Chapter One #2
That was not going to happen. Fortunately, he’d learned a few tricks after the first time a fan had tried to get him to mark her up in inappropriate places.
Mindful of cell phones clicking away, he took her by the shoulders, turned her around, and scrawled Candi + Beau across the shoulders of her T-shirt’s cheap, stretchy fabric.
The marker bled through to her skin, which wasn’t his problem. It could have been worse.
“How about a selfie?” someone asked next.
He posed for selfies and signed more autographs. Luckily, the remainder didn’t involve clothing or skin. He should talk to Leon about putting out the word that after his hiatus, he’d only sign paper.
The crowd continued to grow. He couldn’t figure out where they all came from. He hired a security detail when he went to public events, but normally, he could walk around the city without attracting too much attention, and Leon’s office wasn’t exactly in a trendy location.
A Nikon D5 emerged from the crowd. Beau didn’t meet too many fans who owned seven-thousand-dollar cameras, meaning a journalist had to be on the other end. A sinking sensation crawled into his stomach. What would a journalist be doing on the street outside of his agent’s office?
The journalist shrugged through the tangle of arms, legs, and heads.
“Beau!” she called out. “Any truth to the rumor you’re taking time off from performing for mental health reasons?”
Leon, the liar, had already sent the press release out.
Beau became very conscious of the tattered book pressed against his spine where he’d tucked it into the waistband of the American Eagle jeans his stylist made him wear because they were Blake Shelton’s favorite.
Thank God it was covered by his equally Blake-beloved jacket.
This was what his life had become. He couldn’t even choose his own clothes anymore.
Beau, however, had worked too long and hard to get where he was to throw it away in a moment of temper. He smiled into the camera, making it seem as if the smile was for the pretty journalist behind it. It was a particular talent of his. The camera loved him, as did his legions of female fans.
“I don’t know what rumor you might’ve heard, but I’ll give you an exclusive on the facts,” he said, offering up his best aw shucks, modest grin. “I’ll be busy writing songs for a new album.” The album didn’t exist. Not yet. But it would.
Because if Leon believed he was going to spend two months playing cowboy, Beau had a herd of buffalo to sell him.
The crowd began to spill into the street. Beau started walking, hoping to get far enough ahead of the fans that he could flag a cab down. Surely, they’d give up before he walked the whole way to his apartment. He wasn’t a Jonas brother.
Although he was the handsomest blond-haired, blue-eyed country singer to come along since Keith Urban—or so he’d been told.
People finally realized he was done signing autographs and giving exclusives and began to drop off.
After five blocks, he managed to hail a cab.
He checked his cell phone for voice messages on the drive home.
There were three. Two were from his sisters, both wanting money.
Etransfers took care of those. The third call was more complex.
It made his palms sweat, and he didn’t want to deal with it while the cabdriver listened in, so he waited until he reached his apartment.
He’d moved into the top floor of a converted warehouse in Red Hook, an up-and-coming neighborhood in Brooklyn for artists, six months ago. The cab dropped him off at the front entrance.
An old service elevator took him to the top floor.
His apartment overlooked the harbor, a feature he liked very much, and the custom leather sofa in the living room faced an exterior glass wall.
He tossed the book Leon gave him onto the glass and steel coffee table, where it looked out of place next to the artfully arranged industry magazines he’d never dared pick up and read.
It was a long way from the one-bedroom walk-up in Newark he’d shared with Jen.
One end contained his sound studio and equipment and was where he spent most of his time.
The rest of the apartment felt like a showroom for a women’s home decorating magazine.
The interior decorator Leon—the bastard—hired for him had really outdone herself, to the point where Beau was afraid to touch anything.
He’d cooked in the kitchen precisely once, and eating the hotdog he’d nuked made him feel as if he’d defiled sanctified space.
Ordering takeout was easier than living with the blight on his soul.
He sat down and took a few minutes to put himself in the right frame of mind for the ordeal ahead. Then, he speed-dialed his ex-wife.
“Hey, Jen,” he said, forcing himself to sound upbeat. “What’s up?”
“Beau.” She spoke his name with that little hint of breathlessness that always heated him up. “The news is all over the internet and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“What news?” he hedged, even though there could be little doubt.
“I had no idea you were struggling. Is there anything I can do to help?”
For the tiniest of seconds, he allowed himself to dream she was sincere.
But Jen wasn’t the type of woman who helped other people, particularly not him—not even when they were married.
She’d always looked to him to take care of her.
She still did, even though she was the one who’d walked out on their marriage.
“I can’t do this anymore, baby,” she’d said, tears in her big baby-doll eyes. “It’s time we both accept that you aren’t going to make it in music.”
She’d left him for a used car salesman in New Jersey, then a week later, filed for divorce. The divorce, ironically, became final three months before he landed the spot on TV.
Beau gave her credit for being partially right. He hadn’t made it in rock and roll. He’d made it in country. He felt like a failure for giving up on his dream.
Jennifer, however, saw the dollar signs she’d missed out on and wasn’t about to let a pesky divorce stand in her way.
He wasn’t stupid enough to believe she truly cared.
She didn’t love him anymore. She loved what he could do for her.
He just wanted to think she might actually care for a few seconds and give that sinking feeling he always got right before disaster struck a chance to settle down.
“How did you get this number?” he asked.
“Beau.” She managed to sound hurt as well as chastising. He could imagine the tears welling up in those beautiful baby-blue eyes. “Your mother gave it to me.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course she had.
She and his sisters loved Jennifer. She’d been part of the family since he first began dating her when they were seventeen.
They’d broken up and got back together so often neither one of them could keep track.
They’d even dated other people in between.
But he’d kept going back to her because she was beautiful, and fragile, and he’d felt so damned protective toward her.
Marriage had been a mistake. He couldn’t even remember whose idea that was.
There was a simple life lesson buried in all of this that he’d been slow in learning but finally gotten—if a pretty girl had a problem, chances were good she was the problem, and Jen wallowed in problems like a hog in mud on a hot day.
He was so done with beautiful, fragile women who needed protecting.
It wasn’t long before she couldn’t handle the silence. “I need to know you’re okay,” she said.
She then launched into a discourse on the good old days, which hadn’t been all that great, so he tuned her out while he waited for her to get around to the real reason she’d called.
“Can we meet?” she finally asked.
He couldn’t contain his horror. “Hell, no. Just tell me how much money you want.”
She gasped, letting him know what an asshole he was. “Do you think I called you for money?”
Yes. That was the only reason anyone from the old days ever contacted him. His ex-wife was no exception.
“I can’t meet you right now. I’m busy.” He caught sight of Leon’s book, all dog-eared and tattered. Not a chance. He didn’t know where he’d go instead of Montana, but thanks to Leon and his press release, staying at home was out of the question. “I’ll be out of town for a few months.”
“Oh.” Her disappointment in him was evident—and all too familiar. “Maybe I should borrow a little money from you, just in case I run short while you’re away. We can sit down and talk about our future once you get back.”
He was tempted to ask if their future included her car salesman but decided it didn’t matter.
He had to put an end to these calls and any hope she might have for yet another reconciliation.
They’d established this pattern in high school, and he was done.
They weren’t healthy together and no amount of money would ever fix that.
He named a sum that was pretty much what he’d just given his sisters combined.
She’d gotten a raw deal as far as alimony was concerned, because when they split up, there’d been nothing to give her.
He still wasn’t rich. Not by a long shot.
But he was well on his way and, compared to where they’d been when they were married, he couldn’t blame her for feeling as if she’d earned a cut.
“It’s a gift, not a loan. Invest it in yourself. Take that beautician’s course you used to talk about.” He felt guilty that they’d never been able to afford it. “But you have to promise not to call me again,” he said, hoping she’d understand that he meant it.
“I love you, Beau.”
Sure you do.
He was familiar. Better than nothing. And now he had money. He disconnected the call, then made a direct deposit into their old joint bank account that he’d transferred into her name when they split up.
After that, he was left with nothing to do for the rest of the day, since he could no longer leave his apartment thanks to Leon’s press release.
He could work on his music, but he’d had it with country.
He sang rock and roll, damn it. That was what he wanted to write, too.
Suddenly, two months away from the fans and the press didn’t seem like such a bad deal—except for the ranch gig in Montana. That part still sucked.
Rebellion settled in. He didn’t have to stay at the ranch.
Just show up long enough for that suspicious bastard Leon to check on him and know he’d arrived.
Then he’d quit. He’d take cash so Leon couldn’t track him, and he’d do some exploring.
See America. While he wasn’t a nature lover—he liked the convenience of cities too much—he could stay in hotels and spend some of his money on himself for a change.
Maybe get some of those new songs written. Reevaluate his professional goals.
He might even see about hiring himself a new agent.