“I have a guy,” she replied. “And I know he’s up for it.”
“Kylie, if it’s who I think it is—”
“He’s a friend, Chaz. A good friend. He needs a job, and I could use a friend on this tour.”
“A tattooed friend with a reputation of leaving your apartment in the middle of the night?”
She snorted. “A talented guitar-playing friend who will have my back so I don’t lose my composure while on tour with someone who pushes all my buttons.”
“And you’re sure about this?”
Was she? It felt like she was. Her liquor-fogged brain couldn’t conjure up a pro- con list at that particular moment, but for the most part, she was sure.
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll let Aiden know he can sit this tour out. But, Kylie?”
“Yeah?”
“I just want to go on record as saying I think this is a bad idea. One of your worst actually.”
“Noted.” Yawning, she hung up with Chaz.
Less than thirty minutes later, she was in the process of passing out on her couch. The night was kind of a blur, but she was pretty sure it had been a success. Mostly.
The nagging feeling that she was supposed to stay awake for some reason kept her from succumbing immediately to exhaustion. But just as her phone began to ring, she fell into a peaceful sleep.
The last one she would have for a long time.
KYLIE WOKE up with a start that landed her ass on the floor next to her couch. Her head pounded steadily in rhythm with her ringing phone.
She crawled over to where her purse was dumped out next to the coffee table.
“Hullo,” she answered sleepily once she’d located the source of the incessant ringing.
“I’m guessing you forgot about picking me up and I should grab a cab,” her best friend snapped.
“Oh shit.”
“Nice. I feel the love.”
“Lulu, I’m an idiot. Forgive me?” Kylie rolled on her back and waited for the floor to stop tilting.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you in a few. Wait. There aren’t going to be any pantsless men in your apartment are there?”
Her friend’s question sent her reeling even harder than the hangover. Had Steven come over last night? She glanced around the apartment. No sign of any pantsless men.
“Nope. Just me.”
“Lame. I guess I might forgive you, though hearing you’d spent the night having great sex would’ve made your forgetfulness slightly more redeemable.”
Kylie sighed. It always came back to that. Sex.
The tabloids had it wrong. Her manager had it wrong. Even her best friend in the whole world had it wrong.
The truth—the cold, hard, painful truth—was that Trace Corbin was still the last person she’d had sex with. And that sucked. It sucked even harder when a picture of him and Gretchen Gibson having lunch somewhere made the front page of the Nashville Star. Made her want to run out and grab the first guy who was willing and beg him to make love to her.
But every single time she and Steven had come to crossing that particular threshold, one of them always held back. Or passed out. Their encounters rarely occurred when sober.
“Sorry to disappoint,” she told her friend. “See you soon, Lu.”
“MOVE YOUR ass, Country Queen,” Lulu said as she banged on the bathroom door the next morning. “We have to leave in an hour and I need to shower.”
“Nice rhyme. Maybe you can write my songs from now on,” Kylie teased as she exited the bathroom.
The two of them kept up the constant witty banter all morning in an attempt to avoid discussing the situation at hand. The one that was about to become their reality for the next few months.
Stepping out of her apartment building and into the unforgiving glare of the sun, Kylie squinted and slid on her aviators. Beside the black SUV picking her up stood her manager and a slender exotic-looking girl with a chin-length haircut that looked as expensive as her designer suit.
“Kylie, this is Hannah, the day-to-day manager we discussed accompanying you on this tour. Hannah Reagan, Kylie Ryans,” Chaz said gesturing to each of them.
Kylie shook Hannah’s hand briefly. “Nice to meet you, Hannah. Not sure what you did to get stuck babysitting, but I’ll try not to get gum stuck in my hair. Not too often anyways.” She smirked but then forced her lips into the most genuine smile she could manage. Wasn’t this poor girl’s fault her management company thought touring with Trace was more than she could handle on her own.
“I’m Olivia,” Lulu said. “Stylist, best friend, life coach, and owner of Kylie’s embarrassing middle school pictures should you need them.”