by Caisey Quinn
The next act stepped out of the shadows and took the stage. Kylie heard a deep male voice with a sexy southern drawl say, “Damn. Just my luck to have to follow that.”
The audience was still shrieking and screaming and Kylie knew she’d done well, but seriously?
“I apologize for standing y’all up a few weeks ago. Musta got my dates mixed up. Probably time to fire that manager of mine,” the handsome man on stage drawled.
Who was this guy? Whoever he was, the women in the audience were going crazy over him.
“Well, since that good looking waitress stole my number, guess I’ll have to sing something else. Where is that girl anyways?”
Oh God. Oh God, please no. Kylie’s heart sank and her high evaporated instantly. She turned to face the man on stage. Trace freaking Corbin was standing there with a guitar in one hand and the other to his eyes, scanning the crowd for…her.
THERE WAS only one way out of this. Okay, maybe two. Duck and hide and risk losing her job, or face the man whose song she’d just butchered in front of several hundred people. And risk losing her job.
Well, she’d never been one to back down, and she’d never ducked and hid from anyone in her life. Certainly not some cocky-ass country music singer who everyone knew was pretty much drinking his career down the drain.
“Can I get you a drink, Mr. Corbin?” Kylie asked in the sweetest tone she could muster, stepping towards the stage.
“No, ma’am. Got one,” he told her, winking at the audience and lifting a beer bottle in her direction. Thick dark hair peeked out from under a trucker’s hat, and muscular suntanned forearms flexed at the end of his rolled up shirtsleeves. His bright white smile was framed by boyish dimples, and damn those jeans were doing things to her.
“Then what can I do for you?” she asked, rolling her eyes at the crowd as if she was annoyed with the megastar for interrupting her work. Good Lord. If they only knew that her heart was beating triple time against her ribs.
“Well, since you stole my song, the least you could do would be come up here and sing with me,” he slurred. For heaven’s sakes, the man was half drunk. And geez, could his jeans get any tighter? Focus, Kylie.
“Excuse me, sir. You mean to tell me you sing a song about bein’ a single girl that can’t be tied down?” The audience cracked up all around her.
“She’s cute, Clive. Where’d you find this one?” Trace bellowed across the bar. Kylie didn’t look to see what Clive did, but she could see a few cell phone screens lighting up the room. This was definitely going to be on YouTube. Trace Corbin was going to make sure she never got recognized in the industry, unless it was by people laughing at her.
“Well, pick a song already. I got tables to wait on,” Kylie said, hopping back onto the stage.
He eyed her carefully as he lifted his guitar. “You gonna change the words all up? Make me look like a fool?”
“Oh no, darlin.’ Pretty sure you can handle that all on your own,” Kylie answered with a flirty grin.
She prayed she looked like she was keeping her cool, but the last time she’d seen this man he was on CMT and she was watching from her bedroom in Okla-fricking-homa. And holy hell if he wasn’t even hotter in person. He smelled like aftershave and bourbon. Kylie decided then and there that she’d never be able to get a whiff of either without recalling this moment.
Trace played a few cords and winked at her. She just shook her head. Whose friggin’ life was this? She recognized the song immediately. Waitin’ for You to Call, one of his “booty call ballads,” Lulu called them.
“It’s two am, can’t believe I’m back here again. We called it off again tonight, just like all the other times. But we both know it wasn’t right.”
The deep timbre of Trace’s voice sent unwelcome shivers through Kylie’s body, but she launched into her half of the lyrics. “I’ve got the T.V. turned down and my ringer up loud, waitin’ for the sound that says you’ve come around. Can’t wait to hear your voice as you say those words, the ones that always cause me to fall. I’m here waitin,’ waitin’ for you to call.”
Kylie knew she didn’t do as well as she had done when she sang on her own. Her voice shook a few times and she could barely concentrate on the lyrics with the famous singer watching her so closely. So she just stared into the bright lights and pretended she was singing to her daddy in Heaven as they harmonized on the chorus.
“I know you didn’t mean the things you said, know you didn’t mean to leave my bed. You said you couldn’t do this anymore, said you didn’t want to try. But I know you, and this is just another lie.”
She took a second to pull air into her lungs while Trace sang his part. “The sun’s comin’ up and my heart is breaking down. I’m still waiting for that sound that says you’ve come around.”
Softening her voice to imitate the way she’d heard him sing the next verse on the radio so many times, she sang her final solo. “You don’t have to say you’re sorry. I forgive you. I won’t have to say I love you, ‘cause you already know. We won’t waste time apologizin’, just pick up the phone.”
With her heart thrumming louder than the music, Kylie let her voice flow into his as they sang the final chorus together. “I’m here waitin’, waitin’. I’ll be right here waitin’, waitin’. I’m still waitin’ for you to call…”
She should’ve just thanked the audience, hopped down off the stage, and resumed her regularly scheduled life. But she didn’t. Instead she made the colossal mistake of looking over into hazel eyes that had darkened to the color of the sky just before a deadly twister touched down, destroying everything in its path. She was from Oklahoma and she knew a thing or two about storm warnings. Trace Corbin was setting off all the sirens inside of her. Kylie was standing directly in the path of something wild and dangerous and a hell of a lot more powerful than her. Look away, her subconscious screamed. But she couldn’t, because for the first time since her daddy died, she was alive.
KYLIE DID everything she could to try and behave like a normal human being for the rest of her shift. She waited tables, filled drink orders, and ran drinks for waitresses on break. She rolled her eyes when Tonya gestured maniacally at Trace Corbin and a few other men who were sitting in a back booth with Clive.
“That was seriously amazing. I mean, wow,” Tonya told her with wide eyes as they cleaned the hospitality room. “Trace’s band still hasn’t cleared out of the green room. And by the way, he was totally giving you fuck me eyes on stage.”
“No he wasn’t,” Kylie said, feeling her cheeks heat because she couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in that glare of his.
“Yeah he was,” Tonya said with a laugh. “And I mean it, you held your own.” The woman didn’t even attempt to keep the awe out of her voice. “That chick I told you about going on tour, she couldn’t hold a candle to you.”
“Whatever, I think you need to go home and get some rest. I got this.” Kylie shooed her away saying, “Think of your cute little kiddo in her little pink jammies.”
Tonya paused near the door. “I’m just…I’m afraid I’ll never see you again,” she said quietly.
“Unless Clive fires me, you’ll see me tomorrow.”
But Tonya just shook her head and then crossed the room to give Kylie a hard squeeze.
I am so fired, she thought as her friend hugged her tighter.
“Don’t get pregnant,” Tonya whispered in her ear, and then she was gone.
Okay, weird.
THE EMPLOYEE lounge was empty when Kylie settled in to wait for Trace Corbin and his band to vacate the green room so she could start cleaning up. Her heart was still beating a bit faster than usual from the night’s odd twist of events.
She couldn’t stop replaying the scenes over and over in her head. If this was how working at The Rum Room would be, hectic, unexpected, and amazing, she could see herself being happy here for a long time. A wide smile was still stretched across her face when Clive came in, looking similar to how Ms. Pam
had the day she let Kylie go. Of course. In her life, everything that seemed to be too good to be true always was.
“Well, little lady. I have to say, you surprised me this evening,” Clive told her, wiping his sweaty brow and sinking into the couch next to her.
“Good surprise or bad surprise?” she asked, using all the self-control she had not to bite her lip.
Clive chuckled in response but didn’t answer. “There are some men out there that have a proposition for—”
“Oh no, Tonya already told me about those men,” Kylie broke in.
“Not those men, Kylie. Trace Corbin’s guys.”
“Um, am I like in trouble or something?” She gave in and chewed her bottom lip. Geez, could the guy not handle a little sarcasm?
Her boss laughed again and shook his head. “For heaven’s sakes girl, they want to talk to you about touring with him.”
“What?” Kylie figured this had to be a joke. And not a particularly funny one.
“Look, Trace is a good kid. I’ve known him a long time but lately things have been—”
“I know,” she interrupted quietly. “I watch TMZ.”
“Right, so here’s the thing. It’s your life and this is a huge break. I’m not too old to see that. But you’re young and talented and I can make some calls. It’s not like this is your only shot, understand?”
Her mind couldn’t even fully accept that this was really happening in order to answer. Trace Corbin’s “guys” were about to offer her some kind of a deal. But Clive was advising against it, sort of. Too much to process, she thought to herself while trying to regulate her breathing. Her hopes were on the verge of soaring out of her reach but Clive’s warning kept them hanging on, even if it was by a thread.
“So you think I should tell them ‘thanks, but no thanks’?”
Her boss heaved out a sigh. “I can’t tell you what to do. You seem like a smart girl, and if you decide to go…then I’ll understand. You will always be welcome here to play music or to wait tables or whatever you want.”
“Thanks, Clive. Seriously.” She paused for a second and then added, “He doesn’t like me very much, does he?” She said a silent prayer that she wouldn’t have to clarify.
The older man cleared his throat so loud it sounded painful. “It’s not about that. And if it does start to be about that, then you need to get the hell off that tour.”
LIKE THE ghost of dreams past, the girl staring back at Kylie was a stranger. So many times she’d dreamed of performing in front of a packed house. And now here she was, about to live her dream.
Straightened silky blond locks flowed over her shoulders framing perfect skin and clear blue eyes that were wider and brighter than they’d ever been. The spray tan, facial, teeth whitening, and full body wax she’d had to undergo had peeled away plain old Kylie, and underneath was Kylie Ryans, fresh-faced newcomer touring with Trace Corbin.
It was her first show as Trace’s opening act. Pauly wanted them to do a song together, but Trace wasn’t interested. In fact, Trace was pretty much non-existent.
The morning after Trace’s big night at The Rum Room, Lulu had called shrieking with excitement about seeing Kylie and Trace on the Internet. Kylie had told her friend about the offer from Trace’s guys.
Despite the arguments she’d built up in her head and the long list of reasons not to run off and jump on a fledgling tour, Lulu had cut clean to the point. “No offense, Ky, but what have you got to lose?”
A cold hotel room and a waitressing job, albeit a pretty good one. Seemed stupid to turn down a legitimate offer from a once platinum album-selling superstar. Plus, there were only six shows left on the tour. How bad could it be?
So far, pretty damn bad.
The first time she’d stepped onto the huge bus, the smell of leather and expensive men’s cologne nearly overwhelmed her. Running her hand lightly over a marble countertop, she stopped abruptly when she saw Trace Corbin sitting in the circular booth across from the compact kitchenette area she had to walk through to get to the room she’d been told was hers. Like a gauntlet.
“Mr. Corbin,” she said softly, mentally slapping herself for how much of an intimidated kid she sounded like.
He didn’t stand up, didn’t shake her hand, or even offer her a head nod in greeting. No “Welcome to the tour,” or “Mi casa su casa.” Nothing. Just steely eyes raking over her, appraising her and finding her lacking. He raised an eyebrow and leaned back in the booth, taking up as much space as possible. As if to say he was king of all he surveyed and she was taking up too much of his time and too much room on his bus.
Well, she wasn’t looking for a new BFF. She could deal. She quirked a brow of her own, passing him quickly. And then she hid in her tiny room for the rest of the evening.
Giving up on the fitful version of sleep she’d been working at, she sat up in the middle of the night somewhere between Nashville and Dallas. The bus was stopped and she could hear men arguing. Kylie tried lying back down and closing her eyes to block them out until she heard something that sent her heart pounding. Her name.
“Seriously, this is the best you could come up with? A waitress from nowhere fucking Oklahoma? If I’d have known this was going to happen, I never would’ve pulled the little twit up on stage,” Trace’s cold voice said. Kylie tried to ignore the jagged blade of hurt carving into her. Well, she’d been called worse. The insults Darla had slung at her when she’d kicked her out had included words she didn’t even know the meaning of. Whore was one of the ones she knew. Kind of ironic since Kylie was still technically a virgin, not that her stepmother would believe that. She jumped at the sound of something crashing against an interior wall of the bus and thudding to the floor.
“Look, I get that this isn’t the ideal situation. But what the hell did you expect? There was the debacle with The Pretty Pistols, you punched Bryce Parker in the face, and then you broke the little American Idol girl’s heart and tossed her out like yesterday’s garbage. You’re not exactly playing well with others, here, and frankly…you’re out of options.”
Kylie didn’t hear his response but she had just learned a great deal about Trace Corbin. Turns out he was kind of an asshole. Figures.
Great, she thought, relaxing her crouching position and resting her head on the wall next to her. I’m on the tour from hell and everyone else has been smart enough to get off.
The morning after her eavesdropping, Kylie was getting some fruit from the kitchen when Trace stumbled in. Pauly was doing something on his iPad in the curved booth. “Was that the last banana?” Trace asked as she began to peel her breakfast.
She stopped mid-peel. “Maybe. You want it?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said, practically growling at her.
“Well, you can have it,” she relented, tossing him the banana, even though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. “On the condition that in the future, you keep your late night, whiny baby, celebrity crap to a dull roar so the little twit can get her beauty sleep.” Kylie paused to glare at the man across from her. “Think you can manage that?” Pauly’s head snapped up and they both waited for Trace’s reaction.
Trace glared back but the corners of his mouth twitched. “I can try,” he said evenly.
“Yeah, well, don’t hurt yourself, superstar,” she said as she sauntered past him into her room. Screw it. She wasn’t that hungry anymore anyways.
If he responded to her it was drowned out by the sound of Pauly’s hysterical laughter.
Since then he had been polite. Distant, but polite, which Kylie was more than fine with. But now there was an hour before she was supposed to go on stage in Dallas, and Trace Corbin was nowhere to be seen. While staring at her almost unrecognizable reflection, she had a feeling he was going to make damn sure her dreams never came true.
Like hell.
“GET OFF the stage!”
“We want Trace!”
“Go back to Oklahoma, waitress! Hey, get me a beer first!”
Kylie had been on stage for over an hour. Her set was only forty-five minutes and the crowd knew it. Pauly’s voice had come through her ear piece demanding that she stall both times she’d tried to wrap it up. But the patrons at The Blue Moon knew a hack job when they saw one. She was out of material and the crowd was about to get violent.
“I’m so sorry, Trace can’t be here tonight. He’s—”
An amber glass bottle whizzed past her head before she even had time to think up a decent excuse for his absence.
“Pauly!” she shouted as two security guards converged on a man in the back. Pauly appeared and escorted Kylie off stage. She was shaking. Not from fear. From anger. Trace Corbin was going to get an ear full. Whenever he turned up.
IT WAS nearly three in the morning when Kylie heard the bus rumble to life. They were scheduled to perform in Baton Rouge tomorrow night.
If the bus was moving, he was on it.
Kylie burst out of her room and started to storm to the front of the bus but stopped halfway. Trace was strewn across the booth in the compact kitchen.
“Fun night, Mr. Corbin?” she asked him. The beautiful mess in front of her lifted his head, hair flopping over one eye. He threw her a wicked grin before answering, “Yeah, yeah it was.”
“Good, I’m glad. Because I got booed off stage and had a beer bottle thrown at my head. So at least one of us had a good time.”
If she thought she was angry before, she was nearing homicidal. The cocky jerk laughed. Freaking laughed, as if the thought of beer bottles being hurled at her while she was booed was the perfect end to his night. No ‘I’m sorry,’ or even ‘That sucks,’ just outright laughter.
“I’m glad I amuse you, but in the future if you can’t be bothered to show up to your own damned show, feel free to give a girl some notice.” Kylie started to stalk back to her closet of a room, but she was still boiling. And she was determined not to lose anymore sleep over this selfish jackass. No, she was going to rage on, getting it all out until she was exhausted.
