7
M y cowboy babysitter hates me.
Ford Montgomery thinks I’m an immature, spoiled brat.
Not even the shower has rejuvenated me. I can still feel the iced coffee all over my lap. The sharp scratch of hay. Hear the whinny of those damn horses. Even though I was scared to death being around them, I stuck it out. I didn’t run.
I slip on a robe, tousle my wet hair, and slam back a sugar-free energy drink. My measly purchases from The Corner Store all sit on the kitchen counter. The carbonated liquid settles heavy in my belly. I need something electric in my system, otherwise, I’ll just crash-land somewhere sad.
I hate it here. Hate Ford Montgomery and his sharp stinging words.
The last thing I want to do is spend time with a spoiled, pampered, pain-in-the-ass princess.
Most of all, I hate that he’s right. I don’t even want to spend my day with me. I tried hard today. I shoveled that fucking hay. But it wasn’t good enough. I never am.
To everyone who knows me, all I am is some shallow pop princess with a fake twang.
Every awful emotion crashes into me. How did I think I could do this? Heal? Be a better person? Because I can’t.
I stare at my face in the mirror. My hair is curled beyond reason and for a second, I’m six years old, singing “Delta Dawn.” My mother is clapping along, my father handing me sheet music to my favorite song. Back when I felt like I could do anything. Especially survive.
I pace the chalet, stopping at a window to open the blinds. Though it’s 9 p.m., the sun has barely set. It’s like it wants to stay up as long as it can. Briefly, my mind lights on the lake I haven’t yet seen, but it’s not what I want.
Two sides to every coin. And that’s how I feel. Halved. A walking contradiction. Old Reese wants to go out and disobey. Dance on bars and drink whiskey. Do anything I want, anytime I want. Room service at 3 a.m. An impromptu flight to Paris.
This Reese, Ranch Reese, New Leaf Reese, should stay here. I’m in hiding, right? I should be a good girl. Sober up. Stay sane. Recharge. Re-live.
Maybe there are two of me. The Reese I created to survive in the real world, and the Reese I get to keep for myself. The hidden Reese that no one knows.
It doesn’t matter. No one wants to know the real me.
I don’t even know the real me.
Panic builds on top of my lungs, my heart, my chest. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe.
Out. I need to go out.
I dress fast. Stilettos. The sexiest dress I brought with me. Makeup. Glitter all over my body. Gold eye shadow.
When I step outside the chalet, my lungs release. I can breathe again.
I scan the dusk-lit field. The chalet is set so far out, it’s desolate. A pang hits me that I’m not on the ranch. That another person doesn’t want me around. I shake the grim thought out of my head.
I spot a ranch hand headed toward a busted truck and rush up to him. “Hey, hi,” I say. “I’m Jane.”
It’s the same ranch hand who brought me my coffee. It was Ruby’s idea. A sweet gesture, even if it pissed off Ford. Good. Whatever his problem is, I want no part of it.
“Can you take me into town?” I gulp air. “A bar. With whiskey.”
His eyes graze over my hips before landing on my face. “Whiskey, huh?”
“Yes.”
His grizzled features appear amused, but he nods. “Get in the truck.”
Hitching rides with strangers. It’s quick, impulsive, and feels so much like the old Reese I want to cry.
Nowhere is a dive bar about thirty minutes from Runaway Ranch in a small town called Resurrection. Sam dropped me off with the prophetic words of warning, “Two o’clock means you run.”
I weave through the high-top tables littered with beer cans and ashtrays, headed toward the bar. A jukebox plays outlaw country. Willie and Waylon and Johnny Cash. The scent of whiskey and stale peanuts lingers in the air.
It’s not a Vegas nightclub, but it’ll do.
“Whiskey and beer,” I tell the bartender as I settle onto a stool. I have no idea how I’m paying for it, but that’s a problem for Drunk Reese.
“You look familiar,” a man next to me says, giving me an approving nod. He wears flannel and a trucker cap.
“Instagram influencer,” I lie. “Knitting.”
“I don’t have Instagram.”
I bat my lashes at him. “Lucky you.” I lift my beer. “Cheers.”
We knock the lips of our cans and chug at the same time.
I finish first.
“Damn, girl, you can put those away,” he says, closing the distance between us. I bristle. He smells like tobacco and sour body odor. On his face is a leering grin. He gestures at the bartender, who slides another beer and a shot of whiskey in front of me.
I take a deep breath and debate. I know what the guy’s trying to do. But I want that distraction, don’t I?
My body is begging my mind to stop thinking, so I silence it with a shot. I down the beer in three quick gulps. The sharp smell of yeast suddenly has me flashing back to Gavin. My first record deal when I turned twelve. His sharp, impatient gaze as I signed the contract. A Vegas nightclub on my eighteenth birthday, and the never-ending flow of liquor. Kyler handing me a whiskey the minute I woke up from a hangover. Sex I don’t remember. My stomach curdles at the vile nostalgia.
I don’t want to be that person, do I? But I don’t know how to stop.
I want to be free. But all today showed me is I don’t know how.
The guy’s hand slides up my leg.
My heart beats crazily, but I don’t stop him.
“Everything okay here?”
I glance up at the disgruntled, growling voice. A surly, bald-headed man wearing a leather-vest and sporting a long white beard stands behind the bar. He gives an icy stare to the guy next to me before shifting his attention to me with a look of concern.
“You from around here?”
“No.” I think fast. “I’m a…a guest at Runaway Ranch. Jane.”
“Jane.” He sets a glass of water in front of me. “You need anything, you holler.”
From the corner comes the faint strains of a guitar. I swivel on my stool, wobbling a bit thanks to the whiskey. An older woman with feather earrings tunes her acoustic guitar. A mellow country song from the ’0s. Goose bumps run up my arms.
She’s who I want to be.
Resolve fills me.
I have to call Gavin. There’s no time like the present. No time like liquid courage.
Squaring my shoulders, I pull out my phone and dial.
“Hi, Gavin.”
“It’s about fucking time,” he seethes.
When I hear that sharp snap of anger in his voice, my heart beats so fast that my lungs seize up. Any hope I had that he was worried about me is effectively dashed.
“Where are you?”
“It doesn’t matter where I am.”
“I need you to think clearly right now, Reese. I’m willing to forgive you if you come back. You got your tantrum out of your fucking system. Now come home.”
“You fixed it. You told the world I’m in rehab just like last time. No one cares.”
“Everyone cares,” he retorts. “The winter tour. The album. You’re supposed to host the ACMs, for Christ’s sake.”
“They’ll find a replacement.”
“There are consequences, Reese. Big, important consequences.” He sighs. “Think of the fans.”
“I’ve thought about the fans since I was seven, Gavin. It’s my turn to be selfish.”
A small part of me feels like a failure. Because I should want this. Fame. Fortune. But I don’t. I never did.
“We have contracts to sign. Meetings to attend. Money to make. We need to capitalize on everything you can do. Not play vacation.”
“The meetings can wait, Gavin. I need this.” My voice tremors. I can feel the thin thread of exhaustion inside of me stretching tighter. “I need a break. I can’t be locked up this way.”
“Locked up.” He snorts. “Please. You have everything. You’ve got the voice, Reese. Those fucking legs. That body. Money. What else do you want?”
My eyes flutter shut as his words all jumble together.
Not true. Not freedom. Not my life.
“I don’t want this, Gavin.” I grip the phone tight. “Please. I don’t want to go back to—to before Muirwood.”
“Unbelievable. After everything I’ve given you, everything I’ve done for you, and this is how you act? You should be fucking grateful.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. My body hurts. Be grateful . I should be, but I can’t. The sadness pours into me and I can’t shake it off, no matter how hard I try.
My eyes snap open. Anger flares through me. “Be grateful? You turned my cards off,” I hiss.
“And it got you to call.”
“I’m not calling for money,” I lie. “I got a job.”
“A job? Where?” Now Gavin sounds suspicious.
I smirk. “Face it. I don’t need you.”
“I should fucking sue your ass for breach of contract.”
“Am I in breach, Gavin?” I go for a cool tone and glance at the man next to me. “Threaten me all you want. I currently have a lawyer looking over my contract right now.”
Over the line, Gavin sucks in a breath.
“Say hi, Joe.” I stick my phone in the man’s face.
“Hi—”
I rip back the phone. “See?” I say. “Don’t fuck with me.”
Gavin’s quiet. Too long.
Memory pulls at me. Ten years ago. The day I signed our contract is blurry, but I picked up that pen and gave Gavin control over everything. I never asked questions. But Gavin’s uneasy silence, and the pit in my stomach, tells me I should have.
A cold sweat breaks out over my palms. I really need to get that fucking contract.
“How long?” His voice is calm and even. “How long do you need?”
I exhale. My heart trembles, like it can barely believe my win. “The summer?”
“The summer. I understand.”
My eyes grow big. “You do?”
“Listen, I’m just worried, Reese.”
“You are?”
“Of course, I am. You’re so special to me. My shiny little shooting star.”
At his words, hot tears fill my eyes.
It’s the exhausting fight of loving Gavin and hating him at the same time. Being suspicious and trusting him. Because who else do I have to trust, to love? It’s like trying to see beyond the universe. You can’t.
“Don’t worry, Reese. I just want to help you. I understand how hard it must be, but I will help you. You can trust me, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“I’ll do this for you, but you do something for me,” he says, his voice low and strained. “Take your fucking pills, you hear me? Check in every few days. The summer will go by before you know it, and you’ll be home. And we’ll work everything out.” Gavin sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “Including the contract.”
I hang up the phone. Even though I should feel thrilled by this small victory, all I feel is deflated. Because eventually, I have to go back.
Chest heaving, I stare at the drink set in front of me. Over my head, the black hole shimmers.
A hand slides up my back, and I scrunch my eyes shut at the foreign groping sensation.
You’re okay. Be brave, Reese. Be brave.
Tottering on my stool, I shoot back my shot, spin around, and grab the man’s collar. “Let’s dance.”