No Regrets

by Sean Michael

  No Regrets

  by

  Sean Michael

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

  No Regrets

  An Amber Quill Press Book

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.AmberQuill.com

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2014 by Sean Michael

  ISBN 978-1-61124-709-1

  Cover Art © 2014 Trace Edward Zaber

  Published in the United States of America

  Also by Sean Michael

  Art And Snowflakes

  Blue Collar

  Carved In Wood

  Crouching Vegan, Hidden Werewolf

  Digging For Gold

  Dirty Kisses

  Full Disclosure

  The Good Life

  Living The Dream

  Making Your Own Luck

  Office Hours

  Recipe For Love

  Revving It Up

  Royal Line

  Serving Mr. Right

  Silver Edges

  Spot The Difference

  Wallflowers

  Welcome Home

  The Wizard And The Thief

  Working It Out

  Working To Win

  Prologue

  Drake sat on the leather couch in his office, going through the piles of mail on the coffee table in front of him.

  There was the to-be-signed pile, which contained the original letter, a brief synopsis of the letter and an eight by ten headshot. All he had to do was read the synopsis, sign the headshot, maybe include a bit of a personal message and move on to the next one. That was the biggest pile, maybe sixty in it, and he was nearly done. Thank God Molly, his personal assistant extraordinaire, signed his name on the headshots that went out in response to the majority of his fan mail or he'd never be done.

  The next pile was smaller, maybe a dozen letters that Molly thought he'd want to read himself. There was a headshot and a blank sheet of paper with each of those, just in case he wanted to write a letter back or give her instructions on it. There'd be stuff from the Make a Wish Foundation and crap like that in there, folks who wanted his personal attention that Molly thought he'd maybe want to participate in.

  The third and smallest pile was the real mail, as best as Molly could figure.

  He made his way through the first pile, trying not to look at the picture--the blond fly-away hair and his own blue, blue eyes staring back up at him was a little freaky. It looked like him, but not, just like the huge picture from his second album cover that hung behind his desk. He groaned, throwing a pillow at the radio when his latest single came on. He was so fucking sick of the whole thing.

  Drake loved the singing. There was nothing better than writing the perfect lyric, or being in the studio laying down tracks, or up on stage, connecting with fifty thousand people.

  But he hadn't written in months, and his last two albums had been ninety percent material by other people. The passion of it, the fun, was slipping through his fingers like so much dust and he just...

  He needed to get away from it all. From the media and the label and the fans and all the things that pulled him from a hundred different directions.

  He finally finished the first and second piles of letters, leaving them on the side of the coffee table for Molly, and started to look through the three letters in the last pile. Two were from his label and the third was from a Scott Dean.

  Scott Dean.

  Damn, why did that sound so familiar?

  He flashed back suddenly to middle school and a skinny kid with a shock of hair, in creative arts class, seventh grade.

  Damn, he hadn't seen Scotty since two weeks before their final exams when he'd quit school in order to go out on the road as the opening act for Van Halen.

  Curious, he read the letter.

  The scribble was dark and hard to read, but familiar as hell. "Hey, man. Saw you on the TV. You look tired as hell. You ought to come see me and chill some, take a rest. You always did work too fucking hard. Grins. Scott Dean."

  God, Scotty Dean. Drake leaned back and let his eyes close, let some of the memories flow over him. He could remember the poster Scotty'd made for the concert he and his band had given in Perkin's barn back in the ninth grade. And they'd both played on the baseball team a couple years, though not all the way through--coach hadn't been impressed when he'd found out baseball wasn't number one for them.

  He wondered if Scotty was still painting.

  Drake must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, Molly was buzzing him.

  He staggered over to the desk, feeling half-drunk from the interrupted nap and hit the intercom button. "What?"

  "Oh, that's nice."

  He rolled his eyes. "Hi, Molly, what can I do for you?"

  She chuckled. "Better. I've got Bob Andrews on the line for you."

  "Tell him I can't take the call."

  "And why not?"

  "I don't care what excuse you give him--tell him I'm not here, tell him I died, I don't care."

  Bob wanted him to confirm a dozen appearances between now and Christmas and to set up another world tour starting in the spring, and he didn't want to do it. Oh, he likely would, like he always did--it would be good for his career, yadda yadda.

  "I'll tell him you're indisposed." He could hear the disapproval in Molly's voice. She didn't like lying for him.

  "You could just tell him I don't want to talk to him."

  She snorted and disconnected the intercom. He shook his head and stretched, T-shirt riding up out of his jeans. God, he was tired.

  He was supposed to be writing a new album so he could go into the studio in December, and it was starting to look like he was going to be using outside material again. Especially if he was showing up at this show and that festival and... Wait.

  Why exactly was he going to give in and do these appearances and the tour? Because he needed the money?

  He didn't need the money. He was richer than God.

  What he needed to do was take a vacation. An honest to God vacation. A month on the beach or a few weeks in the mountains or...some time with an old friend who nobody knew about.

  He went back to the couch and found the letter from Scotty where it had fallen on the ground. Bless Scott Dean's heart, there was an address there, along with directions to some little town he'd never heard of in South Carolina to Scott's place in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  Perfect.

  He searched out the envelope and pocketed it, just making sure he had all the evidence of where he'd be with him, and headed out the door.

  "Molly? Call Bob back and tell him I'm going on vacation."

  Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, her fingers full of more rings than any one woman needed, her blouse a god-awful lime green with loads of frills. His assistant had a style all her own, but it worked for her.

  "A real vacation, Drake? Or another one of those take my picture circuses of yours."

  He resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at her. It wasn't his fault that he had a whole cadre of paparazzi on his tail wherever he went. The times he got drunk on vacation and pulled stupid stunts they took pictures. On the other hand...

  He shook his head. "An honest to fuck break. I'm not even telling you where I'm going."
>
  That set her to spluttering, and she hung up the phone and put down her pen, entire focus turning on him. "You have to tell me."

  "No, I don't."

  "Sure you do."

  "Nope."

  He leaned against the side of her desk, crossed his arms and grinned down at her. "I don't have to and I'm not."

  "But I'm your assistant! What if something comes up that needs your attention?"

  "Then you won't have to lie when you tell whoever that you have no idea where I am."

  Her lips pursed and her fingers tapped on her desk. "What if it's an emergency?"

  "Deal with it."

  She shook her head. "You can't just disappear."

  "I'm sure as hell going to try." He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "Book a dinner for two under my name at La Farge tonight, and take that nice young man of yours out for a high-class meal." The booking would draw the paparazzi to the restaurant and hopefully give him a chance of slipping away unnoticed.

  "Well, how long are you going for?"

  He shrugged, checking his pocket for his keys and coming up with his cell phone. He passed it over to her. "I don't know."

  "But..."

  "No buts, honey. I'm going and I don't know when I'll be back--you'll see me when you see me."

  "How will I know you're all right?"

  He snorted. "I'm sure if anything happens to me the damned vultures will find out and tell the world. I'm serious about this, Molly. I need out for a while before I wind up babbling like a loon. I know you can keep things running along nicely here without me."

  "Well, I will certainly do my best."

  "I know." He came up with his keys. "Thank you, Molly."

  "Take care of yourself, Drake."

  "You too, honey."

  He headed out the door, leaving Drake the Rock Star behind him, that letter burning a hole in his pocket.

  Chapter 1

  Lord, for a man on vacation, Drake felt tired and strung out.

  It hadn't taken him any time at all to pack up a bag and toss it into his truck. He'd even lost the bulk of the paparazzi on the first day. Then they'd picked up his trail again and he'd had to trade the truck in for an older, more beat-up model that wouldn't link back to him. He got cash advances on all his credit cards so he could pay cash wherever he went--Molly would pay the bills and he had more than enough to cover it.

  Four days later it was nearing sunset and he'd been hopelessly lost for the last two hours, trying to find Scotty Dean's house.

  He was bouncing over a dirt road and, damn, this beat-up old thing he was driving had nothing on his truck. He missed his truck.

  He turned a corner onto a new dirt road, still no signage, nothing. The road curved, and the trees that lined it thinned and suddenly there was a big old farmhouse right in front of him. A truck nearly as beat-up as the vehicle he was driving was parked next to a large shed.

  Could this be Scotty's place?

  He pulled up next to the truck and turned off the engine, then headed for the front porch. "Hello? Anyone home?" Please be Scotty's place. Please.

  "Well, well, well, if it ain't the prodigal son." That low, deep drawl rang out, bright blue eyes dancing at him from under a black cowboy hat. "Goddamn, you're a sight for sore eyes."

  Jesus Christ, Scotty'd grown up well.

  Drake found himself grinning as he admired the lanky form, some of the weight falling off his shoulders. "Scotty Dean. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I got your letter."

  "Yeah, I saw your ass on the TV and thought you looked like you were being hunted. I didn't reckon anybody'd hunt you out here in the boonies." Scotty headed over, grinning from ear to ear. "You gonna really be able to stay awhile, honey?"

  Oh, that drawled honey did something to his insides. Something his lady fans would be shocked to know.

  "I can stay as long as I like. I ran away from it all, Scott," he admitted.

  "Good on you. I got a whole room ready for you." He got a full-on hug, back slapped good and hard. "Come on in, honey. I was just fixin' to put a chicken on the grill."

  He held on to the hug just a moment longer, craving the human contact of a friend, someone who didn't want anything from him, didn't want to be in his life because of his money or his fame or what he could do for them.

  It might have been high school since he last had that, too. His disastrous marriage had been a sham on both his and his wife's parts.

  He let go and grabbed his bag out of the truck, hoisting it over his shoulder. "You cook?"

  "Hell, yes. Otherwise I'd starve." Long and lean, Scotty looked even better from the back than he did from the front. Damn. Old, tissue-paper thin jeans that were painted on. "I go into town once every two or three weeks for supplies. Otherwise? I grow my own or trade for it. It's a good life. You like artichokes?"

  "I like food, period." Though he was tired to death of fancy crap that barely filled you and the last four days had been pretty much all fast food. "I'll eat whatever you put in front of me." Hell, even burned food would be a small price to pay for not having anything to do and not worrying about anybody jumping out from behind a bush to take his picture.

  "Well, there's grilled chicken and artichokes and some rice in the kitchen steaming." Scotty took him around the back of the house, the porch huge and screened, with a hammock and a few big cushy lounges. "Let me get these off the grill, and I'll give you the tour."

  "Oh, this looks comfy." It smelled damned good, too. He didn't sit, worried he'd crash right out if he did. "So what are you up to these days?"

  "Working, working." A giant grill was opened and Scotty turned food. "The big barn there is my studio. The little barn in the back has the horses."

  "Studio? You still painting?" Too cool. He breathed in deeply. "Smells great, Scotty." His growling stomach agreed.

  "Yup. I do good for myself." Why wasn't he surprised? "Saw you and Laura broke up. That must've sucked."

  He grimaced. "The break-up was actually a relief--we both got married for the wrong reasons." They'd been using each other.

  "That happens to the best of us." Scotty didn't look a bit surprised. "She came to see me at my last big gallery show."

  He might not have surprised Scotty, but the man had definitely surprised him. "Really? Why?"

  "She's looking for a piece for her new house. Bought a big old thing for a nice chunk of change. She told me how to get a letter to you." The artichokes got turned again.

  "Well, that was nice of her." Nicer than she'd managed from about one month into the marriage on. Though to be fair, he gave as good as he got. He sighed and rubbed his face. It had been his own damned fault, living in denial, thinking marrying a hot chick would get him a get-out-of-gay-free card.

  It had sure covered him with the media, but his personal life was a joke.

  "I'm looking forward to seeing your work." To having time to.

  "Thanks, man. I've got some stuff I'm working on. Some stuff I'm reworking." He plopped the food onto a platter and eased the lid of the grill shut. "Come on in, honey. You look tuckered out. I'll feed you and point you toward a shower and a nice, soft bed."

  "Hey, you promised me the tour." Not that food, shower and bed didn't sound like a dream come true. But he didn't want to be rude and just show up, eat and fall asleep on Scotty.

  "I guess the chicken can rest. Come on." The kitchen was open and bright, all glass-door cabinets and lemon yellow walls with cobalt blue tiles and floor. Two dogs looked up as they walked in--a huge bloodhound and what looked like a Great Dane puppy, both tails wagging.

  "That's Lord and Lady."

  Drake held his hand down in front of them in a fist, grinning. He hadn't had a dog since he'd started out on the road. It just wasn't fair. They both sniffed and eagerly accepted the attention as he gave them pats and scratches. "Which is which?" he asked, laughing as the Great Dane licked him.

  "Lady's my pup. Lord's the old man of the family." Scotty scra
tched and stroked both dogs, then pulled biscuits from a huge container. "Careful, Lady likes to snuggle in the bed and Lord can sniff out anything."

  "I'll be okay--I've gotten good at tossing ladies out from between my sheets. You would not believe the things groupies will do to get in your pants." His cheeks colored a little--he let most folks believe he liked the ladies and let them stay. It made great cover. He figured he didn't need to pretend with Scotty.

  Scotty hooted, clapped him on the back. "Well, honey. I ain't any different than I've ever been. You won't find any ladies here."

  He chuckled and nodded. "You're lucky, you know," he said softly. "Being truthful with yourself from the start." He should have been. He had been for the last five years or so, even if no one, not even Molly, knew what that truth was, at least he did now. "You'd better show me this house of yours before I become maudlin and start in on my poor little old me routine--it isn't pretty."

  He got another, sudden hug. "You just need some peace, honey. You'll find it here. I won't crowd you none."

  Then his ass was patted, and Scotty headed through a doorway. "This here's the front room."

  The house was hilarious--pure Scotty. The walls were covered in art and paintings, the furniture overstuffed and leather. There were bunches of tiny rooms, each one a different color, a different theme. They headed up the stairs, Scotty giving him a little two-room suite, painted a deep, rich blue. The bed was huge, the chifforobe for his clothes just as big.

  The window looked out onto a pond, a pasture. No houses, no buildings. Just freedom. He stood there for a long moment, looking out and breathing, wonder holding him in its grasp.

  "I'm not sure how to thank you, Scotty. This is exactly what I needed." He'd been this close to breaking, to losing it, he'd felt it, felt his skin getting stretched tighter and tighter and had been just waiting for it to snap.

  Hell, it still might, but he knew if it did Scotty'd be there to make sure he knew where all the pieces were.

  "You just keep me company a bit, honey. I've been feeling the urge to see folks again. Your bathroom's through there. I'm across the hall."