One hour earlier

“That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had,” I tell Frisco as I lean back into one of the chairs on my porch, my shotgun resting beside me with an empty shell box on the table. Now that the sun has dropped below the horizon, we’re done shooting skeet, and Frisco is talking out of his ass.

“I’m pretty sure that time he wanted to streak through the parking lot in Denver in January was a worse idea,” Quarter, my bass guitarist, offers. “He’ll never live down those pics of his dick.”

“It was cold! Shrinkage, dude. Not fair.”

“That’s what George said on Seinfeld too . . .”

“Shut up, you assholes.” Frisco tucks his shotgun back into its case and cracks a beer. “Just hear me out. Nick and Charity told you to lay low, but this whole thing is going to play out on the stage of public opinion. Your fans love you because you don’t take shit from anyone. Remember when you called that guy out for shoving that chick in the crowd, and had security yank him? You aren’t the kind of guy who goes to ground when shit hits the fan. You come out swinging, showing the world what you’re made of, and they worship you for it.”

“As much as I want to say he’s an idiot, Frisco actually has a point there,” Quarter says, popping the top off his beer.

“So you think showing up on Broadway, walking into a bar, and playing a set like I used to is somehow going to make a difference?”

“Not just any bar on Broadway—the White Horse. It’s always packed with all those tourists dying to see someone famous. You step onto that stage and mention you’ve been having a rough week, and then you play your new single and talk about how the girl you thought would be riding in that 442 with you turned out to have different plans, so you’re rolling with the curveball life threw you.” Frisco’s beer sloshes over the lip as he gestures with his hands.

Quarter chuckles low. “Oh man, they’ll eat that shit up. You’ll have so many pairs of panties on that stage by the time you’re done . . . You gotta do it.”

I don’t give a shit about panties on the stage, or the women throwing them.

Frisco jumps up from his chair. “You’re Boone fucking Thrasher. You ain’t shy about people knowing you’ve been knocked down. You show them you’re tough as hell every time you get back up, and tell ’em to bring it on. No one takes you down and sends you into hiding, especially not Amber Fleet.”

Frisco’s words finally penetrate, because he said exactly what I’ve been thinking. I don’t hole up and lick my wounds. That’s not the kind of man I am. I haul my ass up every time it gets kicked, and dare the world to throw another punch.

A rush of determination fills me, something I haven’t felt in months.

“You’re fucking right that’s who I am.”

Quarter springs out of his chair. “So we’re going?”

“Yeah, we’re fucking goin’.”

* * *

The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and Frisco, Quarter, and I head for the stage at Broadway’s famous White Horse Saloon.

The guy onstage, whose set I just cut in on, welcomes me with a huge smile and one hell of an introduction.

“You sure you’re cool, man? I don’t wanna put you out.”

His eyes widen. “Dude, you’re my idol. I’ve been listening to your albums since I was in high school, and now we’re standing on the same stage.”

The kid’s speech makes me feel older than my years, but I know he’s not trying to insult me. For him, it’s truly an honor to be onstage with me, and I’m not going to take that away from him. God knows I’ve felt like that plenty of times myself with country legends I’m now lucky enough to call friends.

“What’s your name?”

“Theo Sampson.”

I hold out my hand and shake his. “Thanks, Theo. You play any of my songs?”

“Every single one.”

“Then stick around and we’ll play one together.”

His entire face pales before excitement lights up his eyes. “You serious?”

“Sure am.”

He passes me the mic that’s still gripped in the fingers of his left hand. “Awesome. I’ll be at the bar. Anytime you’re ready.”

“Can I borrow your guitar?”

His eyes widen even further. “Dude. Of course.”

“Great. Appreciate you, man.”

Two of the guys onstage are handing over guitars to Frisco and Quarter, but the drummer stays where he is.

I flip on the mic and speak into it. “Let’s give it up for Theo Sampson! He keep you guys entertained?”

The crowd screams.

“That’s what I thought. Give him another year and maybe you’ll see him on tour with me.”

The kid turns around on the way to the bar, and he looks like he might lose his shit. He salutes me and keeps walking . . . right up next to a brunette who looks way too much like the one I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. She spins on the stool, her dark hair swinging around her shoulders, and I get a glimpse of her face in the light coming from the bar.

It’s her. Ripley.

Coming here all of a sudden seems like it was the hand of fate or some shit like that. Now I know exactly what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna give the girl who can’t stand celebrities a hell of a show.

“What’s up, Nashville? Who’s having a good time tonight?”

The roar of the crowd fills the bar to deafening levels, and I wait for them to quiet down before I speak again. Part of me is second-guessing this, but I know Frisco and Quarter are right. I don’t lay low. I face shit head-on.

“I know most of you have heard that I haven’t had the best week, and damned if life didn’t sucker punch me with that one.”

There are a few awwws, but I keep going.

“It occurred to me tonight when we were sitting on my back deck shooting skeet that your character ain’t forged when things are going your way. It’s forged when shit gets ugly, messy, and hard. It’s about how you pick yourself up from those cheap shots and keep trucking forward. Ain’t it?”

Another roar of approval.

“So instead of keeping the world out of my business, I want to invite you into my shitty week so we can get over it together. Because I bet some of you have had a rough week too.”

Beers are raised and more people yell, but my eyes are on the dark-haired woman at the bar, her mouth open just enough to show her shock. Yeah, sugar, you too.

“That’s what I thought. So, how about we sing some songs and have a good time tonight and forget about all that crap weighing us down, because we’re better than that. Tomorrow, the Lord is going to bless us with a new day, and that’s something to be thankful for.”

The cheers and screams threaten to shake the walls of this place.

“That’s what I like to hear!” The buzz of adrenaline filling my veins is stronger than at my last show in front of thirty thousand.

This is what I’ve been missing. This is who I am.

I turn to Frisco and Quarter. “You ready?”

They both give me a nod, and with a glance at the drummer, we get ready to rock.