Chapter 3
Dylan forced his way through the crowd, which thinned as the lights dropped and people rushed toward the stage. Holding tight to Charley’s hand, he charged through the exit and led her away from the noise of the club.
“Are you okay?” he asked, after ducking into the pass-through next to McFadden’s. The walkway offered pedestrians a path through the connected buildings, leading from Second over to First Avenue, and then on to Riverfront Park.
Charley nodded. “I’m better now. Just give me a second.” She pressed her back to the red brick and closed her eyes, chest rising and falling as she pulled her frantic breathing under control. He held silent until color returned to her cheeks.
“Do you want to tell me what happened back there?” Dylan queried. He’d never seen a person run from the “Happy Birthday” song before. There had to be more to it.
Charley met his gaze. “I need to be someplace quiet. How far do we have to go to get that?”
Finding silence in this part of town was nearly impossible. But then he remembered the park.
“Come on.” Taking her hand once more, he set a more sedate pace, keeping her beside him through the tunnel, past the shuttered storefronts. Once they reached First Avenue, he glanced both ways, waiting for traffic to clear before crossing to the park. Nissan Stadium loomed large in the distance as the sounds of the Nashville nightlife faded behind them.
“Wow,” Charley whispered when they reached the grassy area. “I didn’t even know this was here.”
“You never noticed the river that runs through the city?”
“I mean this park, and you know it.” She shook her head, chestnut locks dancing in the breeze off the water, which did little against the stifling humidity. “I’ve only lived here since the beginning of June. Sadly, I haven’t found the time to explore much.”
Dylan pointed toward the stairs up the block to their left. “Then let’s explore.”
They strolled in silence until reaching the stairs to the lower sidewalk that ran parallel to the Cumberland River. Sensing a change in the woman beside him, he smiled her way. “Better?”
Charley exhaled. “Much. You must think I’m crazy.”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I think you’re interesting.”
And a sexy distraction from the pressure of his new endeavor.
She laughed. “That sounds like a nice way to say I’m crazy.”
“How about crazy in a good way?” he offered.
“I’ll take that.” Turning her face to the wind, she said, “This is like walking in front of a hair dryer.”
“Yes, it is.” Dylan removed his hat and swiped his damp forehead with his shirt sleeve. “That’s the bad thing about the black hat. Holds in the heat.”
“I’m sorry.” Charley stopped walking. “You should be back inside where it’s cool.” She backed away. “I’ll be fine.”
Dylan tapped the hat against his leg. “I’ll go if you go, but I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
“I can’t go back in there,” she replied, stiffening.
“Then I’m good right where I am.”
Brown eyes narrowed, but she didn’t argue when he regained her hand and moved them along once more.
“Was it the lights,” he asked, “or the noise?”
“Neither,” Charley answered. “It was the attention.”
Now she’d confused him. “The attention?”
Slender shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “I don’t like being the center of attention.” They reached another set of stairs, and she asked, “Do you mind if we sit?”
“Don’t mind at all.” He waited for her to have a seat, and then he settled down beside her. “Doesn’t your line of work require you to be the center of attention?”
“Nope,” she replied. “That’s why I love it. When I’m on the air, I can’t see them and they can’t see me. They really only care about the music coming through their speakers.”
Dylan had never thought of radio quite that way. As a singer, he’d been in front of an audience on a regular basis since he was fifteen years old. First school talent shows and church programs, and then the bars and honky-tonks. With any luck, his new deal would launch him into arenas and amphitheaters.
Though after releasing two weeks ago, his single was still struggling to find its audience. He considered asking Charley if she’d heard anyone at the station talk about him, but he didn’t want to sound as if he were angling for some kind of favor.
Plus, every second of his life these days revolved around Dylan’s budding career and the fact that the livelihoods of everyone at his new label rested on his shoulders. A side effect of being the only artist signed so far.
“I’m assuming you worked in radio before you came here,” he said, digging deeper.
Charley wrapped her arms around her knees. “I’ve been on the air since I was eighteen years old. A sidekick for the first couple years, and then on my own from twenty on.”
“And you didn’t ever do public events?”
She snorted. “Public events in Liberty, Kentucky, are very different from events here.”
“How so?”
“For one,” she started, “events back home were much smaller, naturally. But whether twenty or two hundred, I knew them all. I’d grown up with them and gone to church with them, and it was . . . different.”
Made sense, he supposed.
“You had to know that taking a job in Nashville would mean doing these kinds of gigs.”
Running a hand through her hair, Charley stared out over the water. “I’ve wanted to be a part of this world for as long as I can remember. While my friends were playing with dolls or honing their cheerleading skills, I was spinning records on Grandpa’s old stereo, injecting my own childish commentary between ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ and ‘Coal Miner’s Daughter.’ There’s no way I’m going to let some stupid fear get in the way of doing this.”
Dylan admired her determination. “Did Ruby know about your fear?”
Her silent nod made him want to storm back into the club and give Ruby Barnett a piece of his mind. “That’s damn shitty.”
“To be fair,” Charley admitted, “I might have watered down the true depth of my anxiety. Ruby thinks I’m just a little nervous about crowds. I don’t blame her for dragging me out there. She wasn’t trying to be mean.”
Her confession didn’t alter his feelings on Miss Ruby one bit. “We all have our crosses to bear,” Dylan said. “At least you’re prepared to face yours head-on.”
Her look of disbelief took him by surprise. “I doubt you have anything to bear, as you put it. You clearly don’t suffer from a lack of confidence, considering you attempted to take on a Neanderthal twice your size not thirty minutes ago.”
Little did she know. “I wasn’t trying to fight him.” Though he would have if necessary. “I was trying to get him thrown out.”
“You purposely taunted him. You called him a dipshit, for heaven’s sake.”
“And then Joey behind the bar waved for security. The bouncer was less than ten feet away when you slapped your hand against the dude’s chest, demanding that apology.” Dropping his hat onto her head, Dylan added, “You looked pretty damn confident to me.”
Charley tipped the Stetson out of her eyes. “Someone had to save your stupid ass. That guy would have killed you.”
“Wow. That doesn’t dent the ego at all.”
“And what was that ‘my woman’ crap?” she asked. “Women aren’t cars or big-screen TVs. We aren’t your anything.”
Man, he loved her spunk.
Staring into snapping brown eyes, he made a confession. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe I was trying to impress you?”
Perfect lips opened and closed as she examined his expression. “You’re serious.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You really want to impress me?” she asked.
“I do.”
“Then feed me.”
Certain he’d misheard, Dylan said, “Do what, now?”
“I’ve been running all day, and I’m starving. Where can I get a killer burger without having to venture into one of these noisy clubs?”
Rising off the step, Dylan held out a hand. “I know just the place.”
By the time Dylan turned onto James Robertson Parkway, Charley realized that a total stranger was currently driving her to an undisclosed location. This was how stupid women ended up the featured victim on those true-crime shows.
“Where are we going?” she asked, pulling her phone from her back pocket to text Matty.
“For a burger, as requested,” he replied, flipping on his blinker and edging the truck onto an exit on the right. The sign said ELLINGTON PARKWAY.
“But where, specifically, are we getting this burger?” Charley tried again, attempting not to sound like a woman who knew she was about to be murdered and chopped into little pieces.
Dylan reached across the giant console between them to pat her knee. “I’m not a serial killer, Charley.”
That’s what they all said. “I need to let Matty know where I am,” she confessed. “You know, in case you do kill me.”
“That would be a waste of time. I would never leave your body where you told your friend you’d be.”
“Spoken like a true serial killer.”
“Come on, Charley. I’m kidding.”
“I’m sure that’s what Dahmer said.”
“Fine,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m taking you to the Pharmacy.”
A man had only one reason to take a woman to a pharmacy on a Saturday night.
“Nope. Not happening. Take me back.”
“You said you wanted a burger,” Dylan countered.
Charley crossed her arms. “I did. But I’m not having sex with you to get one.”
The black hat smacked the back window as he threw his head back in laughter. “You really are something. You know that?”
She was something, all right. Something he was not having sex with. Regardless of how gorgeous, sweet, and protective he was. Or how good he smelled. Though he really did smell amazing. And was probably really good in bed. Any guy this gorgeous would presumably know his way around the bedroom.
You mean the man who might tie you up and lock you in his basement? she asked herself.
Her brain had a point. No orgasm was worth dying for.
“Regardless,” she said. “You can skip the pharmacy and go straight to the burgers.”
“Too late,” he said, making a left turn. “We’re here.”
Charley spotted the sign on the side of a nondescript white building. THE PHARMACY BURGER PARLOR & BEER GARDEN. She hadn’t seen that coming.
“Who names a burger joint the Pharmacy?”
Dylan didn’t justify that with an answer.
“Looks like we got lucky,” he murmured, pulling into an open space on the curb before the entrance. “It’s a great place to eat, but parking is a bitch since they don’t have their own lot.”
Great. How good could a restaurant with no parking lot be?
After cutting the engine and the lights, Dylan undid his seat belt and bolted out of the truck. Charley didn’t like the look of the area and considered locking herself in and calling the police. But then her door popped open, and her escort flashed a sexy grin. “Come on,” he said.
The smell of perfectly cooked meat hit Charley in the nose, causing her mouth to water. Maybe she should give the place a chance.
“That smells like heaven,” she admitted, accepting his hand and sliding to the sidewalk.
Dylan held his ground, bringing their bodies into contact. “This will be the best burger you’ve ever had,” he said, close enough for her to notice a tiny scar at the corner of his mouth. “I promise.”
Charley forgot about food when his eyes dropped to her lips. “Best ever, huh?” she said, leaning into him.
“Only the best for the birthday girl,” he drawled.
And right there, beneath a dim streetlight, his lips lowered to hers and the world slipped away. Rising on tiptoes, Charley slid her arms around Dylan’s neck and melted against his muscled frame. One taste unfolded into an exploration that had nothing to do with geographic location. A hint of pale ale lingered on his tongue, and as his hands slid up her back, her bones turned to liquid. With a tilt of his head, Dylan deepened the connection, eliciting a desperate moan of pleasure and making her forget her resolve not to have sex with him.
Lost in sensations, neither noticed the group of revelers exiting the restaurant.
“Get a room!” someone called, as another gave a loud whistle.
Startled, Charley pulled away, thankful that Dylan held her upright, as her knees were no longer up to the task.
Struggling to catch her breath, she said, “We should probably go inside.”
His hat tapped her forehead as he nodded, breathing as heavily as she was. “I’m going to need a minute.”
Their proximity revealed his dilemma.
“Oh,” she whispered, forcing herself to put space between them. “I don’t usually kiss strangers on street corners.” Which made this man all the more dangerous. In less than an hour, he’d made her forget her anti-man policy. Though, technically, it was an anti-relationship policy. Didn’t mean she couldn’t follow Ruby’s advice and give herself a little birthday present.
“I’m glad you made an exception this time,” he mumbled. “Because that was a damn good kiss.”
Charley felt oddly flattered. “Thanks,” she replied.
His chuckle shot straight to her core. “No,” Dylan said. “Thank you. Now let’s go eat before I forget that I’m a gentleman.”
Clay Benedict, longtime record executive and owner of the newly launched Shooting Stars Records, walked into the Wildhorse Saloon for the first time in nearly a year. He’d once been a regular, scouting for new talent or showing support for a Foxfire artist who might have been headlining the show. As the case would have it, that’s exactly what was happening tonight. A rising star on the Foxfire label entertained the crowd, only Clay wasn’t here for her. Because Foxfire wasn’t his label anymore.
He did have an artist in the room, or at least Dylan was supposed to be there. Scanning the crowd, he spotted Casey Flanagan, the drummer in Dylan’s band, holding court at a cocktail table with a gorgeous blonde. Most men had a type, and poor Casey, redheaded and scrawny as the day was long, had a thing for blue-eyed blondes who were typically out of his reach. As Clay made his way toward them, the woman rolled her eyes and sauntered off.
“You’re a slow learner, Casey,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the show. “But you get points for persistence.”
“Dylan says the same thing,” replied the easygoing musician.
“Speaking of,” Clay said, “where is Dylan?”
Casey waved over a passing waitress. “He took off with that blonde’s roommate,” he yelled. “Didn’t sound like he planned to come back, either, which leaves me high and dry for a ride.”
When the woman balancing a tray reached them, she said, “What are you having?”
“Jack on the rocks,” Clay replied. “Thanks.”
“Coming right up,” she chirped and whirled off toward the bar.
“You need me to take you home? I don’t plan to stay long.”
Shaking his head, Casey straightened his ball cap on his head. “Lance and Easton are over at Tootsie’s. Think I’ll head that way. You want to join us?”
Though Clay liked the other members of the band, he saw no reason to crash the young men’s outing. At forty, he didn’t consider himself old, but he’d long ago passed the point of trolling the bars for a hookup.
“I’m good here. You go ahead.”
“Cool, man. See you later then.”
The show came to an end as Casey took his leave, and Clay pulled his phone from his pocket to check his email. He’d been waiting on specific news from his label publicist, Naomi Mallard, regarding a local radio visit for Dylan. They’d already booked a station tour that would kick off in just over a week, but many programmers took their cues from Nashville, which meant getting airtime in town could give them a far-reaching advantage.
Naomi had been out sick the day before but had assured Clay that she’d work from home to make the appearance happen. And according to the newest email in his inbox, she’d done exactly that.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” chimed a familiar voice, dragging Clay’s attention away from his phone.
“Tony,” Clay said, not surprised to see his former partner in the house, but irritated with himself for not avoiding this encounter. “I thought I’d come see your new artist.” He delivered the lie with a straight face.
The fact was, Clay had signed Mallory Tate to the label six months before he’d struck out on his own.
“She’s come a long way, don’t you think?” Tony Rossi beamed like a proud papa.
Since Clay hadn’t watched the show, he kept his answer vague. “We always knew she had the potential.”
“You mean you saw her potential,” he corrected. “I was against signing her. As usual, you were right.”
“That scenario happened in reverse often enough.”
The two men had been a successful team ever since they’d divvied up a paper route when they were ten years old. Tony had taken one side, while Clay took the other, and they’d knocked out the job in half the time.
The waitress returned with Clay’s drink. “Do you want to start a tab?” she asked.
“No,” he said, fishing his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket. “I’m leaving after this one.”
“Put it on the Foxfire bill,” Tony cut in. Flashing a regretful smile, he added, “It’s the least I can do . . . considering.”
His friend had no idea how little he owed to Clay. In fact, the truth was quite the opposite. Which was why he’d ended their partnership in the first place.
Stuffing the wallet back where it belonged, he nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“Do you want to come over and talk to Mallory? I’m sure she’d like to see you.”
Clay turned down the offer. “Like I said, I’m leaving after this drink. You should get back and celebrate with the team.”
“Right.” Pale green eyes dropped to the drink on the table. “It isn’t the same without you, though.”
Choking on his own guilt, he held silent.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you left?” Tony asked.
A sizable swig of Jack burned down Clay’s throat. “The reason is still the same. I needed a change.”
His childhood friend tapped the table. “A little warning would have been nice.”
“It’s going on a year, Tony. Let it go.”
“That’s obviously easier for you than for the rest of us.” Straightening his tie, he brought their visit to a merciful end. “Good luck with your new artist. I hope he sells a million.”
The parting shot had been a direct reminder of their earlier days, delivered with a precision honed from thirty years of friendship. As hopeful twenty-two-year-olds, they’d cut a mediocre EP and titled it I Hope It Sells a Million. Something only the two of them likely remembered.
More than once, Clay had considered telling Tony exactly why their connection had to end. But doing so would only allay his own guilt while shattering the best man he’d ever known. Which was why he’d come up with the lie in the first place.
Because some secrets should never see the light of day.