Burn the Wild (Runaway Ranch #3)

Prologue

I have this spot.

I call it the black hole. The bad voice. It’s followed me ever since the loss of my parents. It’s not real of course, but it feels like it—hovering just above my head, over my shoulders, up in the sky. Over the years, it’s grown. Especially when I’m on stage. In this life.

It wants to unhinge its jaws and swallow me alive.

And sometimes I want to let it.

I have this theory that it’s all the bad that won’t come out of me. Or maybe it’s all the good that wants to come in.

I haven’t decided yet.

A hand reaches out and squeezes my thigh. “Babe. Babe.”

I put my hands to my face to block out the annoying noise.

“ Babe .”

With a groan, I blink open my eyes. A cracked ceiling greets me. I’m half on, half off the bed, wearing lace boy shorts and a cropped purple and white top that says COWBOY PILLOWS.

The room spins. My body has all the makings of a lawless Friday night. Cotton mouth. Acid tongue. Carousel brain. In other words, a righteous hangover.

The gold bangles on my wrists jingle as I push myself up. Even after all these years, phantom pains still rake over the delicate flesh there. My fingers clasp the bangles, stilling them. Willing those old ghosts not to surface.

“Oh god,” I choke out when I see a pile of dried vomit beside me. My dried vomit.

I glance at the stocky guy in my bed. He’s nude, only a thin sheet covering his crotch. An eagle tattoo across his chest flexes as he leans over. But he doesn’t reach for me. Instead, he reaches for the coke on the nightstand.

“You made a mess, babe,” he says, staring at me with narrowed, accusatory eyes. “Fucking nasty shit.”

“Tell me how you really feel, Ky.” I wipe my mouth, swallowing down shame. Anger.

I could have choked to death in my sleep, and no one would have cared.

Strike that—they’d only care because I’m their paycheck.

Kyler pats my back with a clammy palm. “It’s all right. We’ll get a maid to clean it up,” he says, then snorts a line of coke.

Last night’s a blur. A show at the Ryman. Drinks on Broadway until two in the morning. I’m sore between the thighs, which means we fucked.

Unfortunately.

Cringing, I swipe a hand over my face, erasing the images. Only I’m not that lucky. Because Kyler’s still here. In bed with me.

Phone now in his hands, he scrolls through tonight’s social media headlines.

Romance Brewing for Our Country Barbie?

Superstar Reese Austin Steps Out with Rumored Boyfriend Kyler Kitt

Country Crooner Has ‘Heart Eyes’ for New Beau

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes. “We made the Star .”

I don’t need to make the Star . I’m in it every damn day without him.

Kyler Bridges is one of Gavin’s newest clients. As an up-and-coming country singer who’s the second opener for my Denim and Diamonds tour, Kyler and I have been pushed together for optics. The tabloids have dubbed us “Country Ken and Barbie.” Which is hilarious because I highly doubt Ken and Barbie ever snorted a line of coke off a limo driver’s cap.

When Kyler goes in for a celebratory boob grab, I slap his hand away. “Stop,” I grit out. I’m so sick of people touching me.

“What time is it?” I ask, pushing away from him. My gaze shifts, sailing over the plush hotel room suite. An empty minibar. A trashed living area.

“Seven. The show’s at nine.”

“Shit.” I scrape my greasy hair away from my face and look at the bedside clock. “That means—”

The hotel door flies open.

Right on time.

Stylists with racks of clothing and hairdressers with bottles of hairspray burst into the room with wild eyes. Behind them, my publicist, Diana, and my manager, Gavin Cross.

Instantly, Gavin’s eyes land on me. I expect him to remark on my appearance, but he gives a nod to me and Kyler. His brow furrows when he spots the vomit. Into the earpiece he wears, he barks, “Clean this up.” His beady eyes move to a housekeeper who’s materialized with a mop. “And get her a whiskey. A big one.”

Darkness rises and I shake my head. “No. I don’t want—”

My words are cut off as someone pushes a drink in my hand.

Fuck it.

I swallow it. The alcohol slips down my throat. Warms my insides. Fogs my head.

Someone pulls me to standing and pushes me into a makeup chair. My face is scrubbed and plastered with cover up, while another stylist parts my long blonde locks to make room for more extensions. I sit there half-naked, still drunk, sipping champagne through a straw as a hairstylist flat irons my waves into stick-straight strands.

They see all of me, but they don’t really see me.

My eyes drift to the wall. The hole that hovers there. Ever-changing. It gets worse on show nights. Shrinks when I’m alone, healthy, sober.

I don’t know how I sing night after night when I’m half-drunk or stoned. But I do. Since I was seven, it’s all I’ve ever known. Over and over, my voice has saved me. And yet, no matter how big the stage, the audience, the money, I still feel alone. I’m singing songs I don’t like because it’s all I know how to do.

When I’m finished with hair and makeup, I blink at my reflection. I always blink. Fake lashes. Bleached blonde hair teased to high heaven. The girl in the mirror is never me. Even with eight records under my belt, three Grammy awards and a sold-out stadium tour, I feel like an imposter.

The hairstylist, a woman with a cheek tattoo, purses her lips. “Smile, hon. It’s your night. You should be happy.”

Happy.

Be happy.

I’m horrified when sharp tears spring to my eyes. Fuck.

It all blurs together. The sheet music with all the sad, shitty songs I didn’t write. This life that has never once felt like mine.

I’d never tell Gavin that, though.

He made me.

In the mirror, I watch as my manager storms toward me. In his tailored gray suit, with his sallow face and stout physique, he reminds me of a shark out for a kill.

“Who did her makeup?” he barks. The makeup artist flinches. “She looks like a fucking clown. Get this shit off her face and fix it.”

I sigh as I’m attacked with makeup brushes once again.

Gavin can never attempt decency. Known as the Magic Man in LA and Nashville for creating successful singers, he’s brash, arrogant and gets what he wants. Always.

When my makeup is retouched, I stand.

“Better?” I ask, turning to Gavin.

He scrutinizes me, then pinches my waist. “Have you gained weight?”

I wince. I haven’t had a meal in days, and I would kill for a bag of Combos. Eighties junk food is officially my weakness. “No. I haven’t.”

My pulse kicks up a notch.

Of course, that’s his first priority. Because if I gain weight, I don’t sell records. Briefly, I wonder if I was twenty pounds heavier if he’d still love me, but I bury the thought. It’s easier that way.

“These…” He grabs my pills off the makeup stand, his brows tightening as he reads the label. “I told you not to go back to that shrink.” Gavin wags the bottle in the air, rattling the pills, before chucking it into the trash. “These make you fat. And she puts those fucking thoughts into your head.”

My skin pricks cold. I glare. “You can’t let me have this one thing.”

“If I let you have everything you wanted, you’d still be nothing, wouldn’t you?”

I bite my lip and stare at the bangles on my wrists.

It’s been ten years, and he still uses it against me. Still acts like I don’t deserve everything he gave me. I’m the one who made my millions. It’s my voice. Even if it hasn’t felt like it for so long now.

Gavin pulls an orange bottle from the inside of his jacket pocket. “You go to the therapist I found for you. She knows what you need.”

“I don’t like her,” I say, even as I accept the antidepressants he shakes out into my palm. “She makes me feel—”

“Crazy?” He lifts a brow, staring at me with an expression that makes me feel simultaneously like an idiot and a child. “You are crazy, Reese. But you’re also my shiny little shooting star and I need you.”

With that, he leans into me. The second he kisses my cheek, I go soft. I hate myself for it.

Gavin whirls to face the people in the room. “She has a show in two hours. I need her cleaned up and presentable.”

My stylist, Vix, motions. “Come here.”

I wander to the clothing rack, exhausted and carved out. Hollow.

It’s over soon. Just one more show.

The refrain in my head reminds me I’m so close to being done with this tour. So close to rest. It’s the only thing getting me through it.

Vix gestures and I strip down.

Quickly, I’m dressed in a lace corset, short leather fringe skirt and sky-high cherry red heels. To top it all off, a huge rabbit fur coat settles on top of me. I weigh a thousand pounds.

I am all fur, really, like a wild animal caught in a trap.

When I’m sure Gavin isn’t looking, I steal a chocolate-covered strawberry off the minibar and cram it in my mouth. And fuck. It’s so good.

That’s when I see Diana lean into Gavin.

I shake my head, eyes narrowed. “ Narc ,” I mouth, slicing a finger across my throat. She’s disliked me ever since I drove a car into a pool last year because I had too much whiskey at the CMAs.

I’m messy enough that people find it amusing. I’m pretty enough that people forgive me.

Heart racing, I swallow the strawberry and watch them confer with a blank face, then sigh as Gavin stomps his way over to me.

It’s in this moment that I realize I’m terrifyingly alone with no one to rely on. Even my publicist isn’t on my side.

“For god’s sake, Reese,” Gavin shouts. “Green juice or whiskey, not food.” He needles his brow. “I don’t want to see that fucking belt buckle on stage.”

Gavin’s narrowed eyes move to Kyler, who’s scratching himself beneath the sheet. “We have to get this thing between you and Ky off the ground. You two can be the king and queen of country music. You need a relationship, Reese. It looks good on you.”

I scoff, but my eyes burn. “Playing matchmaker isn’t your strong suit, Gavin.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Listen, Reese. After the show, you do whatever the fuck you want to do, eat whatever the fuck you want to eat, but tomorrow, I need you on your game. We’re going to Vegas.”

Dread attacks my heart. “Vegas?”

“I booked you a residency at the Wynn. It starts in three days.”

His news nearly sends me into a fit of hysterical sobs. This tour’s almost over, and I thought—I had hoped—that I’d have some time off.

“I need a break, Gavin. Please.” I lick my dry lips and whisper, “I’ll die if I don’t have a break.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Reese. You take a break in this industry, it breaks you.”

Crossing my arms, I try for cool and cavalier. “And I agreed to this?”

He shrugs, adjusting his cuffs. “You don’t need to agree to it, remember? I make the rules.”

He does. Another thing that’s my fault.

As much as I thought Muirwood was a prison, this is worse. Gavin claims he’s tried to save me, but all he wants to do is cage me.

The spot presses down on me. It crushes my lungs, my shoulders, until I can’t breathe. Because I realize these are my choices. All the ways I have been stupid and powerless and fake to give the world control of my life.

I remember a quote I saw on some bullshit message board in my Pilates class. You can’t heal where you’re sick.

What the fuck am I doing? Going along with my day, singing my shitty songs, surviving the numb fog of drugs and sex and good old rock and roll. What would it be like to be awake, to be alert, to be true, but mostly, to be happy?

The thought is sharp, razors slicing my skin.

Water. I need the water.

And then Gavin’s giving Diana orders about the next news story to leak to the press, something about Kyler and I being engaged.

The earth beneath my feet moves. I’m moving. Out of the hotel room. Down the stairs, two at a time, in heels. I’m a pro.

All the immediate unknowns are better than staying here to meet this fucking fate.

I hustle through the hotel’s lobby, ignoring the stares and the finger-points. It’s the bleached hair, the damn fur coat. I’m easily recognized.

A fan shouts, “Can I have a photo, Reese?” and the tidal wave inside of me rises.

I hear my name called in a husky, familiar drawl, but I ignore that too as I shove through the crowd, tears building in my eyes.

Somehow, I escape them. The paparazzi. My manager. The crowds.

And I walk.

Away from everything. Away from the stage, the music, the burn of the neon.

Away, away, away.

I’ve never walked out on Gavin before. Not on the shoot of Hell or High Water or that time he smashed my dinner plate on the ground when I took a brownie for dessert. Disappointing Gavin is like kicking him in the balls, but I don’t care. Not anymore.

Before we took the stage, my mama would say that to be truly brave, you have to be afraid first. Well, I am very fucking afraid. Afraid of myself. Of my songs. Of a freedom I’ll never get. I don’t know how to find myself or be myself anymore. They took it all away from me. I’m just a husk.

Maybe it’s a little too late.

Maybe girls like me don’t get shiny clean slates.

In ten minutes, I’m on the banks of the Cumberland River.

Water. The only place where the dark spot disappears. Everything quiets. Brain, body, and soul.

I look around to make sure I’m alone—no cameras, no fans—then I wade into the water. The rippling movement is hypnotic, made even more so by the crescent moon above and the distant lights of Broadway.

I hiss a breath as the cool water hits my waist like its soft edge might cut me. Chill bumps dot my arms. The soggy rabbit fur coat is like a heavy chain dragging me down.

Even so, that deep, dark hole constantly hovering above me shrinks. My lungs open up. I can breathe again.

Just be brave, Reese.

I move deeper through the rippling water.

A hand wraps around my arm. “What the fuck? Reese?”

I’m yanked backward and spun around. A tall cowboy frowns down at me.

My anxiety ebbs a little when I see who is in the water with me.

Grady Montgomery. My first opening act. Disheveled brown hair, an endearing grin. I’ve barely known him for two months, but he’s relentlessly cheerful.

He glances at the murky water behind me, and I know what he’s thinking. His gaze lands on my face, and his eyes aren’t accusatory. They’re worried. It’s the same expression he’s worn for our last six shows. I’m hit with a memory of him, making me sit and drink water before the show in Los Angeles.

Dark brown brows draw together. “You okay?”

I shake my head, a hysterical sob bubbling in my lungs. “No. I’m not.”

He studies me for a moment and then his hands clasp my shoulders. “What do you need?”

I tense at his question, then fling myself into his arms.

“I don’t know what to do.” It’s a breathless rasp into Grady’s chest. My arms wind around his waist. “I hate this life. Nothing feels right anymore. No one cares what I do. Or where I go. They just care that I make them money.”

It’s all rambling nonsense, but somehow Grady hears me.

“I care,” he says, rubbing my back. He has no scorn or sarcasm in his tone. Only concern. “I care, Reese.”

I hug him tighter. Until this moment, we’ve been strangers, but it feels like he’s seen more of me than anyone ever has.

Is it possible that Grady Montgomery is my only friend in the world?

He releases me. “You need to go.”

My gaze shoots to Grady. “What?”

He tilts my chin up, his expression gentle. “I want you to go to your place, pack a bag and go. Lie low.”

Helplessness crashes over me. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“I have a place.”

My throat closes up for a second. “Where?”

“Runaway Ranch.”

“Runaway Ranch,” I echo.

Grady nods. “It’s my brother’s ranch in Montana.”

Montana . Already, it sounds like heaven. The perfect place for quiet. For secrets.

“Really?” My voice comes out small, distrustful.

“Really.” His earnest eyes bring tears to mine. “I won’t tell anyone where you are.”

A sob climbs up my throat, but I choke it down. Now’s not the time to lose it. “Thank you.”

“You look tired,” Grady says. “It’ll give you time to—to rest.”

I close my eyes, appreciating him not saying to get better , even though we both know I’m this close to having a mental breakdown.

“I’ll text you the address. They’re good guys. I’ll call them and tell them you’re coming.”

With a careful grip on my elbow, Grady walks me to the bank of the Cumberland. “Take my car.” Cool metal presses into my palm. “Parking garage. Third floor, black Mustang.” He drops my arm, his voice soft with encouragement. “You got this.”

I inhale a breath, clinging to the promise of hope, of quiet, of the wild burn of freedom that awaits me.

Just be brave, Reese.

I run. Away from my life and into another.

Even if a little voice in my head tells me it’s hopeless. Gavin will find me. He always does.