Chapter 2
Never Meet Your Heroes
SADIE
They say never meet your heroes.
I just found that out the hard way.
If you judged Walker Rhodes by his music and lyrics, which I did up until about ten minutes ago, you would assume he’s a deep, thoughtful soul.
But apparently he’s a bossy, entitled dickhead.
I press play on my playlist and turn it up.
Unfortunately for me, it’s a Walker fucking Rhodes song that comes on. It's Gone Again. His biggest hit, the one about a man who loves the road more than the woman waiting at home. Now it’s blaring through the speakers of my car.
With a huff of frustration, I jab the “next” button. Brooks and Dunn’s “Neon Moon” starts playing and I feel my blood pressure start to settle down.
Ugh. Before this afternoon, Walker Rhodes was my favorite musician. When I was a teenager and things at home were bad, his music made me feel like I wasn’t alone in feeling so lonely.
The man on those album covers, with those deep green eyes and signature Stetson, looking at the camera like there were entire worlds behind his eyes he'd never let anyone into, was supposed to be brooding but sensitive. Like he felt everything so deeply he'd had to build walls just to survive it.
Real life Walker Rhodes: brooding, yes.
Sensitive? Not by a long shot.
Do I have to hate him now? Do I have to stop listening to his music?
Never in my life did I imagine the moody, enigmatic country superstar would be like that in person.
Oh my God.
He saw my nipples.
He saw everything.
I didn't miss the way his dark green eyes swept down my body. I'd have to be blind to miss the way that gaze moved across my skin. That face that's been on every billboard on every highway in America, set with stern disapproval that was aimed directly at me.
I’ve gone swimming in the lake on the Rhodes property a dozen times now, ever since Daryl Rhodes found out I like to swim and sometimes the community pool is closed.
No one has ever shown up before. The Rhodes kids are always gone.
Slade, the middle brother, is a hockey player in the NHL.
Tanner, the youngest brother, is a champion bull rider.
Josie, their little sister, is a travel nurse.
And Walker, of course, is the most famous country singer in America. Maybe the world. Three Grammys. Multiple sold-out world tours. The kind of famous where even people who don't listen to country music know his name.
And then he came back to his hometown of Marble Falls and disappeared off the map.
He’s been in town for six months, people say. And I haven’t seen him around once. He’s practically a recluse.
But of course the one day I forget my swimsuit and towel, he’s at the lake.
All six-foot-five of him, in a white t-shirt gone transparent with sweat at the collar, stretched tight across broad shoulders.
Deep tan. Jaw sharp and stubbled. Those big hands resting on the reins like he'd been born holding them.
Hat casting everything above his mouth into shadow, which meant his mouth was the first thing you noticed.
That mouth, scowling at me. Talking to me like I’m some dumb kid who can’t take care of myself.
I’ve been a latchkey kid as long as I remember. I bandage my own wounds. I can handle myself.
I don’t need lectures on swimming in cold water from an out-of-touch millionaire cowboy. And it’s not like I invited him to come watch me swim in my underthings.
Lord, did I give him an eyeful, though.
Double-ugh.
And the worst part, the part I refuse to think about, is the way my eyes dropped to his body when we were standing that close.
Taking in the width of his chest. The way that sweat-damp t-shirt clung to every muscle.
The fact that I had to tip my chin up just to meet his eyes and when I did that famous voice of his had gone brusque. Velvet dragged across gravel.
I've listened to that voice on a thousand long drives and late nights. When it's aimed at you from inches away, all severe and domineering like that, it’s a whole different experience.
As I turn into the trailer park that I've called home most of my life, the distance between Wild Rose Ranch and this gravel lot feels longer than thirty miles.
I swore I’d never move back here. The minute high school ended, I was off to my college dorm, thanks to the full-ride scholarship I got.
And then when I graduated, my college roomie Cassidy and I got a place in downtown Marble Falls, and I was doing just fine.
But now she’s starting a job in another state, and I can’t float the place by myself, so here I am, living with my mother in a double-wide for the summer before my own teaching job starts.
It’s temporary, I remind myself. Knowing there’s an end date is the only thing keeping me sane.
Momma’s at work, so at least I have peace and quiet as I shower off the lake water and get ready for one of my two jobs this summer.
I started doing some summer tutoring at the community center. It’s air-conditioned, I like spending time with kids, and it’s good practice for the job I’ll be taking teaching English in New York City come September.
I’ll miss Montana like hell. And New York’s going to be a huge change of pace for a country girl, I know that. But it’ll be an adventure too. And this job is my ticket into middle class life. Steady paycheck. Insurance. A retirement plan.
A life that isn’t a tragic repeat of Momma’s.
I dry my hair, put on some lipgloss and mascara so I look a little more polished, and slip on my flowered sundress and cowboy boots.
Probably won’t be wearing cowboy boots too much in the city.
The drive to the community center is short. It’s practically my home away from home. I sling my purse over my shoulder and head inside.
Jane, the director of the literacy program there, greets me with a big smile. “Sadie! I was just talking about you.”
I always feel vaguely alarmed when people tell me that. Not that I really do anything to warrant gossip. I’m more “nerdy librarian” than “party girl,” temper aside. But sometimes my sharp tongue gets me into trouble.
“Oh?” I say, aiming for neutrality.
“We have a friend here who would like to brush up on his reading skills,” she tells me, steering me to the back table.
There’s a boy sitting there, hunched into himself like an adorable little shrimp as he doodles on a piece of paper. He’s wearing glasses that magnify the big green eyes staring solemnly up at me.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m Sadie. What’s your name?”
There’s a pause, like he’s not sure whether he wants to tell me or not. At last, he says, “My grandpa calls me JoJo.”
I take a seat beside him and look at his drawing. “What kind of food does this alien like to eat?”
There’s a flash of surprise across his face at the question. He considers it seriously for a moment.
“Spaghetti,” he says at last.
“With or without meatballs?”
“With.” His eyes crinkle mischievously as he adds, “Human meatballs.”
I give an exaggerated gasp. “But humans are so… salty.”
That gets him giggling. “Aliens like salty.”
I glance up at Jane, who gives me a wink before she leaves.
And then I do what I do best.
I pull out a book, and I start figuring out how to show someone else how to fall in love with words.