Chapter 13
“I don’t like this,” Naomi said, checking her watch for the tenth time. “They shouldn’t be keeping us waiting like this.”
Two o’clock had blown by twenty-five minutes ago. A reality that did not sit well with the ever-prompt publicist.
Chance was still riding the high of crafting his third song of the week the night before. The guitar-driven tune he’d titled “Warrior in High Heels” carried a rock edge that he’d rarely explored in the past. The lyrics had taken more time, as each line needed to be as powerful as the ones before it, but the six hours had been a labor of love, keeping him so focused he’d forgotten to stop for dinner.
An oversight Willie hadn’t appreciated, since they ate at the same time.
Shelly had dropped him at the magazine’s office at one forty-five, as instructed. Of course, Naomi was already there. When they’d been dating, his habitual lateness had been the only real issue between them. Until he’d slept with her boss.
“I’m going to ask the receptionist again.” Naomi leaned forward to stand, but considering she’d bugged the woman three minutes ago, Chance clasped her wrist to stop her. Her gasp of pain took him by surprise.
“What the . . .” He lifted her sleeve to find fading blue-and-green bruises. “Is that still from last weekend?”
Naomi lowered the sleeve and crossed her arms. “They look better than they did. I’ll be fine.”
If Chance ever saw Swanson again, he’d rip his throat out.
A voice in the back of his brain said to mind his own business, but he couldn’t let it slide. “Was that the first time he hurt you?”
Expressive eyes went wide. “Of course it was. Do you think I’d let a man do that to me twice?”
She wouldn’t be the first. “You should have reported it. Put his ass in jail.”
Or let Chance kill him like he’d wanted to.
“That would have been pointless,” she hissed. “He easily could have claimed that you had put the marks on me, casting himself in the role of the hero who’d come to my defense only to be attacked. Then it’s a battle of he said/she said, which is never worth fighting because the innocent party rarely wins, especially when the event goes public. It’s smarter to let it go.”
Spoken like a true publicist. Never let the client be portrayed in a negative light. This was the reason every publicist Chance had ever worked with had hated him. No matter what they did, he’d created countless messes for them to clean up.
“This doesn’t mean I don’t get mad when I think about that night. The way he provoked you. ‘Has-been piece of shit.’ That’s what he called you,” she said, as if Chance hadn’t heard the words himself. “The nerve. You’re twice the artist he’ll ever be, and a better man, too.”
Not that he’d ever defend Swanson, but those were bold words no one had ever applied to Chance.
“Have you forgotten my track record over the last seven years?”
Dark hair draped over her forehead and she shoved it away. “An addiction to alcohol doesn’t make you a bad person.” She crossed her legs, revealing an eye-catching amount of milky-white thigh. “I’ll admit, you aren’t the easiest man to deal with, but you’re a good person under all the gruffness and attitude.” Naomi turned toward him. “What is that about, anyway? You live a pampered life. You have a dream job with devoted fans who pay good money merely to be in your presence. Women throw themselves at your feet.” She said the last with a clenched jaw. “Yet you walk around with that chip on your shoulder acting like the world is against you. It makes no sense.”
Chance considered telling her where his attitude came from, since the therapist in rehab had been kind enough to enlighten him. Or at least provide a theory. Losing a loving father at a young age. Losing a mother to drugs and alcohol. Enduring abuse under the nose of the one person who should have protected him.
His chest tightened with a cocktail of rage and an infuriating sense of helplessness. Yes, Chance had his reasons. But as they played back in his mind, they started to sound more like excuses. Tension locked his muscles as the need for a cocktail of a different kind rushed through him.
Dropping his head into his hands, Chance breathed through the urge.
“What’s wrong?” Naomi rested a hand on his back. “Chance, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He set a hand on her knee in an innocent gesture to reassure. But the moment skin met skin, innocent took a back seat to lust. Jaw clenched, he gave her the best answer he could. “Demons are a funny thing, Nay. Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
Covering his hand with her own, she leaned close. “What demons, Chance? What’s haunting you?”
Seven years ago, she’d asked him the same question. The next day, he’d slept with her boss.
“We’re ready for you now, Mr. Colburn,” said the young man who’d greeted them at the reception desk.
Grateful for the reprieve, Chance rose to his feet. “Good. Let’s get this over with.”
Bradley, the receptionist, escorted them down a narrow hall between a row of offices on the right and cubicles on the left. To Naomi’s surprise, almost no office chatter or tapping of keyboards filled the air. In fact, the place was eerily quiet.
“Right in here,” the young man said, smiling as he showed them into the tiny room.
A small seating area spread out before them, with a yellow, two-seater sofa on one side of an oval coffee table and two bright green contemporary chairs glaring from the other side. Chance let Naomi enter first and then stepped in behind her.
“Ms. Rudamin will be with you in a couple minutes. Can I get either of you something to drink? Water? Energy drink? Latte?”
Naomi shook her head, and Chance said, “We’re good, thanks.”
“All right then. Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable.” The door clicked shut, leaving them alone with the Seussian furniture.
Still sizzling from their exchange in the lobby, Naomi’s system vibrated with awareness, as if she’d consumed a gallon of caffeine with a sugar chaser.
Chance hovered beside her, looking as off-balance as she felt. “Guess we should sit.”
The citrus scent of his bergamot cologne filled her senses as he stepped around the sofa. Breaking the tension, he said, “This is the ugliest furniture I’ve ever seen.”
She had to agree. “The couch looks like a giant banana.”
“The chairs are worse.”
Naomi lowered onto the sofa. “I think that’s avocado green. I guess the seventies are making a comeback.”
Chance joined her on the couch. “I’d call it baby-shit green, but whatever.”
His nearness made it difficult to maintain the casual banter. Scratching at her thumbnail, Naomi seized on the first banal question that came to mind. “What do you know about baby poop?”
Quite possibly the dumbest thing she’d ever uttered in her life.
“Shelly has two kids,” he answered, draping an arm across the back of the upholstered banana. “I’ve pulled diaper duty a time or two.”
A denim-clad knee pressed against hers, making the room feel even smaller. Naomi scooted away, but there was no place to go.
She tapped her watch. “It’s ridiculous to keep us waiting this long.”
Chance shrugged. “I’m not in a hurry.”
He might not be, but she was. In a hurry to put an end to this torture. Since when was he so cooperative? And why did he have to sit so close?
Like an answer to her prayer, a slender brunette blew into the room. “So sorry to keep you waiting. I had a late lunch with a label head, and traffic coming back was horrible.” Dropping into one of the green chairs, she sighed. “I know it’s a necessary evil, but I hate when they close down Broadway for events.” Offering a wide smile, the reporter extended a hand. “I’m Jenna Rudamin, and I really appreciate you coming in for this interview. We’re so excited to put you in the pages of Country Today.”
A relatively new publication, Country Today included all the top artists of the genre, but presented them in an entertainment-television sort of way. A lot of flash and fun, which had proved attractive to a younger audience. The fact was, the music playing on country radio these days was not her grandfather’s country, of decades past.
Modern country involved less twang and more twerk.
Naomi appreciated the magazine’s approach, and hoped this interview would reach listeners who might not be aware of the darker escapades in Chance’s history.
“Happy to be included,” Chance replied, adding an extra helping of charm to his Texas drawl. “Y’all are doing a great job for our genre.”
Who was this smooth talker, and what had he done with cranky Chance Colburn?
Blue eyes fluttered adoringly. “I’m so happy to hear you say that. We do our best to shine a bright light on this music and the people who make it. But we couldn’t do what we do without folks like you giving us your time.”
The saccharine overload made Naomi want to gag.
Chance tapped the back of the couch near Naomi’s ear. “I’m at your service, darling. Anytime.”
What the . . . ?
Ms. Rudamin had yet to acknowledge Naomi.
“Do you know Naomi Mallard?” Chance said, as if reading her mind. “She gets the credit for making this happen.”
As if noticing the publicist for the first time, the reporter said, “Oh, hello there. We’ve been emailing, right?”
“Yes,” she answered. “For two months now.”
A slim hand waved through the air. “Of course. It’s nice to put a face with the name.” Rudamin immediately returned her attention to Chance. “You don’t mind if I record this, do you?” A tiny silver recorder appeared from her jacket pocket. “That way we can talk without me scribbling away on my notepad.”
When Naomi first set out to create Chance’s publicity campaign, Shelly had sent over only three requirements—no product endorsements, no silly stunts, and no tape-recorded interviews. Which meant this meeting was about to take a nosedive.
“No problem,” Chance replied. “Record away.”
Naomi considered putting a call into NASA, because Chance had clearly been body snatched.
“Awesome.” Jenna pushed a button on the recorder before placing it on the table between them. As if putting on her game face, she leaned forward with a serious expression. “Let’s start with the last year. It’s common knowledge that you spent time in rehab after a very public arrest. What was that like?”
Right off the bat, she’d ignored Naomi’s list of approved questions. Yes, there had been the caveat, in itty-bitty print at the bottom, but still.
“It was embarrassing, and not one of my prouder moments, but I’m better off now than I was a year ago, so it all worked out for the best.”
A positive spin on an ugly situation, but Naomi still fumed that the question had been asked at all. Not until the reporter once again turned her way did she realize she’d fumed aloud.
“I’m sorry,” Jenna said. “Is something wrong?”
Both Chance and Jenna stared at Naomi expectantly. If Chance wanted to bare his soul with grace and humility, far be it from his publicist to get in the way.
“No,” she said, bouncing her foot up and down. “It’s fine. Carry on.”
“I know that topic isn’t on your list, but there’s a clear acknowledgment that we aren’t required to stick exclusively to those questions.” Jenna leaned over the table to set a hand on Chance’s knee. “I couldn’t possibly interview Mr. Colburn and ignore the topic our readers most want to know about.”
Of course she couldn’t. But she could conduct a professional interview without pawing the interviewee.
Setting both feet on the floor, Naomi copied Ms. Rudamin’s pose, complete with a hand atop the reporter’s. “I said it’s fine. If there’s anything Mr. Colburn does not want to answer, I have no doubt that he will let you know. Now, please.” She gave the narrow fingers a strong squeeze. “Continue.”
Returning her delicate digits to her own lap, Jenna rubbed her knuckles. “All questions are at Mr. Colburn’s discretion, of course.” Keeping a close watch on Naomi, the reporter forged on.
Naomi marched up the sidewalk like a woman on a mission. Lucky for Chance he had long legs or he might have struggled to keep up.
“You want to tell me what happened in there?” she asked, out of breath from the brisk pace.
“I just did an interview. You were there, remember?”
Stopping on a dime, she took the pedestrian behind her by surprise. “Jeez, lady!” the stranger snarled. “Warn a guy.” The disgruntled hipster went around them and continued on.
“Sorry!” she called after him, before turning on Chance. “You were the perfect guest. Gracious. Charming. Forthcoming, even. Since when are you any of those things?”
Since after Shelly’s lecture the day before, when Chance pulled his head out of his ass and decided to act like an adult. Considering his age, the hostile-teen act should have ended a long time ago. Not that he could guarantee no one would ever piss him off again, but he supposed answering a few questions wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
His publicist should have been bursting with joy, not acting as if he’d once again screwed up.
“I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted, but why now? Forty-eight hours ago, you went from congenial to contrary on live radio. Today, you’re the model artist.” She tugged the hip-length trench tight against the cool wind sweeping between the buildings. “You even answered in complete sentences. You never do that.”
He couldn’t win with this woman. “Why are you busting my balls? If I’m a dick, you get pissed. When I’m not a dick, you get pissed. Pick a lane, Naomi, because I’m getting dizzy over here.”
Her jaw locked so tightly he could almost hear her teeth grind. “I don’t trust you. There must be some ulterior motive.” Snapping her fingers, she said, “Of course. Ms. Rudamin is young, beautiful, and single, according to the bare finger on her left hand.” She took off walking once again. “I should have known.”
“What are you doing checking for a wedding ring on a woman?” Chance hustled to catch up. “And not that you aren’t barking up the wrong reporter, but what would you care if I did go out with her? Our relationship is strictly business, remember? That was your rule.”
“We are strictly business.” A woman exited a small grocery store on the left, cutting into Naomi’s path. When she stopped, Chance spun her around.
“Then what is this about? I did what you wanted. I thought you’d be happy.”
“Are you saying you weren’t the perfect gentleman just to get under that woman’s skirt?”
A strong gust swept between them, sending jet-black hair across his eyes. Chance brushed it back. “That’s what I’m saying.”
Hands in her pockets, Naomi cut her gaze to the cars coming up Third Avenue. “Okay, then. Your next interview is Tuesday. Am I going to get the new Chance or the old?”
“I’ll be on my best behavior from now on.” He held up a peace sign. “Scout’s honor.”
She fought the smile and lost. “You were clearly never a scout.”
“No, but I helped a Girl Scout leader earn a few lesser-known badges once.”
The smile disappeared. “You have no shame.”
They fell into step toward the parking lot half a block up. “Who am I talking to on Tuesday?” he asked.
“I sent Shelly the full schedule. Didn’t she show you?”
“Probably. Doesn’t mean I paid much attention.”
“At least you’re honest. WNSH News 10. Their morning show has agreed to feature you in their six o’clock hour.”
What now? “Six in the morning?”
“We’ll need to be there by five forty-five.” Stopping at the entrance to the parking lot, she pulled the ever-present cell from her coat pocket. With a couple of swipes, she read the screen and rolled her eyes. “As if I could forget.”
“Forget what?” Chance asked, curious if the message pertained to him.
Shoving the phone back in the pocket, she charged ahead. “Nothing.” Content to mind his own business, he followed in silence. But once they were both in the car, she said, “Does your family drive you crazy?”
He assumed by crazy she didn’t mean leave him feeling demoralized and worthless. These days, his mother felt more like a ghost he supported financially than a parent, and though Shelly nudged him from time to time, his sister let him live his own way. To the detriment of them both, all things considered.
“Not much, no.”
“Really?” With a push of a button, the engine purred to life. “How do I get that? Because I’ll pay for it. Whatever it costs.”
Naomi did not want to pay the price Chance had.
“Does this have to do with that text?”
She pulled forward through the open space ahead. “My mother insists on having a family dinner every Sunday.”
Sounded pretty standard. “What’s so bad about that?”
“She does it so she can keep tabs on us, which I don’t really mind. There isn’t much in my life to keep tabs on.” At the garage exit, she made a right onto Third. “But this time she’s setting me up with a neighbor I went to school with. He’s a doctor now, and she’s apparently determined to make me his bride.”
Chance’s initial reaction was a stern Fuck that, but he managed to not say the words aloud.
“Maybe you should go for it. He might be the perfect guy for you.”
He stared out the passenger window to hide the distaste on his tongue.
To his relief, Naomi argued otherwise. “He was a jerk in high school, and I doubt med school lessened his opinion of himself.”
The answer seemed obvious. “So don’t go.”
Her laughter filled the car. “That’s a good one. If you knew my mother, you’d know that is not an option. I wouldn’t put it past her to throw Neal in the car and drive him to my door.”
Chance had never been the ride-to-the-rescue type, but a sudden thought tickled the back of his brain. Time with Naomi meant new songs written. Three so far in less than a week, but three songs didn’t make an album. He needed more, and if dinner with an all-American family was what it took, so be it.
Leaping into uncharted territory, he made her an offer. “There’s one obvious solution, then.”
Naomi kept her eyes on the road. “What’s that?”
“Take me with you.”