Page 2 of Country Music Cowboy
The familiar lump, cold and hard and jagged, wedged itself in her throat. “Thank you.” Two months of anger and frustration, sadness and grief so crushing that getting out of bed on some days was a challenge. But hiding under the covers, eaten up with useless emotion, carrying on and crying buckets of tears wasn’t her way. It’s not like it helped.It damn sure didn’t change a thing.
“We were at the Oasis together.” Several of Travis’s trademark tousled dirty-blond curls fell forward onto his forehead as he spoke. “Last year.”
The Oasis. Johnny’s home away from home. The Malibu California addiction treatment center catered to the very rich and famous. It had worked, sort of. Johnny always came home clear-minded and determined to stay clean and healthy…but it never lasted for long. This last time, he’d barely made it two months.
“He was a good guy,” Travis added.
“He was,” she agreed. Good and beautiful and gentle and too broken for this world.
“You need anything?” Hank asked.
“No, I’m ready to get started.” The sooner this rehearsal was under way, the sooner it was over.
“Come on, then.” Hank waved her forward, then turned to head back the direction he and Travis had come from.
She followed, glancing at the man walking alongside her.
The Golden King. The Casanova of Country Music. The Heartbreak King. King of Smiles. King Charming. Over the years, that tabloids had given him an impressively long laundry list of nicknames. To be fair, she had never seen a bad picture of him. Even inthe video, he’d looked pretty perfect. And yes, up close, he did have a blindingly perfect—almost Photoshopped—appearance. The hair. The blue-green eyes. The body. But his beauty was skin deep.
“Here you go.” Hank opened the door for them. “I was hoping we could have this out at our place today.” He broke off, coughing. “Excuse me. My wife built a studio out there, we’re calling it the Music Barn, and it’s something.” Hank shook his head. “Saves time, back and forth from home and Austin.”
“Another studio?” She scrambled to recover. “This isn’t… I mean, this isn’t yours?”
“As of next week, Wheelhouse Records is the owner.” Travis stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans, looking more than a little uncomfortable.
What was that about?
“Made a lot of good memories in here. And some damn good music too.” Hank inspected the room. “But times change and you gotta learn to change with it.” With a smile, he added, “Y’all get set up and we’ll run a sound check. They sent the music?”
She nodded. The music had popped into her inbox seconds after her frustrating phone call with Ethan Powell. “It looks good.”
“It does.” Hank cleared his throat again. “I’ll give you a minute to get settled?”
“Thank you.” Loretta turned, slowly, to take in the Kings’ private recording studio.
That was when she saw Travis King pull a prescription pill bottle from his jeans pocket. He opened it, shook a pill into his hand, popped it into his mouth, and closed the bottle. Seconds later, it was back in his pocket and he was taking a drink.
A drink—from a whiskey glass. A now empty whiskey glass.
It was so surreal she wondered if she was seeing things. Surely that’s what it was. Surely Travis King hadn’t just taken a pill with a whiskey chaser? That hadn’t really happened. When had he started using pills? She glanced around, looking for other witnesses—hoping for confirmation that she was seeing things.
Only she wasn’t. And, honestly, she was surprised. She’d known Travis wouldn’t stay sober for long… But that didn’t stop her anger, hot and fast, from damn near choking her.
Ever since the news had broken that the duet for the International Music Awards “In Memoria” performance would be Travis King’s big return to the stage, the anticipation and buildup waseverywhere. Unavoidable. Inescapable. All the hype and media were about him, his recovery—his comeback. The Comeback King.
It was a lie. All of it. The proof was literally staring her in the face.
Sonofabitch.
How was she supposed to do this? This year’s “In Memoria” would include Johnny. Her best friend. Her singing partner of eight years. Whether or not they shared DNA or blood, he’d been her brother. He was gone.
Professional. Cool, calm, and collected. One song.
“Ready?” Hank King’s voice echoed in the live room, waving through the glass that separated the live room with the control room.
No.
“Side preference?” Travis asked, smiling, those blue-green eyes giving her a quick head-to-toe inventory of her, setting her blood to boil.
