Chapter 22
Charley made it to the end of the week without losing her mind. But barely.
Late Tuesday night, she’d sent Dylan a text that said she was fine. Which technically she was, since pregnancy wasn’t an actual illness. To her surprise, she never received a response. Nor had she heard from him since. No calls. No texts. Nothing.
At the end of her Friday shift, Charley turned over the microphone, packed up her headphones, and raced to her car. She still didn’t intend to share the news—whether good or bad she hadn’t decided yet—over the phone, but she needed to hear his voice.
The call went straight to voice mail.
“Dang it.”
It was four o’clock in New York on a show night, so he was probably doing some kind of publicity and turned off the phone. Once he went back online, she felt certain he’d see the missed call and get in touch. Only he never did.
Lying in bed that night, she couldn’t help herself. Charley checked Dylan’s Instagram first but found nothing new posted since Monday night. So she clicked over to Casey’s account—and wished she hadn’t.
Sprawled out in a corner booth was Dylan, arm around a pretty brunette who would have been in his lap had she crawled any closer. They were both laughing, the table in front of them littered with bottles and empty glasses. No umbrellas this time. Charley supposed New York City was too sophisticated for such tacky drink accessories. A check of the time stamp revealed the picture had been posted in the last half hour.
“I guess when you’re having that much fun, you can’t be bothered to call your pregnant girlfriend back home.”
To be fair, Dylan didn’t know she was pregnant, but still. He should have called. Or sent a text. At this point, she’d take a smoke signal.
Since she knew he wasn’t too tied up to take a call, Charley rang his number. And again got his voice mail. This time, she decided to leave a message, only Dylan’s normal greeting had been replaced by a programmed computer voice letting her know that the person at this number wasn’t available. And then the line went dead.
“What the hell?” she said to the screen, dialing the number again only to get the same result. Tossing her phone onto the bed, she crossed her arms. “Stupid technology.”
Feeling a pout coming on, she snatched up the phone and checked Facebook. Scrolling her newsfeed, she saw that a cousin had bought a new car, a politician had done something underhanded (big shocker), and a Hollywood socialite had dumped her cheating boyfriend.
“You tell him, honey,” Charley said aloud. “Men are assholes.”
Concerned she was starting to sound like Matty, she scrolled a little more and bolted upright in bed. There, on her screen, was Dylan Monroe, sauntering into a New York City restaurant with the same brunette on his arm.
“You son of a . . .” Words faded as she read the headline.
Rising Star Dylan Monroe Takes Potential New Love to New York City Hot Spot
That rat-sucking, good-for-nothing piece of shit. Five weeks on tour and all his I-love-you crap goes out the window? Really? Charley was that easy to toss away? And he didn’t even have the guts to tell her so. What did he think? That she wouldn’t find out? Cameras caught everything. That’s what Mitch had said. They couldn’t be seen together in the wrong places because cameras caught everything.
“Dammit!” she screamed, slamming the phone onto the bed as she leaped out of it. “Such an asshole.”
Matty sprinted into the room. “What is it? Is there a bug?” she asked, prancing near the door.
“I wouldn’t call a bug an asshole, Matilda,” Charley sniped. “It’s Dylan. He has a ‘potential new love,’” she explained, using air quotes. “The son of a bitch has a new sucker on the line, and he doesn’t even have the balls to tell me I’ve been replaced.”
“Are you sure?” Matty asked, reaching for her arm.
“I saw the picture online.”
“Being on the Internet doesn’t make it true. You know that.”
Charley grabbed the phone and swiped to Casey’s Instagram. “There. Right there,” she said, smacking the screen. “That’s Casey’s account, not some headline-seeking reporter. That looks pretty damn true to me.”
Cast in the uncomfortable role of devil’s advocate, Matty said, “They could be friends. Someone said something funny and they’re all laughing. This could be totally innocent.”
Running her hands through her hair, Charley paced the floor. “She’s in his lap, Matty. His arm is around her.”
“His arm is across the back of the booth.”
Vertigo setting in, she collapsed into the chair in the corner and rubbed her temples. “He won’t take my calls or return my texts. I may be naive, but I’m not an idiot. Dylan is through with me.” Saying the words brought reality crashing around her like a summer downpour. “He doesn’t love me, Matty. He never did.”
Tears blinded her vision as Charley rocked forward and back, arms curled against her stomach.
“Oh, honey. You don’t know that.” Matty hit her knees and brushed the hair from Charley’s face. “Tours are crazy. That stupid manager probably has him running in a million different directions. Wait and see. I bet he calls you tomorrow, hungover and fuming about some website suggesting he has a new girlfriend.”
Shaking her head, Charley refused to be a fool any longer. “You were right. They all cheat. Every last one of them.” Her voice hitched on a hiccup. “I should have listened.” Holding a hand to her stomach, she whined, “And now look what I’ve done.”
Matty held her roommate as she cried. “You aren’t in your right mind, honey. You’ve got hormones playing hell with your common sense. Give the man a chance to explain.”
Charley wanted to believe. Fought to find a voice or reason somewhere in her swirling mind that would put all the fears and worst scenarios to rest. But a week of growing anxiety, mixed with crazy-making hormones and an overdose of every emotion under the sun, smothered any glimmer of hope.
Lungs singed and nose burning, she ran out of steam somewhere around two in the morning. But her last thought before drifting off brought another round of tears.
She would have to go home.
“Where do they get off printing this shit?” Dylan stormed around the tiny living space of the tour bus. “We walked into a restaurant together. Since when does that mean we’re dating?”
“The spoils of fame,” Casey said, stretched out on one of the narrow sofas. “It’s part of the game.”
“I’m not playing any games. What if Charley sees this?”
The redhead glanced up from under his ball cap. “Same as with Pam. If she trusts you, she’ll know it’s bullshit. If not . . .” He shrugged. “Good riddance. You’ve always got Denise there.”
“I have a feeling Denise’s girlfriend, Laura, would have a problem with that.”
“Denise plays for her own team?” Casey shook his head. “That’s a crying shame.”
Dylan dropped onto the opposite sofa. “Where is Mitch with my phone? He swore he’d get one today.”
Sadly, the iPhone never turned up, and the schedule had been packed tight for the last three days. First on the road actually getting to New York, and then with constant appearances. Every time Dylan found a free minute to try calling the station, Charley’s shift had ended. Then Mitch had a full day of meetings on Friday, doing God only knew what, while Dylan had done the early dinner with Tillman and his wife. He hadn’t known Denise, one of Wes’s backup singers, would be tagging along until she’d offered to share a cab.
“Maybe he’s in a meeting,” the drummer suggested, sarcasm heavy in his tone.
Ignoring the barb, Dylan leaned forward. “Let me see your phone.”
“Why? So you can lose it, too?”
“I need to see if there’s anything else I’ll have to explain to Charley.”
Rolling onto his side, Casey dragged the cell from his pocket and tossed it across the bus. “Zero, four, two, seven,” he said. “That’ll get you in.”
Not surprised, Dylan said, “That’s Pam’s birthday, isn’t it?”
“Shut up and worry about your own love life.”
Their roommate had visited three stops on the tour so far, and with each, she and Casey spent more time alone. Dylan had caught the lip-lock goodbye before his drummer climbed back on the bus after the DC show, relieved to see the two lovebirds back to their old ways.
Keying in the code, Dylan went to Instagram first and spotted Casey’s last post. “Dude. This picture is worse than the paparazzi one. You know that Charley follows you.”
Casey crossed his ankles. “What? We were having a good time, that’s all.”
“It looks like Denise is in my lap. Dammit, this is going to make things worse.”
“Maybe by the time you get your phone back to call her, she’ll have cooled off.”
That was the thing about cell phones. Dylan didn’t have Charley’s number memorized because she was always there with one quick touch of her name. The new phone would have his contacts, and as soon as Mitch handed it over, he’d make the biggest groveling call of his life.
“Do you have Mitch’s number in here?” he asked.
“Nope,” Casey replied. “He isn’t my manager.”
Dylan threw the phone onto his friend’s chest. “Fine. I’ll wait. But he better be here soon.”
Shooting Stars Records had their second official artist.
Clay Benedict strolled into the recesses of Madison Square Garden, relieved to have the business portion of his trip concluded. Chance’s recovery required he spend the rest of the year in sober living in Colorado, but after the first of the year, he’d be ready for the studio. With luck, a notebook full of soul-searching songs would be tucked neatly in his pocket.
Surrounded by the typical chaos that preceded a live show, he evaded a forklift carrying equipment cases and then shuffled out of the way of three roadies rolling two cases each. Once the path cleared, he spotted Mitch Levine coming his way.
“Mitch,” Clay called. “Over here.”
The older man squinted, dodging an abandoned spotlight like a pro.
“I thought you wouldn’t be here until tonight?” he said. Not the warmest greeting.
“I finished my business early. Where’s Dylan?”
“On the bus, I assume.” Mitch carried two phones in his hands, and one of them dinged. “Hold this,” he ordered, foisting an iPhone into Clay’s hand before checking the other. Squinting again, he played trombone with the cell before finding the proper distance to read it. “Looks like the article in Country Today got pushed up a month. Holiday and year-in-review stuff shoved it out of December, so now they put it in November.”
“Good,” Clay said. “Then Dylan and Charley can stop sneaking around.”
The manager grumbled. “I’ve got to take a piss. Keep that for me, and I’ll be right back.”
The always-classy man limped off without awaiting a reply. Clay hadn’t planned to stand around doing nothing, but he also had no intention of following the old codger into the bathroom. So he waited. For five solid minutes. Checking his watch, he sighed in frustration. Tillman’s manager expected him in less than ten. Roger Stacks had managed the first act Clay and Tony had ever signed. Due to their schedules, the men rarely found time to catch up.
At the point when Clay considered abandoning his post, the phone in his hand rang. The name Matilda Jacobs flashed across the screen. After five rings, the call went to voice mail, but seconds later, the iPhone rang again with the same caller. Assuming the call was important, Clay answered.
“Hello?”
“I knew it, you coward. You blocked my number. Bet you didn’t think I’d figure it out, did you?”
“I—”
“I’m not interested in your excuses. I only called to do the one thing you apparently don’t have the balls to do. To end this. And not that you care, but I’m pregnant. Congratulations, jerk. I’ll be in Nashville for another week. After that I’m gone, so if you have anything to say to me, I suggest you say it quick.”
Stunned silent, Clay held the phone to his ear, wondering how in the hell Mitch Levine had managed to get a woman pregnant.
“That’s what I thought,” the woman on the other end snapped. “Goodbye, you piece of shit.”
The call cut off, and Clay was left staring at the cell in his hand when Mitch returned.
“What’s wrong with you?” the old bastard asked as he returned from the bathroom.
“Who is Matilda Jacobs?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You apparently got her pregnant, Levine. I assume the name should ring a bell.” Mitch grabbed the phone and tapped away on the screen. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed an open search engine. “You have to Google the woman you knocked up?”
“Shut up, Benedict.” Mitch continued to type until he found whatever information he sought. Extending the phone forward and back again, he focused in and read silently. “Well, shit. She said she’s pregnant?” he asked.
“Among other things,” Clay replied. “She also called you a piece of shit.”
“She wasn’t talking to me.”
“She what?”
The old man waved a hand in the air. “Never mind. Don’t tell Dylan. I’ll take care of it.”
“Does Dylan know this Matilda person?”
“Probably,” came the reply. “Like I said. I’ll take care of it.”
Without another word, Levine shuffled off in the direction Clay had entered from. Definitely the most bizarre conversation of the week. Maybe the year.
“I can’t believe you called him a piece of shit,” Matty remarked, staring from across their kitchen table.
It had been her roommate’s idea to try calling from a different phone, and the mere thought that Dylan would block Charley’s number had brought on an angry fit long before she’d dialed his number. The jackass thought he could write her off? Oh no. Charley made sure she had the last word.
“He deserves worse,” she said, sliding the phone across the table. “Now he can’t claim I took off without telling him.”
“But what did he say?”
“Nothing.” Charley pretended it didn’t hurt. That she didn’t care if the man she loved turned out to be a too much of a coward to face his responsibilities. “He didn’t say anything.”
Still rooting for a misunderstanding, Matty flipped her cell. “I bet he’ll call once the news sinks in. You didn’t exactly give him a chance to speak.”
“I did, too,” she argued. “And he didn’t make a peep.” Rising from her chair, she grabbed another sleeve of crackers off the counter. The salty little squares had become her constant companions, keeping the morning sickness at bay. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I talked to Willoughby this morning. He thinks I’m going home to take care of a sick relative and agreed to have a part-timer handle my shift until a full-time replacement is found. Elvis will be down with a truck next weekend to take me home.”
Matty hugged her knees against her chest. “You’re doing this all too fast, Charley. You just got the news a few days ago. Heck, you only told him a few minutes ago.”
“There’s no need to wait around. This way, no one has to know why I went home.”
The excuse rang hollow in her ears. Charley was running away. The panic had taken over, and all she wanted was to go home.
“But you won’t start showing for months. At least stick around until Dylan comes home.”
“No.”
“But, Charley—”
“I can’t do it, okay? I can’t wait around, hoping, only to have him come back and tell me to have a nice life.”
“But Dylan wouldn’t do that, and you know it.”
“I thought he wouldn’t forget me while out on tour, either, and I was wrong.”
“He hasn’t forgotten you.”
Charley slammed into a chair. “Nearly a week of silence, Matty. He wouldn’t return my texts or calls even before the bomb I just dropped in his lap. I couldn’t endure another two months of nothing, waiting around for some final blow. I couldn’t survive that.”
With a sigh, her roommate conceded the argument. “You’re right. But what if he doesn’t walk away? What then?”
“If Dylan decides that he’s ready to be a father, then we’ll talk.” Staring at the floor, she added, “Until then, I’ve made a decision, and I’m going home.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, the only sound the crackers crunching between Charley’s teeth.
“I didn’t want to be right,” Matty muttered, dropping a hand on top of her friend’s. “Not this time.”
Charley slipped a cracker between her teeth, acknowledging the words with a bitter nod.