. That’s all that happened.”

  “She drugged you. That’s all that happened?”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “I just want to go to bed.”

  “CeCe. We need to talk.”

  “No. We don’t. We really don’t. There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “But I want to explain something.”

  She bites her lip and looks at me with eyes on the verge of tears.

  “He’s not a guy you should be hanging out with, CeCe.”

  Her eyes go wide, and she laughs abruptly. “And you are? You have a girlfriend, Holden. A serious girlfriend. One who drove all the way from Atlanta to be here with you. A girlfriend who seems to want to move here to be with you. What in that equation allows anything at all for you and me?”

  I want to tell her that none of that is true. Only it is. “CeCe.”

  “What?” she asks. “Can you deny any of that?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Then why are you not in there with her where you belong?”

  I look at her for several long drawn out moments. I think about all the things I could say. All the things I should say. But I don’t want to say any of them. I just want to say the truth. “Because I want to be in here with you.”

  She presses her lips together, and again, I see how close she is to tears. “You don’t have that right,” she says.

  I want to deny it, to argue with her, to bring up all the ifs, and the buts, and the maybes, but she’s right. All I can say that is absolutely true is that I want her.

  “Holden, I’m wet. I’m cold. I’m tired. Please.”

  I try to stop myself from asking this question, but I can’t. The words come rolling out. “Did you go with him tonight because of me?”

  Her eyes widen a little, and I can see her considering the answer. “Do you mean did I go to make you jealous?”

  I shrug. I somehow know what she’s going to say. And how arrogant is it of me anyway to think that would be the reason she went.

  She folds her arms across her chest and sets her gaze somewhere just to the right of mine. “No,” she says. “He’s a nice guy. I went because I wanted to go.”

  Her words slam into me like baseballs being hurled from a major league pitcher. I guess I didn’t want to believe that was true, but how stupid could I be? He’s Beck Phillips. His father’s a major country music star. What girl wouldn’t want to go out with him? “Okay,” I say, backing out of the room. “Goodnight, CeCe.”