Girl in Love(4)

Kylie arched a brow. “I think I’m missing the point of this little speech.”

“The point is they look awful on you.”

“That was a really shitty analogy. Wish me luck.”

Bryce Parker and an actress Kylie didn’t know but vaguely recognized were hosting the awards show. They were right in the middle of announcing her as the next performer when Mia touched her on the arm and sighed loudly.

“Sorry if that was harsh. I know you’re still hurting, and I can be kind of insensitive sometimes. Good luck out there.”

Kylie nodded and turned toward the stage. “Thanks,” she mumbled. The weirdest part was she wasn’t hurting. She wasn’t anything. She was numb and had been for the better part of a year. It’s why she wasn’t nervous about performances like this. She felt nothing.

Well, she felt Bryce Parker trying to cop a feel when the lights went down. She smacked his hand away. Hard.

But other than that, nothing. No butterflies, no jangled nerves. No worries about anything going wrong.

Except…when the lights came up on her this time, in that brief moment before the band cranked into her song, she looked down. Because she had the oddest sensation that instead of wearing the five thousand dollar designer dress she had on, she was actually in her sweatpants.





“WE PROBABLY shouldn’t sit by each other.” Gretchen shuffled down the aisle around Mike, putting a seat between them. “Unless we want to be engaged with a baby on the way tomorrow.”

“You’re being paranoid.” Trace shook his head.

He hadn’t even wanted to come to this. The label was holding all the cards now though, and he was grateful they’d understood about his needing time to step back from his career and get his drinking under control. Plus, he wasn’t a complete moron. They weren’t really as understanding as they were pretending to be. They just didn’t want to send a public message that they didn’t want their artists to get help if they needed it.

He knew that at the first sign of any wrongdoing on his part they’d drop the ax over his head so fast he wouldn’t even feel the pain of being cut loose.

“No, I’m not,” she said. Her voice was a hiss of a whisper because the lights were going down as the show began. “You need to read some tabloids, my friend. There’s all kinds of stuff going around about us.”

“I’ll pass. Thanks.”

He didn’t care what anyone said. That had been part of his therapy in rehab. Overcoming the impulses that surged when he felt out of control or powerless.

Some things he could control. Himself. His drinking. He was working on his temper. What a bunch of dickheads printed about him in some trashy-ass magazine…there was nothing he could do about that.

“She’s right, Trace.” The oldest member of his band, Danny, leaned over. “If you want to start clean, then you two need to keep your distance. If it gets around that you and Gretch were in the front row for Kylie’s first big performance, you’ll be a shoe-in for Asshole Country Artist of the Year.”

He blinked at the man. Kylie’s big performance?

He hadn’t paid attention to any of the stuff about the awards show. He’d just shown up because the label said he had to. Before he had time to ask any questions, the room went pitch black. Bright pink lights on the stage caught his eye. They lit up, one letter at a time. K-Y-L-I-E-R-Y-A-N-S.

Aw hell.

“I’m an alcoholic,” he whispered to Danny. “An emotional drinker. None of y’all thought it might be a good idea to mention this ahead of time?”

Danny’s eyes were glued to the stage as he answered. “Pauly and Noel said not to. Said you wouldn’t come.”

Trace turned to see her coming from the smoke and fog on stage. The lights hit her and for a second he couldn’t breathe. “I wouldn’t have.”

In nearly a year of rehab, he’d learned a few things. One was that there were certain situations he had to avoid if he wanted to remain sober. Triggers, Dr. Reynolds called them. Tabloids—any media coverage at all, actually—were some of them. He’d yet to determine if Kylie Ryans was a trigger or not.

Guess I’m about to find out.

The woman on stage was something else. Her sound had changed. It was harsher, angrier. But mesmerizing. She was a force of nature up on that stage, stalking toward the audience as her lyrics hit him like bolts of lightning.

I know they talk trash behind my back. But baby I got news for you. Those crazy rumors about me? Well hell, they might all be true. I’m not a nice girl.

He tried to focus on his breathing while her guitar player rocked out. She was doing country-rock crossover? Last he’d seen her perform, she was going more a folksy bluegrass route.