I Can't Make You Love Me, but I Can Make You Leave

by Dixie Cash

  I Can’t Make You Love Me, but I Can Make You Leave

  A Novel

  Dixie Cash

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Dixie Cash

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Midland, Texas

  Sunday, September 4

  Roxie Denman, opening act for the old has-been, Darla Denman, sat in front of a square mirror in a tiny room that had been pointed out to her as her “dressing room.” Who were they kidding? The fact was, she was in a janitor’s room. It had been converted for the weekend to accommodate performers in Midland’s annual telethon, raising money for Alzheimer’s disease.

  Someone had done a decent-enough job clearing out the space and had tried to make it attractive by adding the mirror and a vanity, even a vase of fall flowers. But the lingering, pungent scent of Pine-Sol and other disinfectants gave away the room’s true purpose.

  The smell offended Roxie more than anyone could ever imagine. It wasn’t her olfactory senses that were bothered. What was utterly odious to Roxie Jo Jennings Denman were the memories those smells evoked—memories of being a small child and accompanying her mother to various cleaning jobs in the evenings—offices, churches or whatever she could find that someone would pay her to clean.

  While her mother worked, Roxie had usually kept herself occupied with books and/or puzzles. The churches had been her favorites. Most of them had had stages. During those times, Roxie played make-believe. She would walk down the aisles, nodding to imaginary fans and autograph seekers, posing for cameras that weren’t there, and then she would slowly walk up the steps to the stage. There, she would face her audience, the admirers, those who wanted to be like her.

  She had been gracious to her make-believe fans, had reminded herself to be humble. Even at a young age, she had noticed that people seemed to like when you behaved as though you didn’t deserve what you had been given. God knew she had watched her mother act that way each time she was paid for the work she had done. Her mother’s obsequiousness had irked Roxie. Her mother had worked her fingers raw and red. Why did she have to show gratitude for what she had earned? Those hypocrite bastards were obligated to pay her and they should have paid her more. Instead, they had taken advantage of her almost apologetic acceptance of her pay and expected her to do extra.

  Her mother had been spineless. And Roxie had learned at the woman’s knee that the last thing she herself would ever be was spineless. She would never go “hat-in-hand” to anyone and her eyes would never be cast to the floor in humility. Nosiree. If she had to, she would lie and steal, cajole and connive, do anything short of murder. When anyone dealt with Roxie Jo Jennings they would have their hands full.

  Roxie stared at herself in the mirror. Roxie Jo Jennings. There was a name she hadn’t thought of in a long time. And thinking of it now reminded her she needed to decide what her new stage name would be. She didn’t want to use her current name, Denman. Fans might confuse her with being more than an acquaintance of Darla Denman. And one thing was for certain—being married to Darla’s ex-husband was as close to a family tie to the washed-up singer as Roxie wanted.

  She was mulling over a list of names when the door opened and a visitor came in. The visitor was familiar, but unwelcome at the moment. Roxie scowled. “Don’t you know to knock before coming through a closed door? I could’ve been naked.”

  The visitor smiled. “I don’t mind. I’ve seen you naked before.”

  “You’ve seen me that way only because it was my choice. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’ve got a pass to my dressing room.”

  The visitor looked around the room and chuckled. “But this is a closet. And a janitor’s closet at that.”

  The mockery ignited a flame in Roxie’s soul. “Get out of here! I’ve got to get ready.”

  The visitor leaned close to her ear and whispered, “What do you have to do? You can’t possibly be more beautiful than you already are. We’ve got a little time. We could make good use of it. Like we did back in Nashville. Remember?”

  What they had done in Nashville was the last thing Roxie wanted to remember. “You ass.” She picked up a long metal nail file and stabbed the hand that was making its way down the front of her robe.

  The visitor yelped in pain as blood welled from an ugly puncture wound. “God almighty! How am I supposed to do my job with my hand punctured?”

  The visitor appeared to be in pain, but Roxie was unaffected by the sight of blood now smeared on the vanity. “Don’t you ever touch me again,” she spat. “And don’t you ever say anything about Nashville to anyone.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll kill you. Get out of here. Now.”

  The visitor walked to the door and pushed the button, locking the two of them together in the small space.

  “You maniac. You stalking loser,” Roxie yelled, out of patience and angry. “Open that fucking door and get out of here!”

  The visitor grabbed the nail file and yanked Roxie’s robe open, exposing two exquisite man-made breasts. “Suppose we take this stiletto you call a nail file and stab one of these high-priced tits you’re so proud of. See how good you look on stage with a deflated balloon where a tit used to be.”

  Roxie picked up her hot curling iron and swiped at the visitor’s cheek.

  The visitor ducked, then made a lunge that took them both to the floor.

  A mad scramble. A cry of pain. Then silence.

  They lay entangled. Neither moved.

  Then the visitor pushed away from Roxie’s limp body. “Roxie?”

  No response. The visitor gasped at the metal file protruding form Roxie’s neck and the pool of red spreading on the floor. “Roxie? Say something.” Shaken, the visitor stood, covered with blood.

  A knock on the door broke the eerie quiet. “Ten minutes, Miz Denman.”

  The visitor looked around the room.

  Run! a voice said.

  A terrycloth robe was draped over a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall near the door. The intruder grabbed it and shrugged into it, wrapped it tightly, covering blood-stained clothing, then carefully opened the door and glanced outside in all directions. Seeing no one, the visitor eased out, pulled the door shut and quickstepped away.

  The corpse of beautiful Roxie Denman lay on the floor of the janitor’s closet, her big debut ending where her life had started—in a tiny room that smelled of Pine-Sol.

  Chapter One

  Two days earlier

  Friday, September 2

  Grrrrrowl . . . scre-e-e-ech . . . rumba-rumba-rumba . . .

  POOF!

  Unusual noises brought Darla Denman, former Queen of Country Musi
c, out of a sound sleep. Blinking herself awake, she realized she was not moving and she should be. Her bus had come to a dead stop. She swung her feet to the floor, bent forward and searched for her shoes, a pair of strappy high-heeled sandals that were supposed to make her look sexy and feel young.

  By the time she stumbled to the front of the bus and the door, a cloud of gray smoke was roiling against a pristine sky of brilliant blue and an odor that smelled like burning oil choked her. She pushed the door open and lurched out, turning her ankle when she stepped on a rock. Cussing through clenched teeth, she grabbed the door’s edge for support.

  That was when she saw her entourage, such as it was, huddled at the bus’s rear bumper, murmuring in low tones.

  Tenting her hand over her eyes to block out the glaring sun, she looked past the smoke. Noon. It had to be noon.

  She shoved a sheaf of her newly dyed red hair—“Ginger Violet” the bottle it came in had called it—out of her eyes and turned in a tight circle, scanning her surroundings. Her barren surroundings. In any direction, all she saw was tan dirt and a gray, straight-as-a-ribbon highway disappearing into the horizon. And a pale green yucca plant in the far distance.

  Her current manager and former husband, Big Bob Denman, stood a few feet away, a road map unfurled between his hammy hands. Darla limped to his side. “My God. Where are we, the friggin’ moon?”

  “We’re a couple miles outside of Salt Lick, Texas,” he answered.

  “Salt Lick?”

  “On this map, it looks like a small town. Surely they have someone who can tow us in and do some repair work.”

  Not believing what she had heard, Darla yanked the map from him and snapped it wide between her own hands. “Salt Lick, Texas? Never heard of it.” She quickly perused the map, but didn’t see the name. She had to admit that without glasses she had difficulty seeing anything, especially small print. “How in God’s name did we get here? We had to have driven straight through Midland.”

  “Judy wanted to stop in and see her dad, so we made a little detour.” Bob removed his sunglasses and held them up for a lens inspection. “You were asleep. I didn’t see the harm.”

  He walked back to the bus’s door and reached inside, dragged a small sledge hammer from under the first seat. For a fleeting moment, Darla wondered why a sledge hammer was riding under the seat of a tour bus full of musicians, but when Bob started for the front of the bus, she abandoned the question and followed him, still limping. “Judy who?”

  He stopped and gave her an arch look. “Darla. Judy? One of the backup singers?” He started walking again.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Darla waved his sarcasm off as she hobbled after him. Hell, nobody had to tell her Judy was a backup singer. “You didn’t see the harm in making a little detour in Texas? Bob, I was born and raised in Texas. There’s no such thing as a little detour in Texas. Where does her dad live?”

  He mumbled something that sounded like “Santonya” as he lifted the hatch on the engine housing. He craned his neck and looked inside, then started pounding something with the hammer. She planted herself beside him, but the clash of steel against steel made conversation impossible. “Where? . . . What? . . . What did you say?”

  Bob stopped with a deep sigh, straightened and looked directly at her. “San. Antonio. Ever hear of it?”

  “Are you kidding me? That’s not in West Texas. That’s three hundred miles out of the way.”

  “No, it’s not,” Bob said, a lazy, crooked smile tipping the corners of his too-attractive mouth. “It’s two hundred and seventy seven miles.”

  Darla thought her brain might explode and completely shatter her skull. She thrust her chin and roasted him with a glare. “We’re low on cash. This piece-of-shit bus is held together by a prayer and baling wire. And you take us three hundred miles out of the way?”

  “Two hundred and seventy seven,” Bob corrected.

  “I swear to God, Bob Denman. You say that one more time and I’ll kill you where you stand. After I scratch your eyes out with my new acrylic nails.”

  “We’re ahead of schedule,” he replied, then leaned in to her and whispered, “I felt sorry for her. The last time she saw him she was only nine years old.”

  “When was that? Last year?”

  “Don’t snap, darlin’. It’s unbecoming. She’s not that young. I told you, she’s twenty.”

  Darla rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh. Tell me again where you found both of them. Julie, Judy, whoever.”

  “Their names are Judy and Kay. Like I said, sweetiekins, it was a local talent show.” He returned to tinkering with the engine.

  He was still acting like a damn mechanic, which was a damn joke.

  The only thing he knew about motorized vehicles was the location of the gas tank cap. Darla sighed, allowing him that macho crap of looking like he knew what he was doing. Besides, staying irritated with him was too hard. He was the best man she knew. He would give a stranger his last dollar. And indeed, if it was within his power, he would make a 277-mile detour to give a young woman an opportunity to see her long lost daddy.

  Darla crossed her arms under her breasts. “I’d better not find out that local talent show was karaoke night at Chuck E. Cheese,” she grumbled.

  “Sweetheart, anyone you’ve ever worked with has retired, quit, died or we couldn’t afford them. Everyone I told we were putting a show together took on a look of panic. And when I mentioned going on the road with Darla Denman, they practically jumped out of their skins.”

  That remark stung so painfully, Darla almost couldn’t bear it.

  After a deafening thud he straightened again and made a half turn toward her. “Well, that oughtta do it.”

  “It’s fixed? Really?” Incredulous, she couldn’t keep her eyes from widening, an idiot grin from forming. “Hell, Bob, I didn’t think you knew anything about motors.”

  “I don’t.” He held up a black grease-covered object shaped like a human heart. “This just fell off and I don’t have a clue what it is. Like I said, that oughtta do it.” He dropped the hammer and the unidentified object on the ground, yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and started wiping grease from his hands. “Guess we can start walking.”

  “Are you crazy?” Darla raised her sandal-shod foot. “I can’t walk anywhere in these shoes. Hell, I can’t even stand in these shoes.”

  Bob glanced at her foot. “That begs the question, shugie-pie, why wear ’em? But you’re right about the walking. None of this crowd could walk a block.” He plucked his cell phone from his back pocket. “I’m calling nine-one-one.”

  “Salt Lick’s a fly speck on the map. You really think it’s got nine-one-one?”

  “How big does the map say it is?”

  Darla found the map’s legend. “I can’t see a damn thing without my glasses,” she mumbled. “I think it says less than two thousand people,” she said louder. “I’m saying a lot less.”

  “Hmm.” Bob rubbed his chin, leaving a smear of black grease.

  Darla grinned. She couldn’t help it. The smudge detracted not one iota from his square jaw and his ruggedly handsome face. In fact, he looked indescribably cute.

  Whoa, girl, the voice of common sense warned. Time to rethink your thinking.

  “I could hitch a ride into town,” he offered. “Y’all get back in the bus and get comfortable.”

  But Darla detected no enthusiasm for that venture in the heat of the West Texas sun. “You’ll never get a ride,” she said. “Look at this road. There’s no cars. No traffic whatsoever.” She raised a finger skyward. “But I know what you can do. The map says Salt Lick’s a county seat. That means they have to have a sheriff’s office. Give them a ring. See if they’ll send out some help.”

  Bob turned to walk away, calling over his shoulder, “Yep, that’s a great idea. That’s why I called them before I worked on the engine. They should be here in about ten minutes.”

  Darla stamped her foot, and sand and caliche dust covered her bare toes. Shit
! “Well, asshole, why didn’t you tell me?” she yelled.

  “I just did,” he shot back.

  “Too bad this didn’t happen when we were in San Antonio three hundred miles back,” she shouted, her notorious redheaded temper no longer in check. “We could’ve forgotten about the concert and strolled the friggin’ Riverwalk instead!”

  She watched as he joined the group at the other end of the bus and draped his muscular arm with familiar ease over his wife, Roxie’s, shoulder, his hand resting near her oversized silicone implants. Damn him. Age hadn’t changed him that much. If anything. he looked better. He had lost some weight. Yep. Trim and tanned. Probably working out, trying to keep up with his young wife. Asshole.

  Regret pinched Darla. She had been in Roxie Denman’s shoes once, married to Bob. Back in the day, he was not only charming and good-looking, but was one of the most successful music producers around. He’d had a small stable of talented up-and-coming entertainers and was on his way to making it big in the music business. When the two of them met, the heavens opened and angels sang. Darla had been a naïve nobody, but she’d had stars in her eyes and talent. She had also been headstrong, unfortunately, and as determined as Roxie to be the best female recording star ever.

  One by one, Bob had dropped clients to have more time to concentrate on the rising Darla Denman’s career alone, which hadn’t been a bad move for either of them. Under his guidance, her talent had blossomed and her career had zoomed beyond anything she had ever realistically expected. As husband and wife, she and Bob had rolled in money and good times that should have given them all anyone could ever dream of, including a future together.

  Then she had ruined everything. Her ego, her love of partying hardy and a weakness for sweet-talking men had destroyed her and Bob’s marriage and ultimately Bob’s livelihood. For her, several husbands had followed. And several more divorce settlements. Time had marched over her voice, her face and body and through her bank account like Santa Anna at the Alamo.

  She made a mental sigh. Fifteen years had passed since all of that misery. Bob still had a few clients, mostly second-tier musicians just looking for a short gig here or there. Most people in the music industry still knew and liked him, but he had never recovered the reputation he had once had. These days, Darla blamed herself for that more than anyone would ever know. Thank God hard feelings had softened. Now, ironically, she and Bob were back where they started, with him managing her career again. But a few things were different. Darla Denman was thirty years older and an equal number of pounds heavier. And Bob had a new wife—a talented, headstrong, determined kid named Roxie Jo, a Darla Denman wannabe.