I took a breath and played it.
“Hi, peanut. I know you don’t want to be bothered on your trip, so I won’t keep you, but I didn’t get a chance when we were on the phone earlier to remind you about that loan. I’ve got this new thing going that’s gonna be huge, and I’m getting in on the ground floor. I won’t bore you with all the details, but if you could just send me a check for, oh, twenty thousand—maybe make it twenty-five—that should be good. Thanks, peanut. You’re my best girl.”
I kept listening for a few seconds, almost like I expected something more, but of course, there was nothing else. He just wanted money, same as always.
I deleted the message. Took a deep breath. Counted to ten.
After I replied to my stylist, saying I’d add the fittings to my schedule and reminding her I was on vacation for two weeks, I sent a note to Jess.
I made it! Got in about half an hour ago, and all is well.
Yay! Place okay? I know it’s definitely not the five-star hotels you’re used to but you said you wanted something rustic where no one would find you!
You did a great job! It’s perfect. Small, hidden away, definitely rustic, but clean and cozy. I love it.
Good. Enjoy your time off!
You too!
Next, I texted Wags and my mom together.
I’m here. I’m fine. I’m happy. No sign of bears or even humans nearby.
I’m keeping my phone on Do Not Disturb so I can commune with nature, but I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t worry about me.
Immediately, Wags liked my initial message and typed one back.
I’ll worry anyway, but thanks for letting me know, and keep in touch.
My mother replied with this:
What about wolves? Google says Michigan has wolves. And something called a gray rat snake.
I shuddered. Gray rat snake?
I did not like the sound of that one little bit. Should I Google it just so I’d know what I was up against? I nearly typed the words into my phone, then I decided against it—better not to know.
I pushed open the door and stepped out onto the front porch, gingerly looking this way and that for any sign of slithering, and shrieking when a small brown bird landed in front of me. The bird flew away, and I laughed at myself. Taking a moment to snap a bunch of selfies, I chose the one I liked best and posted it for my nearly four million followers. Grateful for the sun on my face, I wrote.
Hopping off the porch, I spied a trail leading through the trees and followed it at an easy pace. In my ears was my favorite playlist, a mix of current and vintage country music stars, all women, all iconic, all badasses. As I worked up a sweat, I tried to channel some of their confidence and positive energy.
The truth was, the criticism of me and my music bothered me more than I let on. I hated being called a reality show hack, a sellout, pop-country window dressing. I hated that I’d let people tell me my real name was boring. I hated that in order to get ahead in this industry, you had to be a brand, not just a musician. I hated that I was starting to feel entirely manufactured.
I wanted to feel like my younger self again—the girl who stayed up late writing songs with a flashlight under the covers when she was supposed to be asleep. Those songs had meant something to me. Those songs were where I buried my deepest hurt, expressed my greatest joy, and dreamed my wildest dreams.
I wanted that girl’s voice to be heard.
The trail ended at some kind of river or creek, and even though I was hot and sweaty, the water looked sort of green and scary. With visions of a slimy gray rat snake in my mind, I decided not to risk a swim and turned for home again. It was while I was on my way back that a song idea came to me—not fully formed or anything, just a few scraps of lyrics, a three-quarter time signature, and some chord changes I hadn’t played with before.
I was so excited, I didn’t even stop to wipe off the sweat, I just grabbed my guitar and a piece of paper. After scribbling down some notes, I recorded myself messing around with the chords and rhythm. It wasn’t perfect, but when I played it back for myself I was happy. It was a good start.
My stomach growled as I stripped off my running clothes, and I realized I hadn’t eaten in nearly eight hours. Between what I’d brought from home and my stop at the farm stand, I had enough on hand to make a nice little pasta dinner for myself. I’d even packed a bottle of wine. Tomorrow, I’d drive into town and stock up.
While I was in the shower, I kept trying out different lyrics, and while I was rinsing the conditioner from my hair, the perfect lines came to me. Frantic to write them down, I jumped out of the shower and bolted from the bathroom naked.
That’s when I discovered the bearded lummox in my living room.
THREE
xander
The girl had some pipes.
Her scream was so loud, you’d have thought I came after her with an axe. (Did I mention I know how to throw an axe?)
She also had a smokin’ hot body with plenty of curves, and her long wet hair was clinging to her bare skin like vines. As quickly as I could react, I turned around and held up my hands so she wouldn’t think I was there to harm her.
But the high-pitched shrieking continued as she ran back into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Then silence.
Except that my ears were ringing.
Tentatively, I turned around and called out. “Kelly Jo Sullivan?”
“Go away!”
“My name is Xander Buckley, I’m—”
“I know who you are—the bodyguard! And I already fired you, so go away!”
I moved closer to the bathroom door, so I wouldn’t have to yell. “I can’t do that.”
Kelly, on the other hand, continued to shout. “Why not?”
“I made your brother a promise.”
“What promise?”
“That I wouldn’t leave no matter how hard you tried to make me.”
“Damn him,” she muttered quietly. Then louder, “What’s he paying you to be here? I’ll pay you double to leave!”
“He’s not paying me.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I owe him a favor.” I paused. “Actually, I owe him my life.”
A few seconds of silence passed. “What?”
“Six years ago, he saved my life in Afghanistan, and I’ve been waiting for the chance to repay the debt.”
The bathroom door flew open. She’d wrapped one white towel around her head and a second around her body, which she held in place with stiff wooden-soldier arms. It struck me how much prettier she was without any makeup on. I noticed the ginger lashes and the dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, like cinnamon on whipped cream.
“Well, I am not that chance,” she declared, lifting her chin. “So you can just march yourself right on out of here and wait for the next one.” She pointed a finger toward the front door. Her nails were unpainted and trimmed short.