CHAPTER 7

Drake

“What?” I asked with a groan.

“You’ve got a performance today. Get up and get going,” Hank said.

“I don’t have anything like that on my calendar,” I said. “The fuck gives?”

“Shouldn’t you be up anyway? You know, doing ranch stuff? It’s an impromptu concert you’ve been invited to.”

“I don’t do those.”

“It’s an open-air thing, and you do it now.”

“I’m goin’ the fuck back to bed.”

“It’s for a good charity,” he said.

“Then just write them a check,” I said.

“It’s an acoustic set. Real mellow stuff.”

“I don’t do mellow.”

“Will you do it for Autism Speaks?”

Raking my hand across my face, I slung my legs over the edge of the bed. I had a soft spot for that charity, for the awareness they put out and the educational materials they had for people. My sister was the light of my life, but I’d watched my parents struggle most of their final years trying to understand how my sister worked. Elsie could operate in public for the most part. She held down her own part-time job and everything. But she had her moments, and they were rough.

Nonetheless, that girl was everything to me. And anything I could do for people who spread awareness about autism, I was more than willing to do.

“Why the fuck didn’t you lead off with that, Hank?”

“Should I have to?” he asked.

“When you’re calling at five in the morning, yes.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” Hank said.

“There better not be a next time. When’s the concert?”

“It’s a morning thing. You go on stage at eight fifteen. I can’t get your P.A. on the phone. Fill her in when she gets to you if she hasn’t already quit yet. I’m sending the address to your phone and hers.”

Sighing, I hung up the phone, waiting for the message to come through.

I dragged myself to the bathroom and cleaned myself up. I showered, shaved, and put on the nicest boots and bucket hat I owned. If I was going to make an appearance at something like this, then I wanted to make it a good one. The understanding I had of my sister and her condition was a direct result of charities like Autism Speaks.

I walked downstairs and headed for the door just as I heard the sound.

Delia’s truck drove up the driveway, and I shook my head. Fuck, the woman was persistent. I had thrown her one of the tougher days on the farm, so she’d go running to the hills and quit like I wanted her to. But it didn’t work. She was driving up my driveway in that rust bucket she owned, ready for another day’s work.

Even after mucking out horse stalls.

Sleeping had been hard last night. Seeing her sweat drenched face chugging that water as it dripped down her neck, falling onto those sweat-soaked tits with nipples that were poking against her bra. Her white shirt clung to her as she tipped that bottle back, chugging it without taking even one breath. It had set my groin pumping for her. That's the last thing I needed too.

And that angry look in her eye. Shit. That was the icing on the cake. It was a good thing she didn’t have any romantic interest in me. Otherwise, we’d be in deep shit.

Today was her lucky day. Even though she was dressed for another day on the ranch, we had to leave for my performance. I went into the kitchen and drew out my flask, tipping it back and draining it so I could fill it up again. I didn’t have enough time for coffee, but this would warm me up just fine.

I screwed the cap on tight, took another swig from the bottle, and headed for my truck.

“We’re leaving,” I said, as I stepped back inside and grabbed my guitar.

“What? Where are we headed?” Delia asked as she rushed up to me.

“Pick up your phone, and you’d know,” I said.

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” she said.

“We’re heading to an impromptu concert. I’m due on stage at eight fifteen.”

“Is the band meeting you there?”

“No, just me and my guitar this morning. Come on, we’re taking my truck.”

I walked over to my blacked-out truck, a present to myself after my second hit single.

I pulled open my truck door and tossed my guitar in, but I noticed Delia wasn’t getting in. She was standing against her truck, her arms crossed as she studied me closely. I didn’t have time for this shit. We had to get going.

“You coming? Or is this you quitting?” I asked.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Just answer me one question.”

She walked over to me, her hips swaying as her tits jostled with her movements.

“Have you been drinking already this morning?” Delia asked.

Her eyes were holding mine as her hands rested on her hips. She was eyeing me up and down. Sizing me the fuck up at seven in the damn morning. I sighed as I closed my eyes, knowing it did me no good to lie to this woman.

I nodded, hearing her let out a deep sigh.

“I’m driving,” Delia said.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m driving.”

“I’m not even drunk.”

“I’m driving. Now get in,” she said. “You'd think you, of all people, would know better than to get behind the wheel when you've been drinking.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “Now get in the fucking car. I'm driving.”

She had a fucking point, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I wasn’t drunk, but I still had a drink that morning.

I watched her open her truck door and hop in, sitting there as she waited for me to join her .I ripped my guitar from my truck and slammed the door, gritting my teeth in the process.

I slid into her truck, my guitar sitting between my legs as we pulled out.

“I got the address of the place,” I said.

“I know where you’re going,” Delia said.

“You told Hank I’d been drinking, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Yep,” she said.

The truck ride was silent after that. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel tightly, and her back was completely straight. If she wasn’t going to entertain me with some sort of conversation, then I was going to study her. I hooked onto the profile of her face and grazed my eyes down her body.

She was a pain in my ass, but she was nice on the eyes.

We pulled into the venue, and I saw Hank flagging us down. Delia pulled into a parking space, not speaking to me as she slid out of her side of the truck. I grabbed my guitar and started for the coordinator, who was usually a goofy-looking asshole with a clipboard.

Hank and Delia were talking to one another before they joined the conversation.

“You’ll have time at the top of the hour to set up, then your set starts at eight fifteen, Mr. Blackthorn. Your bus is here with your gear in case you need it, though it’s an acoustic set so a speaker and a hookup is plenty. Your bus is yours to use as you wish—”

“I know my bus is mine,” I said. “Just point me in that direction, and I’ll take it from here.”

Both Delia and Hank looked over at me before the coordinator pointed.

“Thanks.”

I didn’t wait around for either of them to lecture me on my tone of voice. Hank fucking acted like my mother, and Delia was quickly becoming that nagging little voice I wanted to squash like a bug. I heard the pitter patter of little feet behind me as I strode for my bus, pulling the door open and stepping inside.

I heard someone step in behind me before the door closed.

“Sure you wanna do that?” I asked.

I looked up into a mirror and saw Delia’s reflection standing at the front of the bus.

“Didn’t realize you’d need all this for a local performance,” she said.

“Gets brought to every performance,” I said. “Personal protocol. If you don’t wanna attend the performance, you can stay on the bus.”

“Sounds fine with me,” she said.

“I got a forty-five-minute set, so try not to miss me too much.”

“It’ll be hard, but I think I can manage.”

My eyes whipped to hers in the mirror before I turned around and picked up my guitar.

“Enjoy the bus,” I said, as I maneuvered past her. “When I’m done, we can get on back to the ranch.”

I stepped off the bus before she could say anything. I didn’t give a shit what she did, honestly. If she got into her truck and drove off, she’d be doing both of us a fucking favor. I walked up to Hank who was still talking to the coordinator, getting logistics and probably working out payment options for the gig.

“I’m not taking payment,” I said.

“What?” Hank asked.

“Don’t pay me for this gig. Keep your money,” I said.

“Mr. Blackthorn, Autism Speaks sets aside funds for stuff like this.”

“Keep the money and put it to better use. If artists demand to be paid for things like this, then they don’t need to be doing it. Though you could’ve made it an afternoon concert if you’re looking for suggestions.”

I marched off toward the venue, ready to warm up and tune my guitar. Delia was alone on the bus doing fuck-knew-what, Hank was probably pissed I wasn’t accepting payment, and this guitar hadn’t seen the light of fucking day in almost a year. It would take me all my damn warm-up time just to tune the fucking thing, but I didn’t care.

It would be worth it to see those kids smile.