Page 3 of Country Heat

“Thank you, Tennessee,” I say with a wave of my hand.

I look out at the crowd. They’re all cheering and hollering, screaming and bellowing until their faces turn red.

It occurs to me that they think I want this. That they think I’m flattered by this. That they’re making me feel good.

All I really want is to have a conversation. An actual, down-to-earth, legitimate conversation. Not a Hollywood reporter asking me the same dumb questions over and over again while the camera records over her shoulder. Not dozens of fans pushing and elbowing each other as they try to get my autograph or a selfie with me. Not a business meeting where everyone is kissing my ass.

Just a conversation. At a table with coffee. A beer in front of a campfire. Anything. Just a real human connection for once, instead of this… monstrosity. Whatever this unnatural thing is.

I wave one last time and shuffle off the stage.

Bret is there, looking relieved. I didn’t give him the enthusiasm he requested, but at least I didn’t smoke on stage and swear at the audience. He’s counting this as a win.

“I told you I didn’t want to playBusted and Bruisedanymore,” I growl at him.

“I know,” he says with his voice racing. “But it’s your biggest hit! You have to play it. The audience is expecting it, all one hundred thousand of them. Don’t be selfish, Cash.”

“Selfish?!” I say, about to rail into him. Nothing about my life is selfish. Everything I do, I do for other people. For him, for the record company, for the producers, the band, the fans. If I was brave enough to do something for me, my lips would be wrapped around the barrel of a revolver.

“I told you, I don’t want to play?—”

The words disappear from my mouth when I see what must be an illusion walking by in the distance. My heart stops as I stare at her until she disappears into a room surrounded by half a dozen people.

“Cash?” Bret says as I stare open-mouthed at the closing door. “Cash, are you okay?”

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t… stop… staring…

There’s no way she was real. She was a hallucination. A fantasy.

All those drugs and all that alcohol over the years is starting to catch up to me. It must be rotting my brain out.

But then a bodyguard opens the door to go in and I catch another glimpse of her.

She’s sitting on the couch, smooth legs pressed together under her white jean skirt. Her hands are clasped in her lap as she does a vocal warm-up with what must be her mom. I can’t stop staring. Her long blonde curly hair, bright green eyes, and young exuberant attitude. She’s a dream. A muse. A fantasy come to life.

She’s what angels must look like. I can feel her youth and excitement and it’s contagious.

“Are you…smiling?” Bret asks, staring at me in shock.

“No,” I snap, frowning. “It’s just… Who is that?”

The door closes right after he gets a peek.

“That’s Lola Lively,” he says. “The hot new thing. She’s got the number two country track in the country.”

I swallow hard as I stare at the closed door. “Who has the number one track?”

“You do, Cash,” he says with an eye roll.

“I want to meet her,” I say as my feet start moving.

“She’s going on now,” he says. “Where are you going? Cash!”

The door bursts open and she comes out surrounded by her crew. I step back and stare at her in awe as she makes her way to the stage.

My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to tear my chest apart.

I feel myself leaning in, desperate to get close to her, to smell her, to watch her, to touch her, to be engulfed by her beauty and innocence. Ineedher. Like I’ve never needed anything.

---