Chapter 2
“What was that about?” Clay asked as Naomi remained dumbstruck.
“I have no idea,” she lied.
“Are you sure you’ve never met before?”
Naomi watched as the stately blonde was dragged away. “I’m certain.”
Chance had clearly relayed their previous encounter and likely their entire sordid past, casting Naomi in the role of heartless villain. A factoid she saw no reason to share with her boss.
“The last thing we need is his manager undermining our efforts.” Clay rubbed his forehead. “We need to get Chance out there as soon as possible.”
“His first interview is scheduled for a week from today. Should I reschedule it to buy us time to bring Shelly Needham around?”
Clay shook his head. “Let’s wait and see what Chance has to say on Monday.”
Naomi could do that, but the manager seemed adamant that her client would not be doing press anytime soon. If Chance held that same line, Naomi’s job would become even more difficult. Especially with his previous antics still serving as fodder for gossip around the Internet.
“Maybe I should skip the meeting.” Without her there, Clay might have better luck changing the manager’s mind.
“Absolutely not. I’m fine letting Chance decide when he’s ready, but no one will dictate how I run my label. You’re in charge of PR. Shelly Needham will have to deal with that.”
Naomi appreciated the staunch support. In her experience, artists typically took priority, especially ones at Chance’s level. Another label might willingly bow to the whims of their clients and throw a lowly publicist under the bus.
“Then I’ll be there, but I think I’ll avoid another run-in tonight.” She meant with Chance more than his manager, but didn’t see a reason to be specific. “I’m going to head home.”
“I’ve seen a few others leave.” Clay gestured toward a foursome of known gossip lovers making their exit. “Fortunately, Chance hasn’t given them the spectacle they’d hoped to see.”
For that, Naomi was grateful. She already had her work cut out for her after his arrest the previous year. Drunk in public, with an indecency charge thrown in. Turned out strolling down Second Avenue in broad daylight wearing nothing but chaps was frowned on in this family-friendly town. Who’da thunk?
“That’s one positive on the night.” Naomi retrieved the valet ticket from her purse. “Let’s hope the good behavior continues.”
Plenty of artists had built a career by playing the bad boy, but Chance Colburn didn’t just play the part. He lived it. His repeated entanglements with the law paired with a number of less-than-flattering television appearances had lowered his popularity with the fans and resulted in a serious drop in record sales. Which was the reason Shooting Stars had been able to sign him at all.
“He’s given us no reason to doubt him,” Clay replied.
Naomi added the obvious. “Yet. Goodnight.”
On the way out, she checked her phone. Still no word from the family. If there’d been a real emergency, surely someone would have called by now. With a frustrated sigh, she slipped the phone into her purse and handed the attendant her valet ticket. Enjoying the cool May air, she tossed her head back and examined the stars while waiting for her BMW to appear.
“What did you do to piss Shelly off?”
Naomi’s heart nearly leaped out of her chest as she spun toward the unexpected voice. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” she railed at Chance, who lingered in the shadows. A small red dot grew bright before fading. “Are you smoking?”
He put the cigarette out against the brick wall behind him. “It’s the one vice that can’t get me arrested.”
Unbelievable. “It can still kill you. And damage your career. Or have you forgotten that you sing for a living?”
Chance stepped into the light, dark brows riding low over deep brown eyes. “I know what I do, thanks. So what gives with you and Shelly?”
“You tell me. I’ve never even met her until tonight.” As Chance drew nearer, Naomi’s heart rate increased. “But I suppose the answer is obvious.”
“You want to enlighten me?”
Unable to hold his gaze, or ignore the flash of longing that took her by surprise, she turned away with a shrug. “She knows our history, and of course, you made me out to be the bad guy.”
Chance moved closer, and the scents of smoke and bergamot enveloped her. “Shelly doesn’t know anything about our history.”
Naomi spun. “Then why would she attack me like that?”
“I told you,” he murmured, eyes unreadable. “I have no idea.”
She searched his eyes and found sincerity in their umber depths. If the blonde didn’t know their history, that left only one conclusion.
“Then she’s in love with you.”
Chance shook his head. “Shelly is not in love with me.”
“You keep telling yourself that, but her actions say I’m right.” Naomi moved to the edge of the curb. He followed, crowding her space and surrounding her with his heat.
“I’ll do the interviews.”
Hiding her relief, Naomi continued watching for her car. “Are you sure Ms. Needham will approve?”
His Texas drawl deepened. “Shelly works for me. Not the other way around.”
Shelly might see things differently, but that was Chance’s problem. “Fine. I’ll give you all the details on Monday. We’ll run through some practice questions beforehand to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“I know how to answer questions. I’m not new at this, remember?”
She did remember, which was why Naomi planned to script his answers as much as possible. “Your interview history isn’t great.” And if he didn’t move away she might go hunt up her car herself.
“Since when?”
He could not have that short a memory. “You made a female reporter cry last year. Before that, you hit on another reporter on camera.” Of course, the young woman had fallen completely under his spell. Not that Naomi blamed her. “Then there was the interview in which you nearly punched the reporter on the red carpet, and the time you flashed the gun tucked neatly under your vest while guesting on a nationally syndicated morning show.” Casting a glance over her shoulder, she asked, “Need I go on?”
Scratching his temple, Chance had the nerve to grin. “I remember most of that.”
“I remember all of that.” The valet finally arrived. “Go back to your party, Chance. And try not to do anything stupid before Monday.”
She rounded to the driver’s side as he ignored her dismissal. “Nine fifteen is early to be heading home on a Friday night. No hot date?”
After handing the valet his tip, she stared over the silver M3. “The hot date is tomorrow.”
Chance’s grin faded. “Who is he?”
He’d lost the right to ask that question seven years ago. “That’s none of your business. Goodnight, Chance.”
She dropped into the driver’s seat and for half a second considered lowering the passenger window and telling him to get in. Proof of the danger he posed to both her sanity and her common sense. Naomi had driven off that cliff once before and remembered the painful crash all too well. She would not take that ride again.
The party ended less than an hour later, which was an hour too long for Chance. After Shelly had pulled her stunt with Naomi, she’d ignored his questions and avoided a confrontation by immersing herself in the crowd. That tactic no longer worked when they were the only ones left.
“No more dodging, Shell. What is your problem with Naomi Mallard?”
“She’s pushing you too hard. I don’t like it.” A door slammed on the other side of the room as staff hustled to clear the space. “You know what they’re going to ask. How they’ll egg you on.”
Chance wasn’t buying it. “If you wanted to discuss the PR schedule, you could have done it without ripping into her.”
Shelly shrugged. “I don’t like her attitude. She talks about you like you’re a product, not a person.”
“I am a product,” he reminded her. “A product that Shooting Stars is paying good money for, and they expect me to hold up my end.”
Glasses clinked together as Shelly and Chance made their way to the exit. Neither spoke on their way out of the building, and the valet had Shelly’s car ready at the curb. Chance waited until they were on the road to push for answers.
“One more time. Why did you go after Naomi?”
“I’m not allowed to dislike someone?”
“When there’s a reason,” Chance clarified. “You don’t even know her.”
“Neither do you,” Shelly snapped. “So why are you acting like her protector?”
Chance knew everything about Naomi, from the way she liked her coffee to how she sighed when he kissed the back of her neck. Facts he’d never forgotten nor shared with another living soul.
“I have to work with her, and I need her to want to work with me. In case you’re just tuning in, I fucked up, Shell. Bad. Coming back isn’t going to be easy. We need Naomi in our corner.”
Gripping the steering wheel like a vise, she glanced his way with sharp blue eyes. “I know you fucked up. I’m the one who bailed you out of jail, remember? I’m the one who hired the lawyer and handled the endless media calls. I flew solo for the meeting in which Blackstone Records terminated your contract. The contract I’d negotiated less than six months earlier because Maverick Records also terminated your contract, due to two DUI arrests in nine months. I’m well acquainted with your record.”
This seemed to be his night to have women remind him of shit he already knew.
As they made the left onto Old Hickory, Shelly shook her head. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“All true, though,” he mumbled, fighting back the urge to drown his guilt with a bottle of bourbon.
When he’d gone into rehab, Shelly had cleared his house of any and all forms of alcohol, including every drop of cough syrup and mouthwash. In the short time he’d been home, Chance hadn’t succumbed to the urge to check the hiding places she hadn’t known about. That was the irony of being a drunk. He couldn’t remember half the shit he’d done in the last five years but possessed total recall of every spot in his house that could hold a bottle of liquor.
“I’m tired and my hormones are all over the place. Remember how I was with Tristan?” she asked, referring to her youngest child. “I was a raging bitch through that entire pregnancy.”
“Afraid that year is still blurry,” Chance confessed. “If the bitching was in my direction, I’m sure I deserved it.”
Propping an elbow on the door, she laid her head in her hand. “We sure do make a pair, don’t we? Talk about the apples not falling far from the tree.”
Chance wasn’t interested in traveling down that memory lane, either. “We’ve come a long way, Shell. We’re nothing like them.”
“My mother went to jail for stabbing her lover in a fit of rage, and my father made both our lives miserable. Add in that he drove your mother to drink, and I’d say the similarities are undeniable.”
He knew he should have insisted she get her own help. “They’re responsible for their own choices and so are we. Unless I missed something, you’ve never stabbed a guy. And though I’ve earned Dick of the Year more than once, I’ve never belittled a kid or put out a cigarette on anyone’s arm.” Chance dropped his head back and closed his eyes. “I’d say we’re doing pretty good, all things considered.”
“We aren’t living in trailers that smell like cat piss,” she offered.
“Neither of us have regrettable tattoos.” Chance had his share of ink, but none he regretted.
“And your mom has been clean for three years. That’s a good sign, right?”
“Sure,” he answered. “Does she know you’re about to give her another grandkid?” Though Shelly’s offspring were technically step-grandchildren, Debra Ransick never referred to them as anything but her grandbabies.
Shelly slowed for the light at Granny White Pike. “Not yet. I haven’t figured out how to tell her.”
Chance shifted in his seat. “What are you talking about? You’re going to make her year.”
She chewed her lip before answering. “At least I was married to Izzy and Tristan’s dad. I’m thirty-five years old. Too old to be getting knocked up by some random guy.”
“You thinking about not keeping it?”
“What?” The car swerved, eliciting a honk from the truck in the next lane. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because it’s an option.” They’d been through hell and back more times than Chance could count, and he’d watched Shelly endure both an abusive father and a selfish husband. If anyone deserved to live on her own terms, it was the woman sitting beside him.
Tapping double-time on the wheel, the unsinkable blonde shook her head. “That isn’t an option for me. This baby’s father may be a careless jerk, but his mother is going to love him to pieces.”
Shelly was a better woman than she gave herself credit for. “Him, huh?”
“Yeah. That’s my guess.” She flashed a crooked grin. “Call it a gut hunch.”
Chance chuckled. “I see what you did there.”
Companionable silence fell over the car, until Shelly sighed. “I’ll call Debra tomorrow and invite her for lunch. That way I can tell her and the kids at the same time. You want to join us?”
“I’ve got a meeting tomorrow.” As part of his parole, Chance attended two meetings a week.
“Sorry. I forgot.” She switched on her high beams for the trip up his narrow drive.
“No problem.”
The silver Lexus stopped at the side of the house and she unlocked the doors. “I’m sorry your birthday party sucked.”
“It didn’t suck,” Chance assured her. “At least I’ll remember this one.”
“For all the wrong reasons,” she laughed.
After climbing from the car, he leaned back in. “Careful going home, and take a picture of Debra’s face when you tell her. That way I’ll feel like I was there.”
“I can do that.”
Chance tapped the roof of the car twice. “Night, Shell.”
“Night, buddy.”
Once the car swung around, he watched the taillights fade down the drive before strolling to his porch and dropping into a weathered rocker. A year ago, he’d have barely made it this far, let alone gotten himself into the house. In fact, he’d woken many a morning sprawled on the porch swing ten feet away. One year sober today, but still one eventful year.
First the arrest on his birthday, then three months behind bars. The sentence should have been longer, considering his record, but Shelly had hired the best—meaning most expensive—lawyer, who’d convinced the judge to shorten the sentence in exchange for Chance going into rehab. That ninety-day stint had been followed by time in sober living, which would have been the perfect time to write a dozen hit songs.
But the muse had been AWOL since before his last drink. Apparently, she didn’t like being sober any more than he did. Not good for a man who made his living as a singer-songwriter.
Tucking an arm behind his head, Chance set the rocker into motion and watched the fireflies flit around his front yard. In a flash, he was eight years old, staring into a jar filled with flickering yellow lights. Now he knew how those bugs had felt. Trapped, helpless, and on display.
Then another memory surfaced. Wayne Ransick hurling that jar out the front door to smash against the old cottonwood tree. Chance knew how the bugs felt then, too.
The anger he’d carried for most of his life simmered deep in his belly. Harmon Chesterfield, his ever-patient sponsor, claimed that anger was just a stand-in for the shit people didn’t like to feel. Anger gave us a sense of power, while all the other stuff felt like a jackhammer to the chest.
Who in their right mind would choose the jackhammer? Not Chance. He’d chosen Jack Daniel’s.
But, contrary to what the press and most of Music Row had predicted, he’d made it twelve full months without a drink. Could he make it twelve more? And twelve more after that?
Rising from the chair, he shook his head and recited another wise tidbit of Harmon’s. “One day at a time, Colburn. One damn day at a time.”