Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
JACKSON
My belly is full, I’ve got a light buzz thanks to Bella’s cocktail, and I’m only mildly irritated by the Sunday dinner with my family. Perfect time to get to songwriting.
My fingers trip over the strings of the guitar. It’s a mindless exercise now, so practiced that it’s perfect. The melody from that afternoon’s brainstorming session pours out of my guitar, and I pair different sets of lyrics with it, seeing what fits best. All things considered, the Sunday dinner went better than I expected, in that I didn’t end up throwing any punches. I made my appearance, I responded to questions, and I made it through.
Best outcome for everyone.
Only problem is that if I stay in Fork Lick long enough to finish an entirely new set list for the Strawberry Jam, I’ll be sitting through a lot more Sunday dinners. I could chalk up tonight as a fluke. Give the Bedd brothers a second opportunity to fuck things up, and we would. I could only hold my tongue for so long against their constant ribbing and needling.
A knock on my door pulls me out of my trance. Without stopping the tune I’m fingerpicking, I call out, “Who is it?”
“Bella.”
Before I can respond, the door opens. She looks at me as though I should have been expecting her.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
She steps inside and shuts the door behind her. She’s got on a silky pajama set—pink shorts and a tank top—that showcases her olive skin tone and phenomenal legs. I try not to stare, but the curves beneath her top threaten to unravel me. She cocks a hip.
“Why didn’t you tell your family the real reason you’re not performing your hits?”
A sigh tumbles out of me. I set my guitar down, unsure where to even begin with that minefield of a question. “Do we really have to get into this?”
“Yes. They just think you’re holding out on them, but that’s not the truth. Why don’t you tell them?”
I rub my forehead. I don’t know how to gracefully encapsulate the struggle of being the creative black sheep of my rural farm family, especially with my conservative granddad ruling the house and my older brothers all eager to fall in line to please him. Throw in the ongoing grief of losing our parents, and our childhoods were just shy of a shitshow. We took it out on each other—and everybody knows old habits die hard.
“Maybe it’s none of your business,” I tell her.
“It is some of my business,” she shoots back, “especially now that I’m caught in the middle of this.”
“You’re not caught in the middle. You just know more than the others.”
“No, I’m caught. I’m organizing this festival, remember? They’re going to come to me eventually and ask. I’d never spill your secret without your permission, but I just want to understand why you won’t share a little bit more with the people who know you better than anyone else in the world.”
I watch her for a moment. I can tell she’s invested. Sincere. It’s surprising, given that I thought she’d never paid attention to me for a millisecond over the past five years.
“I’ve always been something of an outcast, if you couldn’t tell,” I finally say. I rest my elbows on my knees, weighing my words carefully. “They’ve never been big fans of how I choose to spend my time. They see creative pursuits as less virtuous than ‘real work’. At least, that’s what Grandad drilled into all of us. So while I know they aren’t exact replicas of Grandad, they sure as shit don’t need to know that my decision to be an artist out west has left me high and dry, financially and personally. It'll just confirm what they’ve known all along.”
“And what is that?” She crosses her arms and tilts her head.
I swallow. “That I’m a fucking idiot who should have stayed around to help the family farm.”
Her brows draw together, and for a moment, it seems like she’s more upset by my words than I am. “There’s no way that bad deal happened because you’re an idiot. When did you sign it—when you were twenty? Almost twenty-one?”
I nod.
“And without a lawyer?” she adds.
I nod again.
“Yeah. You were scammed,” she says emphatically. “It happens all the time out in LA. All across the world, in fact. But especially when it comes to major record deals. Besides, I know you’re not dumb.”
“I’m glad I can check you off the list,” I say wryly.
“I’ve seen what you’re working on,” she goes on, gesturing animatedly. Her vigor for this conversation is inspiring, even though I’m so used to feeling shame and disappointment when it comes to my record deal. “Didn’t you start investing in a liquor company recently?”
“Yeah,” I tell her, surprised that she knows. “It’s got a lot of my money tied up at the moment, but it stands to be a great long-term investment. If it pans out.”
“I’m sure it will,” she says. “I’ve seen tons of other celebrities do the same.”
“I paired up with a financial planner,” I tell her. “He’s helping me manage what little income I’m receiving, and…” It’s not my intention to give her a full accounting of my finances, but it helps to know that she believes in me. It feels like the first time I’ve gotten support in…I don’t know how long. “I’m trying to be smart, after being so terribly stupid.”
She dips her chin. “You’re not stupid. You were distracted by the glitz and glam of a huge record deal. You weren’t the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.”
“Thanks for that.” It’s a little unnerving how she’s going to bat for me right now.
“There’s no guidebook for becoming famous,” she adds.
“You seem to know a lot about fame and celebrity.”
“I work with all you famous people, day in and day out,” she says with a laugh. “I might be more of an expert than you are, simply from the sheer number of cases I’ve seen.”
“Oh, you’re more of an expert than I am?” I can’t fight the grin. It sounds ridiculous. Not that I brandish my fame in a dick-measuring contest, but she doesn’t have random joggers trailing her when she goes for an innocent run in the afternoon.
“Obviously I have no direct experience with it,” she says, “but I’ve gotten to know hundreds of famous people. You’ve all become case studies in a sense. So while you only know your experience, I could tell you details from hundreds of others.”
“Fine. I’ll accept that.” After all, my fame has made me turn inward, retreat from others, become a general recluse. I’m not living excessively, because I can’t afford it. And I hide my state of affairs from anyone on my level because it’s humiliating. I study my hands for a moment, turning a thought over in my head a few times before it makes the jump to my lips. “I’m surprised you’re defending me at all.”
“Why would you be surprised?”
“Because I thought you hated me.”
I can tell by the expression washing across her pretty face that my comment isn’t entirely off-base.
“I’ve never hated you…” She doesn’t finish her thought.
“Could have fooled me.” My gaze returns to the silky shadows of her top. I can tell she’s not wearing a bra, which makes the gravity of this conversation lessen a little as I struggle not to imagine how her breasts would feel in my hands. “I still remember that little blowout we had at the Red Rocks concert.”
That was the night she put me in my place, in more than one way. I’d always noticed her and paid attention to her since we first crossed paths, but it was around the time of that concert three years ago that we were running into each other more often. I’d thought we were vibing—but when I made an offhand comment backstage, she’d ripped me a new one, and dropped the bomb that she was in a long-term relationship.
“You were making fun of me,” she says, crossing her arms.
“No, I was flirting with you,” I correct.
Her brows draw together. “You were so cocky all the time, it was hard to tell when you were being serious.”
I was twenty-three then, so not exactly well-versed in shooting my shot. But I like to think that I’ve learned some things since then. Maybe I could attempt a do-over. Make it clear that this time, I am fucking flirting.
I reach for my guitar, fingerpicking a tune as my gaze returns to her pink silk pajamas. “You had a boyfriend at the time, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“I remember him. Real piece of work.” My fingers trip over the strings, coaxing something soft and airy from the guitar. “Still with him?”
Bella doesn’t respond. But I can’t help but press the issue.
“What does he think about you staying in Fork Lick for an extended time like this?”
She shrugs, shifting from one foot to the other.
“What does he think about you sleeping just feet away from the lead singer of Single Grain?” I ask, strumming a chord.
“He doesn’t interfere with my work life,” she says. But her gaze is dancing all around the room, and she’s flattening her hair even though there’s no breeze in here.
Something seems amiss. I don’t know if she’s single right now, but she won’t say if she broke up with that guy. My guess is they’re done. But I won’t operate on assumptions.
“Well let me make something clear. The next time you come into my room, looking like that”—I jerk my chin toward the pajama set I’ve already imagined peeling off her in three different ways—“make sure you have a different answer to my question.”
Bella’s throat bobs, and her back straightens. She stares at me for a moment before turning on her heel, moving stiffly toward the door.
“I just remembered—I didn’t do my skin care routine.” Bella bumps into the doorframe, swearing loudly. Her cheeks go red. “It’s uh…it’s bedtime, you know, so…” She shuts the door behind her awkwardly, and her scurried footsteps recede in the direction of her own bedroom.
I grin.
Looks like there’s something between Bella and me after all.
And I can’t wait to discover what it is.