Runaway Rockstar

Chapter One

There’s never a good time to find a stranger asleep on your front porch.

But after having walked home from happy hour with your grandma is possibly the worst. The stars are shining, the cicadas are singing, and the whole world has a fuzzy distant feel to it.

Like I need to focus, or there’s a chance I’m going to fall on my ass.

I’m in no condition to be dealing with a trespasser, or much of anything.

My last vodka berry bramble might have been a mistake.

Though an argument could be made that processing a breakup requires one drink too many and bitching about your ex to complete strangers in a bar.

We had such a good night. Give or take the shadowy figure passed out on the daybed beneath the soft glow of the fairy lights strung from the rafters.

“He’s a big sucker,” I whisper-hiss from the steps. “What do we do?”

Grandma silently picks up the walking stick from beside the front door. The one she uses when wet weather sets off her bad knee. It’s wooden with climbing roses carved into it by a local artist. She swings it once or twice, testing its weight.

“You can’t just hit him.”

“I wasn’t planning to, dear,” she says. “Or not at first.”

“Should we call someone?”

“Let’s just assess the situation,” says Grandma. “Shine some light on him, June, would you?”

I aim my phone at the unconscious stranger.

The sad fact is there’s a dearth of perfect asses.

So it’s surprising to stumble across one in a small town in Washington State.

And while I’m busy objectifying him—there’s nothing wrong with the width of his shoulders and breadth of his back.

Same goes for his thick thighs and tree-length legs.

The stranger passed out on Grandma’s porch is yoked.

No idea about the rest of him. His long brown hair is a tangled mess, and his face is turned aside and cast in shadows.

Which doesn’t stop Grandma from recognizing him. “Oh, for goodness sake. Wake up, Nash.”

The stranger mumbles incoherently, and Grandma pokes him none too gently with her walking stick.

“Ow,” he says. Nash, she called him.

“What are you doing here?”

Nothing from him.

“Nash…”

“Please don’t poke me again,” he says in his deep, smooth voice.

“Then get up and give me some straight answers.”

He moans and groans and gets to his feet.

My fear of heights would kick in if I were that tall.

But not this guy. He just pushes his hair out of his face with a heavy sigh.

The nerve of him to look hot as fuck with bloodshot eyes.

He doesn’t appear to have slept in days.

No wonder he was out cold. And I have the weirdest feeling I’ve seen his face before.

Like this dude is seriously familiar. It’s the wild hair and beard and general air of deshabille he’s got going on.

Ripped black jeans, a matching tee, and cowboy boots.

Nash squints down warily at my grandmother with her weapon and says, “I thought little old ladies were supposed to be nice.”

“I will beat the shit out of you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

“Is that how they say ‘I missed you’ where you come from?” Given the circumstances, he still sounds surprisingly cool, calm, collected, and amused.

There are many reasons why I admire my grandma. Not only is she great to go out with, but she tolerates no nonsense. “I haven’t heard from you in over two years and now you turn up here. Are you all right?”

“Of course, I am. I was just on tour. You know what it’s like. But I decided it’s time for a change.”

“What does that mean?”

Which is when it hits me. “Porter. You’re Aaron Porter. Oh my god.”

His smile is a brief flash of white teeth soon hidden by the tangle of brown hair again. I don’t know how he puts up with it.

“Nash,” says Grandma in a stern voice. “Answer me.”

Hands on hips, he announces, “I decided to quit being a rockstar and need somewhere to hide out for a while. What do you say?”

This feels like an alcoholic fever dream.

Sitting at the kitchen table with a famous person drinking chamomile tea.

Life comes at you with both speed and strangeness sometimes.

I keep wanting to pinch one of us to see if this is real.

But I settle for tugging on the end of my dark braid and frowning in confusion.

Grandma is a petite woman with white skin and her grey hair styled in an undercut pompadour.

She only visited occasionally when I was growing up.

She didn’t live near us, and to say she and Mom don’t get along is an understatement.

But here I am—she invited me to come stay a week ago when my ex kicked me out of our apartment, and my life went boom.

My relationship with my grandmother has always been sort of surface level, and I sure as shit didn’t see this coming.

Porter the guitar god. He who can croon and shout his country-rock songs with equal measure, according to Rolling Stone magazine. The way he’s sitting at my grandmother’s table like this is a normal, rational thing for him to be doing is wild.

“Those years you spent working as a housekeeper…it wasn’t for a boring banker or a crypto bro,” I say, piecing it together. “You’re like some rock-star-adjacent person.”

“I washed his underwear, dear,” says Grandma. “It wasn’t exactly glamorous.”

“And she couldn’t tell you because I have very good lawyers,” adds Nash. “That and discussing my underwear makes her blush.”

Which reminds me of another question. “Why does she call you Nash?”

“It’s what my family and close friends calls me.

Mom was always playing country music. The outlaw-country stuff she grew up listening to, like Kris Kristofferson and Linda Ronstadt.

From about the age of five, I told anyone who’d listen I was going to Nashville,” he says.

“But most people call me Porter. Aaron doesn’t exactly have street cred. ”

“What would you like me to call you?”

He tucks his hair behind his ears, and I can finally see most of his face. Or what isn’t covered by the beard. “I want to say Daddy, but Nash is fine.”

Grandma looks to heaven, but no help is forthcoming.

I am average height and weight. This man dates supermodels. Therefore, it would be silly to let his flirty bullshit go to my head. “You’re a pretty man. But this situation is too weird, and I’m not sober enough to handle being hit on by you right now.”

“So, you’re telling me I should try again later?”

“No. But thank you for asking.”

“You have your grandmother’s bad attitude and sharp tongue.” Nash grins. He has this dry way of delivering his words. “I admire that in a woman.”

Grandma shakes her head. “Touch June and you get the stick.”

He just grunts.

“She hates men right now anyway. Just got her heart broken. That’s why she’s here.”

I wince. “Did we have to tell him that? Really?”

“You were just telling everyone at the bar,” says Grandma. The woman formerly known as my favorite family member. “Didn’t realize it was suddenly a secret.”

“Sorry ’bout your heart,” says Nash.

“Thanks.” I take a sip of tea. “And she’s right; your kind is currently repugnant to me.”

Grandma sets her cup of chamomile tea down, making the silver bangles on her wrist jingle, and gives him a long assessing look. “Why do you need somewhere to hide?”

“Because they’re going to try and talk me out of quitting and I don’t want to hear it.

” Nash sits sprawled with his long legs out in front of him and an arm resting on the table.

The only thing suggesting money is the heavy silver colored watch around his wrist. But he’s a big guy used to taking up space.

This much is obvious. “I finished the tour and don’t owe any records.

References have been written or otherwise organized for everyone who worked for me.

Final and bonus payments have been made.

I didn’t half-ass any of it, Audrey. I took care of all of them. ”

“Good.”

“But I’m thirty-five years old and don’t have a life. Been hustling forever and I’m burnt out as fuck. Keep going this way and I’m going to wind up hating music. And I refuse to stay and let that happen.”

“Have you talked to Angus about this?” asks Grandma.

Nash shakes his head.

I take a sip of tea. “Who’s Angus?”

“Just some asshole I have nothing to do with anymore,” answers Nash.

Grandma’s answering sigh is heavy indeed. “I suppose no one would think to look for you here.”

“Nope.”

She gives him a long look. “You must have been planning this for a while. But you didn’t think to tell me you were coming?”

“Throwing myself on your tender mercies seemed a better idea.”

“Mm. You know even if I say you can stay this is only temporary.”

He nods. “Just long enough for me to figure out what I want. To have a taste of ordinary and see if it’s my thing.”

My grandmother’s expression is one of skepticism.

I don’t know much about Aaron Porter. Only what’s on social media now and then.

He’s about what you’d expect from an award-winning, bestselling, internationally renowned musician.

I doubt his plan is going to work. People don’t easily change, in my experience.

And he has to be at least a little addicted to all of the attention and public adulation.

“You always said I needed a dose of reality,” he continues.

“Less of being surrounded by people who smile and nod at everything I say. Life without all of the money and fame and people doing everything for me. This is sort of mostly that. You can’t really expect me to give up all the money. I worked hard for that shit.”

There are, however, some basic flaws to his plan, as far as I can tell. “What about being recognized by fans?”

“I have a plan.” He sits forward in his chair. “Say something, Audrey, you’re killing me.”

“What exactly does this ordinary involve?” she asks.

“Me fitting in with your life here and figuring out who I am away from the grind of constantly touring and recording and promoting.”

She sighs and then nods.

“I can stay?”