by Haley Jacobs
Wildcat and the Rock Star
Lone Pine Lodge Series, Book 3
Haley Jacobs
Brookside Press
Contents
Wildcat and the Rock Star
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Note from the Author
Bonus Chapter
Also by Haley Jacobs
About the Author
Wildcat and the Rock Star
Lone Pine Lodge, Book 3
1
Barbara Gravier, Superintendent of High Mountain National Park in the Alaska wilderness, couldn’t stop thinking about her husband and mate, Ron Richardson. She hadn’t seen Ron in about ten years. Barbara had been looking through some old paperwork when she came across a crinkled sheet of lined paper. It had been torn from an old spiral notebook. Even through the faded ink, she could read the lyrics to Wildcat, Ron Richardson’s number one hit song. The familiar, messy writing made her breath catch in her throat.
“Our bear!” said Barbara’s inner cat. “Our bear wrote that just for us!”
Barbara’s family came from a long and very old line of Louisiana puma shape shifters. Lately, her inner cat had been getting restless. So was she, for that matter.
“Yes,” Barbara sighed. “I know. It’s best not to think about him. All that Ron Richardson brings us is pain.”
“He brought us love, too,” said her inner cat.
Barbara sighed. “I suppose he did, for awhile.”
Maybe it was all the planning for Ron’s twin brother Jake and his bride Julia’s wedding that made her cat so agitated. Or maybe it was watching the budding romance between Gaston, the chef at the Redwood Grill, and Julia’s Maid of Honor, Molly. Barbara’s own thoughts kept drifting back to Ron.
Barbara had signed up for ranger duty at High Mountain National Park after it became clear that she and Ron were no longer working together as a couple. Ron was on the road most of the time while Barbara finished her forestry degree. Even when he was in town, or when she travelled to see him, she found herself sidelined.
When Wildcat hit the airwaves, it became one of the most popular country hits of all time. It was her song. Ron had written it for their wedding, and now it was everywhere. Suddenly, Barbara’s private life was all over the airwaves. It was in every café and truck stop, every shopping mall, and blaring out of every car radio.
Barbara’s inner cat was not happy about it at all, and frankly, neither was she.
Once Ron began touring constantly, he disappeared. He explained it by making vague statements about needing to protect her. She had heard at one point that he was in rehab. Barbara tried her best to keep away from celebrity gossip. She was hurt and angry enough without the help of TMZ to make her feel worse.
To ease the pain of being alone, Barbara threw herself into her work with the Department of Interior. She quickly rose through the ranks to become High Mountain National Park’s Superintendent—one of the youngest in the National Park Service’s history.
As a shape shifter—or shifter, for short—working at High Mountain was the perfect fit for her. The park and its famous Lone Pine Lodge were an important haven for shape shifters throughout the world, especially those who didn’t fit in anywhere else.
“I wish our bear was here,” said her cat.
Barbara thought about Ron again. A warmth spread through her chest.
“God damn you, Ron Richardson,” said Barbara.
Ron Richardson stood offstage at the Stevenson Center in Seattle. He was exhausted. The crowd was cheering for the band to come back onstage for one final song. Ron loved his fans, and they loved country music the way he played it. But after more than ten years on the road, he was about at the end of his rope.
Ron felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Pete, his manager. Ron cringed.
“Sing Wildcat,” said Pete.
“No,” said Ron.
“Listen, asshole,” said Pete. “I’m done with your shit. You work for me, and you’ll do what I say.”
Pete glared at Ron through beady eyes. “So, are you gonna to sing Wildcat tonight, or what? ”
Ron shot a knowing look at Alf Walters. Alf blew a frustrated breath through his thick, walrus moustache. He was Ron’s co-writer, lead-guitar player, and best friend. Alf sighed and shook his head.
“You gonna keep asking me that damn question every night?” said Ron.
“Listen, motherfucker,” said Pete. “Wildcat is your biggest hit. You haven’t sung it in, like, ten years. And every single show, the fans scream for it.”
“Like I’ve told you, Pete,” said Ron. “If you ever hear me play Wildcat, that’s when you’ll know I’m done.”
Pete angrily handed his clipboard to two large bodyguards. Pete pointed a finger at Ron’s chest.
“Listen, I’ve had enough of your shit, Ron!” yelled Pete. “Your last two albums tanked, I can’t get you booked into the big stadiums anymore. Quigley Guitars are about to pull their sponsorship. I don’t know how much longer I can string you along, so go out there AND PLAY THE FUCKING SONG!”
Ron stood close to Pete, dwarfing his manager by a good foot. They stood in angry silence staring at each other.
“Then I’m out,” said Ron. He turned to leave the theater.
“You can’t leave, asshole!” said Pete through clenched teeth. Pete patted the leather bag on his shoulder. He always carried it with him. The bag had a hand-tooled picture of a snarling puma on the side. Ron was sure Pete had put it there just to piss him off, and remind him of Barbara. Pete had dirt on Ron and had been blackmailing him for years. Inside that bag was a photograph that Pete had been using to keep Ron constantly on tour, and away from Barbara. Inside that bag was the key to Ron’s freedom.
“I own you!” said Pete. “Don’t you ever forget that!”
Alf saw Ron balling his fists and knew where this was going. Pete’s bodyguards glared down at Ron and Alf.
“Ron!” said Alf in his Tennessee drawl. “It ain’t worth it!”
Ron steeled himself, took a deep breath and headed back toward the stage.
“This plan had better work,” said Ron’s inner bear. “I need to see my puma.”
The crowed roared, and Ron felt the energy deep in his chest. For all of the pain and heartache he had to endure, he loved his fans more than anything. This was going to be hard.
“Play Wildcat!” shouted a fan in the front row. Ron grinned.
“Here we go…” said Ron’s inner bear.
Ron collected himself, and picked up Suzy, his battered old Guild 12-string guitar. Pete gave Ron a panicked look and was shaking his head frantically.
“Play the goddamned Quigley!” Pete yelled from offstage. Ever since Pete had made Ron sign the deal with Quigley, he refused to let Ron play Suzy. Quigley guitars were okay. They sounded and felt pretty good, but they lacked the character of old Suzy. Ron wrote all of his songs on Suzy. Pete’s only concession to Ron was that Suzy could be onstage with him, even if she was never played.
“Play the goddamned Quigley!” Pete yelled again.
Ron shook his head and walked over to the microphone.
“Hey everybody!” said Ron. “I’ve got something to tell you all!”
The restless crowd became silent.
“I gotta say,” said Ron. “You guys are the best. You’ve stuck with me through it all. You bought my records. You’ve come to my shows. You’ve become like a big family to me.”
The audience cheered
.
“We love you, Ron Richardson!” cried a woman in the third row.
“And I love all of you,” said Ron. “But sometimes, it’s just time to move on.”
Ron turned to the band. “Thanks, boys! It’s been great.”
“Ron,” said Alf. “What the fuck?”
Ron strummed Suzy in a familiar chord pattern. It had been years, but his fingers knew the way. Suzy responded with a rich sound that only an old Guild guitar could make.
“Holy shit!” said Alf to the band. “He’s playing Wildcat!”
There was a stunned silence in the audience as soon as the last chord sounded, followed by a deafening roar. People were on their feet and cheering. Ron gave Alf a wistful look and turned to the microphone.
“Goodnight, everybody! And thanks for a great career!” said Ron. He put Suzy back on the guitar stand, and grabbing the Quigley guitar, flung it by the neck. The guitar smashed against the stage. Pete ran onstage.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” yelled Pete.
“Like I told you, I’ve played Wildcat, and now I’m officially done,” said Ron. “Adios!”
“You can’t do that to me!” said Pete. “I’ve got powerful friends! I know your secrets! I’ll ruin you!”
Ron brushed past Pete, two middle fingers raised.
“Aw, shit!” said Alf. He hurried offstage. Pete grabbed his arm.
Alf pointed at Pete. “Don’t even start with me!”
Pete stared Alf down, and sagged, defeated. He let go of Alf’s arm.
Alf ran to Ron’s dressing room, but couldn’t find him there. The back door was open. Alf peered out into the cool Seattle air. Ron pulled up in a rental car.
“Get in,” said Ron.
“Why?” asked Alf.
“Just get in the damn car before anyone sees you!” said Ron.
Alf got in the car, and Ron sped off.
“Jesus, Ron!” said Alf. “What the hell happened back there?”
“Alf, I know what you’re gonna say,” said Ron. “But really, I’m done. I’m just done.”
“One shitty comment from Pete and you’re throwing it all away?” said Alf.
Ron sighed. “Alf, you and I have been on the road for more than ten years, and yeah, we’ve had success most folks only dream of. But we’ve got no home. No family. It’s just time to hang it up.”
“What about the band?” asked Alf. “You can’t just leave them.”
“I’ve arranged to pay them off,” said Ron.
“And the fans?” said Alf. “They love you, Ron. Don’t you owe it to them to keep on singing? Keep on writing?”
“Alf, I’ve been thinking about this for a long while,” said Ron. “The last two albums didn’t even chart. Shit, even the Stevenson Center caters to tribute bands and has-beens. The fans may love me, but they want what I used to be. They don’t want me as I am now.”
“What about that damn photograph Pete’s been holding over your head all these years?” asked Alf.
Ron grinned and pulled a battered old Polaroid photo out of his shirt pocket.
“Holee shit!” said Alf. “Is that what I think it is?”
Alf took the photo from Ron. The woman in the picture was half human and half mountain lion. Or as she preferred to be called, a puma. It was Barbara in mid-shift.
Alf howled with laughter. “You didn’t!”
Ron smiled. “I did.”
“Doesn’t Pete have copies?” asked Alf. “What about the negatives?”
“Dude, it’s a Polaroid,” said Ron. “There aren’t any negatives.”
Alf let out a low whistle. “How did you get around Pete’s bodyguards? ”
“Let’s just say it’s amazing what you can accomplish with a wad of cash and a bottle of Jack Daniels,” said Ron. “They had no idea of what I was up to.”
“Well, I guess they know now,” said Alf. “How the hell did you wrestle that Polaroid from Pete?”
“It was the first time in ten years that Pete finally left the damn bag unsupervised,” said Ron. “I only had about a minute to make the grab.”
“Won’t Pete be tearing up Seattle looking for you?” asked Alf.
“Probably not,” said Ron. “With a smashed guitar and a cancelled tour, that Polaroid’s the last thing on Pete’s mind. I’m guessing he’ll figure it out by the morning, though. I’ll be long gone by then.”
“Sounds like you’ve been planning this for months,” said Alf.
“Months?” said Ron “Hell, I’ve been planning this for years!”
“Is that’s why you went all Pete Townshend on the Quigley guitar?” asked Alf.
“I needed a distraction to make a clean getaway,” said Ron. “This weekend’s my twin brother Jake’s wedding. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to miss it. I got Suzy and my bags in the trunk.”
“But that’s not the real reason, is it?” asked Alf. “You and I both know it’s Barbara.”
The two friends looked silently at each other. Alf had known Ron for a very long time. They met as young hopefuls in a Nashville honky-tonk, and hit it off immediately. Alf was the Best Man at Ron and Barbara’s wedding. He had been there to help pick up the pieces when Barbara got the job in Alaska, and when Pete started blackmailing Ron to keep him on tour indefinitely. Alf and Ron were like brothers, and they knew each other’s secrets. They were both shape shifters, after all.
Ron sighed. “Barbara’s my mate and my wife. I have to be with her.”
“Do you think she’ll take you back?” asked Alf.
“I sure hope so,” said Ron. “I have to explain this to her in person. She doesn’t know about the picture. As far as she’s concerned, I left her high and dry to tour.”
“So what the fuck are you going to do?” said Alf.
“The only thing I can do,” said Ron. “Go see my Wildcat and make things right. And I can’t miss seeing my twin brother, Jake, get married this weekend. They’re all up at the Lone Pine Lodge. You coming?”
“The Lone Pine,” said Alf. “In Alaska. You’re shitting me. You’re flying up there tonight?”
Ron shook his head. “Nope. Pete’s bodyguards will probably be looking for me at the airport. They’d like nothing better than to take apart an old bear like me and swipe that picture back.”
“So how are you getting there?” asked Alf.
“I’m driving,” said Ron.
“You’re driving…” said Alf.
“Yep,” said Ron. “I’m gonna buy me a car and head out tonight. The record company rented this car, so I’ll have to get my own.”
“You sure about this?” asked Alf.
“I gotta do it, Alf,” said Ron. “I have to show Barbara the Polaroid so that she’ll believe me.”
“I have to admit that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” said Alf. “But—and I say this as your friend—you’re out of your fucking mind.”
Ron shrugged. “So are you coming or what?”
“I guess so,” said Alf. “I’ve got nothing better to do, and now I’m officially out of a job. Besides—someone’s got to look after your sorry ass.”
2
Ron was crouched down in the front seat of the rental car. He and Alf had parked at the car rental lot a few blocks from the hotel to return the car and to avoid Pete’s bodyguards. Alf knocked at the window, and Ron unlocked the door. Alf put his duffle bag and a guitar case in the back seat, and got in the passenger side.
“Did Pete’s boys see you?” asked Ron.
“No,” said Alf. “The band was pretty bummed that the tour was over, but they were happy that you paid them anyway.”
“I couldn’t leave them high and dry,” said Ron. “I’m bummed, too. That was one of the best bands we ever had.”
“Yeah,” said Alf. “Oh, and I also arranged for the rest of your stuff to be sent to your folks’ place. Mine, too if that’s okay.”
“Thanks, man,” said Ron. “I owe you. You ready to go c
ar shopping? If we’re gonna make it in time for Jake’s wedding, we’re gonna need a car that’ll haul some serious ass.”
“I was wondering about that,” said Alf. “Where are you going to buy a car at 1:00 AM on a Thursday?”
Ron grinned. “You remember Sammy Shapiro?”
“Sammy?” said Alf. “How could I possibly forget Sammy! He was one of the best drummers we ever had. Hell of a nice wolf shifter, too. What’s it been? Seven years now?”
“Uh huh,” said Ron. “You, uh, remember what happened to him?”
“God, how could I forget?” said Alf. “His mate was a groupie who turned out to be another wolf shifter. Lost the best goddamn drummer in the business!”
“And…” said Ron.
“Whose daddy was some rich guy who offered Sammy a legit job…” said Alf.
“Doing…”
Alf’s eyes got big. “Selling high-end cars in Seattle at the biggest Lotus dealership in North America.”
There was a squeal of tires on the wet roadway and a roar that could only come from a high-performance engine. A bright yellow Lotus Evora screeched to a halt in front of them. The passenger side window rolled down. Sammy glared at Ron and Alf from the driver’s seat. He was a short, balding man. Sammy wore powder blue pajamas and a rain coat.
“Y’all are fucking nuts,” said Sammy.
“Good to see you too, Sammy,” said Alf.
“So let me get this straight, Ron,” said Sammy, leaning back in his office chair at Shapiro Lotus. “You’re plunking down $125,000 to buy a car so that you can drive to your brother Jake’s wedding. In Alaska.”
“Uh huh,” said Ron.
“It’s not that I don’t want to sell you a car,” said Sammy. “But why don’t you just, oh, I don’t know—FLY?”
