Trace sat in the polished mahogany-filled office that belonged to his lawyer arguing with his sister for the third day in a row. But Rae’s case was finally being closed it seemed. Her friend’s family had settled on an amount and it was being handled out of court.
“It’s just, the girl is fine. The doctors said she’ll make a full recovery and they’re taking advantage because of who you are. It’s not fair, Trace.”
He looked at his sister and his manager, who was also her boyfriend, as they sat there holding hands. Rusty blades of regret stabbed him deep in the chest.
“Well, fair isn’t exactly the running theme in my life, in case you haven’t noticed. I’ll deal with it.”
After he’d signed a nondisclosure agreement and a check with an astronomical figure written on it, he left the lawyer’s office. Pauly and Claire Ann had asked him to come to dinner with them, but he could only handle being around people in love for so long. He really wanted to see his baby sister and check in on her physical therapy session, but she lived with his mom and that was a lady he avoided at all costs.
After Kylie had decimated her verbally, in that special Kylie Ryans way she had, the woman had actually offered him a half-ass apology. But he was past caring about that these days.
He’d worked out the things he’d needed to work out with Gretchen, so he had that going for him. But he had a meeting with Capital Letter Records in a week. He was pretty damn sure it was going to be the final ‘so long, fuck you very much’ from Noel Davies.
And then he’d have nothing left. Not. One. Damn. Thing.
Ripping the tie from his throat, he aimed his truck in the one direction he knew he shouldn’t.
“WHAT CAN I getcha, handsome?”
He snorted. The waitress’s vision must’ve been bad. Or she was willing to lie for a good tip. He hadn’t shaved in a week. He had a trucker hat pulled low over his bloodshot eyes. He couldn’t even remember the last night he’d had a decent night’s sleep.
“Just club soda for now, sweetheart.” He knew he’d practically snarled at her. But he wasn’t in the mood for nice. He’d come into the bar after an hour of sitting outside in his truck and trying to come up with reasons not to.
When he finally worked up the nerve, he’d stepped into his own private hell. The scent of beer and bourbon and cigars had slapped him so hard in the face he’d nearly turned around and walked right back out. But an unrelenting desire propelled him forward. Need. Emptiness. A pain he could only rid himself of one of two ways.
Either Kylie Ryans in his arms, or a bottle in his hands.
Turning to his left, he saw the mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles. He caught a glimpse of his reflection and nearly threw his glass at it.
It was a strange thing to see the devil inside himself. To recognize the tormented creature that thirsted for destruction he was sure he’d chased away for good.
But that was the really screwed up part about being an alcoholic. It was a beast that lay dormant, not one that ever went away.
Everything he’d been through in his entire life twisted together in his mind, as if thrown into a blender that was set on puree.
There was no escape from it. From her.
The smell of her, the feel of her. The sweet honey-vanilla taste of her skin that matched her intoxicating scent. She was blinding shards of light in the darkness of his mind. The memory of being inside her was cruel and vivid, even more so than any of his nightmares. Having her was like taking a hit of something that took him higher than he’d ever been. Losing her was what he imagined going cold turkey on heroin might be like.
She’d run. Grabbed her heart out of his hands and taken off just as he had when everything had gotten a little too real.
She needed space. And she’d wanted answers he didn’t know how to give.
He didn’t even blame her.
And he didn’t know how to get her back. Gretchen had some theories, but she was the last person on the planet he planned to ask for help with Kylie Ryans.
He winced at hearing her name. And even though he hadn’t even had a drop of alcohol yet, he heard her voice. Her strong, melodic voice. The one he assumed would be haunting his dreams for years to come.
“And we have the exclusive, folks. Kylie Ryans, Nashville’s Sweetheart, has called off her The Other Side of Me tour after a final show in Oklahoma City.”
“Turn that up,” he hollered to the bartender, an older gentleman who he was pretty sure owned the place.
“Keep your pants on, buddy,” the old man answered as he reached for the remote.
Trace lost his breath when her beautiful face filled the screen.
“It just wasn’t right. And the label is upset, and the sponsors will want to be reimbursed, and I know there will be disappointed fans. That’s the hardest part, knowing I let people I care about down. But this is the right thing to do.”