Chapter 26
Three days after Chance’s follow-up visit, Naomi felt confident enough about his recovery to return to work. Between rescheduling his appearances and the release of Dylan’s sophomore effort at the end of June, she needed to be at her desk and not having to reply to emails with Willie walking across her keyboard.
“Got a second?” Clay asked from the doorway to Naomi’s office.
She didn’t, but her boss rarely came calling unless it was important. “Sure. What do you need?”
Shoulders stiff, Clay entered the office and closed the door. “How much do you know about Chance’s childhood in Texas?”
It was an odd question that put her immediately on edge. “Some. Why?”
He tossed a folder onto her desk. “This just showed up in my email. It’s a tell-all article set to release tomorrow. An anonymous source claims that not only was Chance physically abused, his mother was an alcoholic who stayed too drunk to care for him.”
Naomi flipped open the folder. Inside, she found a three-page exposé that would reveal all of Chance’s demons to the world.
“They can’t print this.”
“They can if it’s true. Is it?”
Answering would be a betrayal. “Who is the source?”
Clay planted his hands on the edge of her messy desk. “That’s the anonymous part. Whoever they are, they know specifics. His stepfather’s name. Where he grew up. Even his time in the military and the death of some boyhood friend in Afghanistan.”
Furious, she slammed the folder shut. “Why would a tabloid send this to us? Do they want corroboration? If so, they aren’t getting it.”
“The tabloid didn’t send it. I called as soon as I read the article. They’re pissed that I have it at all.”
Naomi didn’t understand. “So not only is there an anonymous source, there’s an anonymous leak? Do you think it’s someone giving us the opportunity to kill the story?”
Clay paced to the door. “Again, I can’t kill it if it’s true. If they can back up those facts, there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it. I need to know if the article is true.”
Eyes lowered, she said, “It is.”
“Dammit.” He shoved a hand through his short hair. “Maybe this doesn’t have to be a bad thing. A story like this has sympathy written all over it. The fans will read that, and they won’t be able to buy the album fast enough.”
She couldn’t let the secrets Chance had worked so hard to keep be used as PR tools. “Do you really think Chance will see it that way? Clay, this is his life, not fodder for publicity. What do you think drove him to drink in the first place? It wasn’t landing three number-one hits on his debut album.” She waved the folder in the air. “It was this.”
“Then our only option is to let him see it before it goes public tomorrow.”
Naomi didn’t want to think about what this would do to Chance. There had to be a way to protect him.
“What if we find the source?” she said. “If the source retracts their statements, they can’t run the story.”
“It’s an idea, but how are we going to find the person behind this and convince them to back down by the end of the day? I doubt the reporter is going to give us the information.”
No. But there was one other person who knew all the same people Chance did. Whoever supplied these details had to be someone who was around when they were kids. Maybe a cousin who’d always been jealous of Chance’s success had found a reporter willing to listen. Or a neighbor down on their luck willing to talk for the right price.
“I’m not sure, but there’s an obvious place to start.” Naomi reached for her cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” Clay asked.
She put the phone to her ear. “Shelly. If anyone will know where to start, it’ll be her.”
“I can’t believe you wrote these songs on your phone,” Louis said as he explored Chance’s guitar app.
“I had to do something.” Chance waved his left hand. “There was no way to play the real thing.”
“This one called ‘Yet’ is the best thing you’ve ever written, man.” Calvin strummed through the first few chords of the song, adding a variation on the second. “I can’t wait to take these into the studio.”
Many road bands didn’t perform on the actual album recordings, but Chance had insisted years ago that Panhandle do all the studio work on his music. His pickers were some of the best in town, and over the years, they’d become go-to session players for other artists when between tours.
“We need another round of drinks,” declared Sticks as he tightened a drumhead. With a week to go before their first session, and Chance still recuperating at home, they’d opted to work out the songs in his living room to be ready come June 1.
“I can get one at a time,” Chance said with a laugh.
Archie set his guitar in its stand. “I’ll help you carry some.” In the kitchen, the bass player opened the fridge. “These songs have a theme to them.”
Transferring cold cans of soda to the counter, Chance said, “They’re standard country tunes. Love and loss and a pretty girl. But I think they’re good.”
“They are good,” Arch reassured him. “They’re all about her.”
Chance hesitated. “Some.”
“All. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Setting the last can on the counter, Chance closed the fridge door. “Do any of us know what we’re doing when it comes to women? I’m happy. Naomi’s happy. That’s good for now.”
“And what happens if you get unhappy?” his friend asked. “I want nothing more in the world than for this to work out, but it’s fast, man. Too fast. You’re in a better place than I’ve seen you in years. From the looks of these songs, this album has platinum written all over it. But we’ve been here before, and watched it crash. I don’t want to see that happen again.”
Anger churned in Chance’s gut. He didn’t like the questions or the doubts, but these guys had gone through hell with him, and they were still here. Archie had seen more hell than the rest. So instead of firing off with a fuck you, Chance shut down his temper.
“The fact is, I got sober before Nay came back into my life. A full year without a drink. Now, I don’t plan to lose her, but if something does go wrong, I’ll still be sober without her.”
Archie’s ugly face relaxed into a relieved grin. “Good to know. Now let’s make some damn good music.” He swept the cold cans into his arms and carried them to the table. “Pop a soda top, boys. It’s practice time.”
As Calvin slid a Coke down to Sticks, Louis walked through the front door with Chance’s mail. “Dude. You’ve got to get a shorter driveway.”
“I made it a quarter mile for a reason.”
The stack of envelopes hit the counter and he scanned through them to find one large brown one marked URGENT. Reaching for a knife, he held the envelope down with his left arm and sliced it open. Gingerly and with more pain than he’d admit, he gripped the bottom between two swollen fingers and yanked out the contents with his good hand.
Several sheets spilled out, and the top of page one read CHANCE COLBURN: THE REAL STORY OF ABUSE AND ADDICTION. He scanned the first paragraph to find details of his childhood. Lived in a trailer in Follett, Texas. Father killed. Mother remarried. Abuse began. Bile pooled at the back of his throat as the story went on. Mother was a drunk. Colburn was a teen with a violent record.
“You ready, bro?” Louis asked. “Sticks is all set up. It’s time to get back on the horse.”
Chance glanced up, unseeing. “I’m calling it for today.”
“Come on. We haven’t even started yet.”
Flipping the pages facedown, he rubbed his left arm. “I’m not up for it today.”
“But we—”
“I said I’m done,” Chance barked. “Not today.”
The guitarist pulled the Fender over his head. “Got it, buddy. What the fuck ever.” Crossing to his case on the floor by the back door, Louis announced, “Time to go, boys. The boss has changed his mind.”
“What?” Archie said. “We’re all set up. Why shut it down?”
“Who knows?” Louis snapped his case shut. “Screw this shit. I’m out of here.”
Since Louis was Calvin’s ride, the rhythm player retrieved his own case off the floor. “I ain’t fucking walking, man. Wait up.”
Sticks smacked a cymbal. “You’re living with ’em, bro. Let us know when you’re done pissing around.”
The front door slammed and only Archie remained, lingering beside the abandoned drum kit. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
Chance slid the article back and forth on the counter, shaking his head. “Something came up.”
“I’m going to need more than that.”
“You aren’t getting it.”
“Unbelievable.” The bass player loaded his gear in seething silence, then stopped halfway to the door. “We aren’t puppets you get to yank around, Chance. Every step you’ve climbed in this business has been on our backs. The guys and me? We’ve stuck it out because we’re loyal. Because we’re your friends. But every man has a limit. Pull another stunt like this, and we might reach ours.”
The threat hit hard, but pissing off his band was the least of Chance’s worries in that moment. Snagging the tell-all story, he crossed to the couch and perched on the edge, spreading the papers on the coffee table. Willie jumped up and walked across them, but Chance shoved him away. Starting over at the beginning, he read every word of the article. Every dark secret was revealed. Seeing the details in print was like seeing the bruises return to this skin. All the ugly, violent facts of his life scrawled on the page, thanks to an anonymous source.
When he reached the last paragraph, which made him out to be some poor little rich boy who only drank because his stepdaddy beat him and his mama never loved him, Chance put a face on anonymous. He’d told his secrets to only one person. The person whose job it was to make him look good in the press. Someone who knew how to use information to manipulate emotions. What better way to get people on Chance’s side than to tell them a sob story? Albums would go flying off the virtual shelves.
Leaning back on the couch, Chance stared at the headline, noticing for the first time the date beneath it. May 25. The next day. He had twenty-four hours before his life hit checkout stands everywhere.
After an exhausting day filled with more phone calls and emails than Naomi could count, she’d finally found the answer. And all the work had been for nothing.
Shelly had arrived at the office minutes after Naomi’s call. They started by compiling a list of people who could know all the details in the story. The reporter had been clear that his information stemmed from a single person. Not surprisingly, the list of candidates was short. As in, no list at all.
The details in the story were specific, and according to Shelly, disturbingly accurate. That eliminated short-term neighbors and even most relatives, since Wayne had kept the family isolated. They’d gone to Google to see if the facts could have been collected from multiple sources by one nosy individual, but found nothing. Until a link to a tiny article dated five years before came up. Around the time Chance’s career had really taken off, which would have sent entertainment reporters scouring for strangers who “knew him when.”
Naomi had expected to find some high school coach or even local Texas cop talking about the troubled teen who’d turned his life around. Instead, she’d found an angry mother with nothing nice to say. Eugenia Parker, mother of Chance’s childhood friend Davy, who’d died in combat in the Middle East, had railed to a reporter about Chance not deserving his success. He was trailer-park trash who’d coerced her son into the military and then gotten him killed.
Anyone reading it could recognize a woman with an ax to grind, which was likely why the article had ended up buried in the far reaches of the Internet.
But, since this was the only lead they had, Naomi had started making calls, and it turned out Eugenia still lived in the same home less than a mile from the trailer where Chance’s life had been a living hell. She’d readily admitted telling the reporter what she’d called “the truth about the worthless drunk who’d taken her son away.” Attempts to trigger any sympathy or compassion for Chance had fallen flat, but she did slip in one added detail Naomi would never have considered.
When Eugenia realized Naomi was calling from Nashville, she’d asked her to pass on her gratitude to the nice man who had gotten her in touch with a reporter who would finally listen. That man was Michael Swanson.
Naomi shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was. That he’d take her on a few dates to get his foot in a door was one thing. That he would play a part in revealing another man’s nightmare for petty revenge was another. Five minutes passed as Naomi sat on the news, knowing Shelly was working in another office seeking the answer she’d just discovered. How would she take learning that the father of her unborn child was about to destroy her brother?
Unable to put off the inevitable, she’d broken the news to Shelly first, since Clay didn’t know anything about the baby. The response had been extended silence, then the words, “That makes my decision easier.” Together, they’d revealed the truth to Clay, who didn’t say much, either, but Naomi left his office with the distinct impression that Michael Swanson wouldn’t be making a living in this town for much longer.
Now, she had the miserable duty of revealing all to Chance. Since Eugenia refused to pull her support from the article, there was no way to stop it. Chance had to know. And Naomi dreaded having to tell him.
The long day meant arriving home at dusk. No light shone through the windows, which was odd. Carrying a folder of all she’d learned, Naomi stepped inside the dark house and recognized a human form on the couch.
“Chance?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
He didn’t answer, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Naomi’s first thought was that he was drunk. But why now?
“Are you okay?”
“Nope.”
Reaching the lamp on the end table, she switched it on to find Chance sitting in the middle of the couch, a brown envelope and three sheets of paper spread out before him on the coffee table.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Brown eyes slowly lifted to hers. “You tell me.”
Angry, not drunk. The better of the two options.
“Did you get something in the mail?”
“Were you going to tell me?”
She wasn’t in the mood to play games. Crossing to the table, she examined the papers and pulled back with a gasp.
“I guess that’s a no.”
“Where did this come from?”
Chance flipped over the brown envelope. “No return address. Too bad I don’t know who to thank for the heads-up.”
Naomi knew exactly who’d sent the article. She’d bet her life on it.
“I wish you hadn’t found out this way.”
The coffee table went flying. “How do you wish I’d found out, Naomi? When the shit hit the stands?” Chance prowled the floor like a caged tiger. “When my life became the lead story on cable news? Poor Chance Colburn, his childhood sucked. We should all feel sorry for him now.”
“No, I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what?” he asked, looming over her like an avenging angel about to strike. “You didn’t think I’d mind you putting my secrets in the paper? The least you could have done was aim higher than that shitty-ass tabloid. Or was my life auctioned off to the highest bidder? Garner nationwide sympathy for the artist and put a little money in the bank while you’re at it?”
Every cell in Naomi’s body went cold as she watched the man before her contort into someone she did not know. He believed she’d done this. After she’d forgiven him. Stood by him. Loved him. And this is what she got in return? Assumptions and accusations? Yes, he’d told her his secrets, but if he could consider for even one minute that she’d betray him like this, then Naomi had made a serious mistake.
Again.
Shaking with pain and rage, she threw the folder at his feet. “My mother was right. You’re exactly what she said you are. A runner. A coward!” She screamed the last word. “I thought you were different now. That you’d changed. But you’re still the same scared little man you were before.”
He stormed toward her. “What did you call me?”
Naomi stood her ground. “Don’t you dare try to intimidate me. I’ve put up with your bullying and your temper, and I forgave you for all of it. I even forgave you for sleeping with Martha. And this is what I get?” She shook her head, willing back the tears. “This is how you repay me? You accuse me of betraying you?”
“Who else, Nay? Who else could have done it?”
Right. Who else could betray him but someone who claimed to care about him?
“I’ll tell you, Chance. Because I spent all goddamn day trying to figure that out. All day making phone calls, trying to find a way to help you keep your secrets.” Snatching the folder off the floor, Naomi flipped it open. “Michael Swanson tracked down Eugenia Parker and put her in touch with a reporter. The result is the story you’re blaming me for.” She threw the documents in his face. Her surroundings blurred as she lost the battle not to cry. “I’ve made the mistake of loving you twice now. I will not make that mistake a third time.”
Naomi didn’t bother looking back as she charged out the door. By the time she dropped into the driver’s seat, her lungs burned, but she threw the car into gear, afraid Chance might come after her. At the end of the long driveway, she slowed to a stop and dropped her forehead to the wheel as uncontrollable sobs racked her body.
Fury overflowing, she sat up and smacked the wheel over and over, screaming, “I believed in you, goddammit! Why couldn’t you believe in me?”
Cheeks soaked, she dug in the console for a stack of napkins and wiped her eyes, but the tears kept falling, obscuring the road ahead. Naomi shook her head, willing herself to breathe slowly, in and out. She closed her eyes and focused on the rise and fall of her chest.
“He will not break me,” she said aloud. “Not this time.”
Clearing her eyes again, she put her hands gently on the wheel and drove away from what had come to feel like home.