Dirty Billionaire(7)

He’s talking about our show in three days, the one that will finally get me onstage at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Talk about a completely different universe. Little old me from Gold Haven, Kentucky, opening for country’s bad boy on a stage only slightly less impressive to me than the Opry itself. I just hope I don’t develop stage fright.

I consider Darius’s question. I’m a little homesick, but not because I want to go home—because I don’t really have a home to go to anymore. The only family I had that mattered is six feet under. My first Christmas without Gran is going to be brutal. My first everything without her has been tough, so why should this be any less painful?

Maybe I deserve the pain. Maybe I earned that pain.

But wasting this opportunity isn’t going to bring her back or absolve me of the guilt I’m carrying. Nothing will.

“You ready, Holly?”

I shake it all off as best I can—JC, the record execs, my guilt—and straighten my spine, standing taller in my worn-out boots.

“I’m ready. Let’s take it from the top.”

The rest of practice goes well because I force myself to stay firmly in this moment, firmly in the music. Singing my songs, even on this practice stage, is enough to finally drag me out of the dark place I’ve been sliding into.

As we pack up the gear when practice is finished, I check my watch. I’m headed back to Mick and Tana’s for dinner, and then home to pack for the two shows we’ve got before our extended break. First stop Philly, and then the Big Apple.

I shrug my bag over my shoulder and feel it vibrate with a text. Fishing my phone out, I see one from Tana.

TANA: I thought you said you weren’t doing it!!

I quickly tap out a reply.

ME: ??? are you talking about?

Tana’s response doesn’t hit my phone until I’m climbing into my car and firing it up.

TANA: JC. The engagement.

I called Tana as soon as I walked out of Homegrown and drove to practice. The number of f-bombs she dropped during that conversation was impressive. She almost beat out Mrs. Finchly, Gran’s next-door neighbor, when the repo man came to take her shiny new convertible because her winnings at bingo weren’t covering the payments.

Before I can type out a reply, my phone rings. Tana.

“I’m not,” I answer.

“Um, honey, have you seen Perez Hilton? Because there’s a picture of JC at the very top, and he’s buying a fucking engagement ring. He’s nothin’ but smiles.”

What? No way. No. Way.

“That’s impossible. They just—”

“Hang up the phone and google it, Holly. It’s there. It’s happening. They’re going to corner you into it, and they’re not wasting any time. You need a plan.”

“A plan?”

My brain spins, attempting to latch on to any idea at all, but I’ve got nothing. Nothing but the vision of me standing onstage at Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve celebration, the words “go screw yourself” popping out of my mouth when JC pops the question.

My career will be over. My dream will be dead.

Tana is right; I need a plan. Because boarding a bus home isn’t going to be part of my future. I might be a lot of things, but a failure isn’t one of them.





Christmas Eve, New York City

Bored.

It’s not a safe state of affairs for a man like me. Bad shit happens when I’m bored. I have a tendency to dabble in hostile takeovers when I need something to get my adrenaline pumping. Or I’ll go out and pick up three women, and introduce them to each other in the filthiest way possible.

Judge me all you want; I don’t give a fuck what you think about me. Because I own half this town, and the other half isn’t worth having.

You can check the crotch of my Gucci suit pants for yourself. Not even a hint of a bulge at the thought of a foursome. Threesomes are passé, but it’s a sad situation when even a foursome can’t get my dick interested.

Because I’m fucking bored.

I shove out of my chair and stalk to the window of my tower. You see that down there? Fifth Avenue and my city. We’re just south of the park, which means the holiday lights are everywhere.

I fucking hate Christmas. Just one more holiday that reminds me of things I’d rather forget. But enough of this shit. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I hover my thumb over the screen. I’ve got hundreds of numbers I can call and have a chick on my dick in less than fifteen minutes, even on Christmas Eve. Again, I wait for some sign of action in my pants, but I get nothing.

My dick must be broken. There’s no other explanation for it—except that I’m bored with my options. I know I’m getting repetitive, but bad things happen when I get bored. My past is littered with mistakes that arose from situations like this one.