Chapter 2 #2
“Funny, I don’t remember that when you had your fourth wedding in Mexico.
Didn’t you serve French food?” The comment slipped, but it’s true.
I wasn’t at the wedding, but I saw my mother’s photos and I’m pretty sure I paid for most of it.
That marriage lasted less than two years—and that may be generous.
Debbie Jo’s head snaps to me and her eyes narrow, just ever so slightly. “I try not to think about that relationship, it was really difficult to recover from everything that monster did to me.”
I rack my brain, but I don’t remember any stories about monsters.
“Shut the hell up, Debbie Jo, and eat your damn enchiladas. Gary wasn’t a monster, that man had no spine whatsoever. I don’t think spineless twats can be considered monsters.” Rick waves his hand, as though waving away a fly.
“Gary wasn’t a monster, but I didn’t marry Gary in Mexico. That … that was Wayne.” Debbie Jo clears her throat as she shifts in her seat, her defiance posture deflating. “But you’re right, Rick, I should just be thankful for what I have and to be out of that awful situation.”
“I always am.” Rick doesn’t even look up as he continues eating and working on his phone, but Debbie Jo gives me a tight smile that does not meet her eyes. “And I told you that guy was a loser, but you didn’t listen, Debbie Jo.”
“I know, Rick. I should’ve listened to you; it would have prevented a lot of pain and heartache.” She cuts off a corner of an enchilada and takes a tiny bite, while she scowls at the taste.
“Whatever happened, I’m glad you’re in a better place now, Debbie Jo,” I tell her sincerely as I take another bite of my stir-fry. We may not be close but I don’t wish terrible situations on people.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She turns to face me fully.
“What?”
“Just because you make all this money, you think you’re better than me? You have no idea what I’ve had to survive to get here.” Debbie Jo scoffs. “You’re not better than me just because I work for you.”
“What? No, I didn’t say that. I just meant I’m glad you’re in a better place. I wasn’t comparing us at all.” Did I miss like half of this conversation? What is she even talking about right now?
I shake my head. “I just want to eat and go get some sleep. Honestly.” I set my food down and go to stand, but Debbie Jo grabs my arm and yanks me back down to the couch. She curls her fingers so her nails dig just slightly into my arm. I freeze completely stunned—she had never touched me before.
“Rick, I think Tinsley is implying she’s better than me right now. That’s not any way for her to speak to your sister.” Debbie Jo’s voice is more authoritative than I’ve heard from her, and it has to be the wine she’s been drinking tonight giving her liquid courage.
My head whips to Rick who finally looks up and sees Debbie Jo’s hand on my arm.
For someone as tiny as she is, she has a strangely strong grip.
His eyes narrow as he takes in whatever he sees in his sister, and almost immediately she lets go of the grip on my arm, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear, and looking down at the floor.
“It’s not a competition, Debbie Jo. Show me your multi-million-dollar contracts that make me rich as fuck and then we can talk.
Stop fucking complaining and eat so we can leave.
I’m over this venue and ready to leave as soon as I’m done eating.
” He takes a big bite of a burger that’s one of the meals he requests on rotation, and a blob of grease slides out of the bun and lands with a splat on his lap, but Rick is too enamored with his phone to even notice.
“And Debbie Jo? Keep your fucking hands off my stepdaughter. That’s enough of that.
I don’t want to hear any more of your bitching and complaining tonight.
” Rick could’ve been commenting on the weather and Debbie Jo didn’t seem to understand how serious her brother was.
But Rick has expectations and rules, and the number one rule is don’t mess with his money—which all comes from me.
Debbie Jo’s tone softens and she quickly responds, “Of course, Rick. I’m sorry. I’ll eat quickly so we can go.”
Debbie Jo cocks her head, hums slightly, and blinks at me twice before turning and picking up her meal. “Don’t choke on my meal, Tinsley, I’d hate to see the golden goose die.”
My eyes widen and I’m not sure if she’s going to put her hands on me again, but I didn’t have to find out.
Before I can say anything, Rick raises his phone and throws it at Debbie Jo, hitting the dish of enchiladas, causing it to spill all over Debbie Jo’s lap.
I take the opportunity to jump up and away at the distraction while Rick takes the two steps from his seat until he’s towering over his sister.
“You don’t touch her and you sure as shit don’t threaten her, Deborah Jo.
That’s a fucking dumb move, and I know you’re smarter than that.
” Rick snatches his phone from the enchilada sauce, causing Debbie Jo to flinch at the movement.
He walks off to find a towel to clean off his phone, calling over his shoulder for me to hurry up and put some makeup on my face before my post-show interviews start in a few minutes.
I didn’t need to be told twice, and I lost my appetite by that point anyway.
Debbie Jo hasn’t put her hands on me since that night, but she doesn’t try to act like we’re friends, unless there are other people or press around that she’s attempting to impress.
One time she called me her “sweet niece” when a group of executives from Lux were backstage with us and I laughed so hard, I spit water out of my mouth.
I adjust my in-ear monitors and hand my cell phone to Allie.
Rick watches the handoff and I know if I hadn’t given it to her, he would try and get into it.
I may not have full control of my life quite yet, but there are boundaries, and he is not allowed on my phone.
My brother Wells made that abundantly clear more than once, and for some reason, Rick follows that rule—probably because it came from Wells—but I know he’s tempted whenever there is an opportunity, and I’m not stupid enough to give him one.
There are so few things in my life that are mine, and access to my cell phone is not something I am willing to give up without a fight.
Allie glares at Rick and Debbie Jo before putting her hand on my lower back to usher me out of the room. “Let’s go, honey, you’re ready to rock.”
My bodyguards wait outside my dressing room, on the alert for crazy fans, but letting an abusive asshole and his leech of a sister into my dressing room with flourish.
Oh, the irony.
Like an old familiar switch, I put on my big smile and start greeting people as we walk through the hallway.
“Hey, great to see you!”
“Thanks for coming!”
“Are y’all ready for a good time?”
I don’t actually know any of these people, but they all think they know me.
I’m America’s Sweetheart. The girl next door that won the talent show that catapulted her to all of her hopes and dreams coming true.
I’ve had more hits than I can count and am a household name in the country music scene.
I have everything I could ever want—or so my image projects.
All I really want is freedom to do what I want with my own life. But silly girl, I should know that fairytales don’t come true, not for a girl like me.
I thank the guitar technician as he hands me my guitar, and I adjust the strap as I walk on stage.
The awards show is cut away to commercial break so we can get set on the stage.
The house lights are low as the hosts introduce my performance.
I get my cue and start playing my guitar with the most recent hit as the crowd goes wild.
As I walk up to the microphone, my eyes adjust to the bright lights and there is a face in the second row that might as well have a spotlight directly on it.
Jack Callahan.
His chiseled jaw clenches, and I swear the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly as we make eye contact.
The man is literally perfection at nearly six-foot-four, with a custom black suit wrapped around his athletic build, and serious BDE.
Honestly, the man is so good looking, I might even call him pretty.
Not to his face—I mean, I don’t think I would lose that much control—but dammit, the man is gorgeous.
The butterflies erupt in my stomach, and they have nothing to do with playing and singing on live television with millions of people watching. This is easy; it’s an act. I know the chords and lyrics. I know when to smile and dance; I know how to perform and I’m really good at my job.
No, the butterflies are all because of him.
It’s been over five years since I’ve seen him in person.
Because of Jack’s role with Lux and my career, as well as who he is to my brother, I’ve always had his number, and we occasionally text, but it’s usually about Wells or wishing each other a Merry Christmas, it’s never anything substantial. But he’s here.
I sing the lyrics as my fans sing along, and the song echoes off the stadium walls.
“If you could only see what together we could be,
I think we could be everything.
I would be your queen, and you would be my king.
It'd be so much more than a love story,
Because baby, you're already everything to me.”
I wonder if he knows this song was written about him?
The smile on my face has nothing to do with timing or cues. If Jack is going to watch me perform, I’m going to do the very best I can and hope that maybe—just maybe—he will really see me, and not just Wells’s little sister.