Jace, page 21
A few more hours in the studio and he headed home to change for the mixer.
Luke was there. With Calvin Laramie.
“No,” he said. “No offense, Cal, but you and I have a different notion of how I should look.”
Calvin was definitely offended.
“Studio sent him.” Luke crossed his arms over his chest. “The team is upstairs, waiting to get to work on you. Don’t fight it, man.”
Jace glared at Luke and headed upstairs, Calvin trailing behind.
The good news was the stylist had learned from his last visit. This time, he embraced Jace’s clean-cut, low-maintenance vibe. He didn’t say a word over the jeans Jace picked out. They were grey, not black, but they’d do. Jace was partial to his well-worn boots but Calvin handed him a pair of hand-tooled black Luccheses that made his mouth water. He wasn’t sold on the black rodeo-cut shirt with stitching, but he let it go. When his hair was sprayed to hell and back and his stubble was deemed groomed enough, he climbed into his truck and headed to the Grand Old Texas Opera House off the famous Sixth Street in downtown Austin.
Crowds of cameras and folk armed with microphones lined the dark blue carpet leading into the Grand Ole Opry recreation. Luke had drilled him with questions to and from their luncheon, hoping to prepare him for the questions he’d likely be asked a couple dozen times or more.
He didn’t miss a beat. Smile in place, lots of handshakes, a few awkward hugs. He could do this. And, yes, questions. Most were things like “How does it feel to be here tonight?” or “Who are you most excited to meet?” or “Where is Krystal?” That last one came up a lot. He was beginning to wonder the same thing. He found himself scanning the arriving vehicles, looking for a flash of sparkle and long blond hair.
Inside, the pace slowed.
It wasn’t the first time he was struck by how out of place he was. He had the clothes and the hair and boots that cost more than his bills for six months. That didn’t mean he fit. A sea of faces he knew through the albums and singles he’d played for hours straight. Clint Black. Tammy Wynett. Dierks Bentley. George Strait. Willie Nelson. Some good, some legends, and others he’d never quite figured out how and why their records were made.
Luke handed him a cold beer and helped guide him around the room. About an hour into the evening, same bottle in his hand, he was ready to call it a night. But he waited, knowing the Kings would show. She was worth the wait.
“Jace? You’re Jace Black?” Tig Whitman approached him. “Good to meet you, son. Nothing makes an old dog like me happier than seeing someone young and talented rise above the crowd.” He was shaking his hand with a mighty grip. “Pure talent, son, pure talent.”
“Thank you, sir. Good to meet you, Mr. Whitman.” He nodded, torn between flattery and suspicion. If Hank King wasn’t a fan of the man, there was a reason.
“Aw, now, my friends call me Tig, son. And I’m hoping we’ll be friends. This here is my latest discovery. Becca, come say hello.” He waved the teenager forward, draping his arm around her shoulders.
“It’s nice to meet you.” Becca smiled, her voice pitched low. “I’m a real fan of the show. And you.”
“I hear you’ll be singing?” he asked, leaning forward to hear her better.
She nodded. “Uncle Tig has this way of getting people to give him what he wants.” But her tone was flat. Like maybe, that wasn’t a good thing. “I’m so happy and excited to be here.”
“You deserve it, sugar.” Tig patted her head, beaming at her with pride.
There was something about her expression that made Jace ask, “You had a chance to check out the stage yet?” He paused. “They’re setting up the stage out back.”
She shook her head.
“I can take you.” He glanced back and forth between Becca Sinclair and Tig Whitman.
“I’ll be back?” It was a question, like she was asking permission.
“Sure, sure.” Tig patted her. “You two go on and have some fun.”
Jace wasn’t sure what made him more uncomfortable, the relief on Becca’s face or the slight narrowing of Tig Whitman’s gaze.
“Water,” he said, sliding his still-full beer back across the counter.
“Scotch on the rocks.” Becca shrugged.
“Aren’t you a little young for that?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’m not that young.” She knocked back her drink and slid her glass back across the counter. “It helps, you know? With nerves.”
He didn’t know. He’d never been much of a drinker. After Nikki and Ben, he’d never thought to take up the habit.
Once her drink was refilled, they slowly navigated the room and out through the oversized barn doors to the outdoor amphitheater.
“Fresh air.” Becca sucked in a deep breath. Then downed a good half of her drink. Her giggle was nervous, brittle. “That’s it?” She pointed at the stage.
“This time tomorrow, wall-to-wall fans.” He nodded. “That’s what I hear, anyway.”
She was staring into her drink. “Never been a fan of crowds. Don’t mind the studio, recording stuff…but this part.” She shrugged. “Uncle Tig says I’m made for it, though. He knows what he’s talking about?”
He wasn’t sure what she was asking him. “You should switch to water.”
“Okay.” She nodded. “Can I get you something?”
He held up his still-full glass of water. “I’m good. Thanks.”
He watched her go, beyond puzzled by the whole exchange. For someone so happy and excited to be here, she was awfully eager to get drunk. Nikki had been the same.
Not going there.
He took a sip of water. Over the rim of his glass, he saw the person he’d spent the last twenty-four hours aching to see. In a bold red dress that dipped low in the front, Krystal was drawing plenty of attention. Not that she noticed. From the way she was scanning the crowd, he knew she was looking for someone.
Or someone to avoid.
Mickey Graham was here—Luke had seen him.
And then there was Tig Whitman.
Whether or not she liked it, he wanted to be at her side when she ran into either of them.
She saw him before he got to her. If someone had told him she’d light up like a Christmas tree and make a beeline for him, he wouldn’t have believed it. But she did.
“Hi.” She stared up at him, inches away.
“Hi yourself.” He slid an arm around her waist and kissed her. It wasn’t nearly as long and deep and lingering as he’d have liked, but it was perfectly acceptable for where they were. “You look good enough to eat,” he murmured in her ear.
“Promise?” Her eyes flashed.
His breath caught and he shook his head.
“Jace.” Hank was shaking his hand. “How’s your evening going?”
He was still recovering from Krystal’s invitation to say more than “Fine. Good.”
“Looking a little rough around the edges.” Travis nodded at him.
He shrugged. “I’ve been here an hour.”
Travis took his glass and sniffed. “You’re not drinking. That’s the problem. I’ll get you something.”
Krystal hooked her arm in his. “Anyone of interest here?”
“Everyone?” he asked. “I’m pretty sure everyone who’s anyone is here.” His fingers threaded with hers. “Mickey was playing pool a while back. But you and him and a pool cue might not go over too well for him.”
She smiled up at him. “I like how you say that without an ounce of judgment.”
“Not one.” He couldn’t stop looking at her. Or touching her. He let go of her hand long enough to slide an arm around her waist. He rattled off a few more names, including commentary on a few wardrobe choices that had her smiling.
“Anyone else?”
She swallowed. He knew—from the look on her face, he knew.
“Tig is here.” He frowned. “I know he and your daddy have some sort of gripe. Might want to give him a heads-up.”
She stepped closer to him. “Probably should.” But she was staring around the room with wide eyes. Nervous. Beyond nervous. “Or I can text him and we can sneak out for that steak you were craving?” She faced him, smiling too bright. Something was wrong.
“Give me a sec.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll go tell Luke.”
“I’ll go with you.” Her hands held on to his, ice-cold. “Okay? Let’s hurry.”
That was when he noticed Tig Whitman, staring their way.
Chapter 14
It had been ten years since she’d seen him. Ten years of nightmares and cold sweats, panic attacks and migraines, eating disorders and self-loathing. And he hadn’t changed one bit. He was all smiles, charm, and booming laughter.
When he wasn’t watching her.
When he was, she wanted to scrub every inch of herself clean with pure bleach.
Made worse by Becca Sinclair. How old was she? Young, that was clear. And more than a little lost.
Jace was doing his damnedest to get them out of there. Just when he’d managed to talk them out of one conversation, someone else was waiting. But they weren’t the sort of people he could brush off, either. A partner at Wheelhouse Records. Two radio music execs. Luke and a rep for some cologne company Jace was thinking of being a spokesman for.
She did her best to smile and nod and act like she was engaged in what was going on. But sweat was trickling down her back and a powerful throb had started up at the base of her neck, winding a band of tension around her head.
It didn’t matter if it was real or not; she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
“Good to see you, too.” He was shaking hands again, this time with a tattoo artist who admired his ink. She agreed wholeheartedly. And, right now, she needed some one-on-one time, held tight in his beautiful ink-covered arms.
“He has good taste.” She tugged on his arm. “In tattoos.”
He laughed, leading her toward the back. “Luke said they moved the truck around back. Thought we’d want a faster exit.” The hall was long, dimly lit, and lined with concert posters from the last several decades.
“I appreciate that.” She did. It was no secret that Luke wasn’t her biggest fan.
“The faster the better.” Unfortunately, he wasn’t in a hurry to get her out of there for sex. He was getting her out of there because of her initial moment of terror. As bad as it was, and it was no picnic, she was proud of how well she was holding herself together. Now.
“Are we really getting a steak?” She had to run to keep up with him. “Or are you showing me your place?”
They passed the bathroom, dodging the door as it swung open and two tipsy women stumbled out into the hall, laughing.
He glanced back at her. “I’m not sure what we’re doing.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“Shit.” He stopped. “He has the keys.”
“Who?”
“Luke.” He stared back at the chaos inside. He pulled out his phone from his pocket.
“He won’t hear you.” She argued. “Just go.”
He shook his head, dialing his phone. It rang and rang. “Shit,” Jace bit out. “I’m sorry.”
Being a mixed-up mess of emotions had her scrambling for control. With Jace, that was always a struggle. “You have nothing to apologize for.” She pressed a hand against his chest. “Nothing.” It was important he know that. Because, of everyone in her life, it was true.
“Krystal, are you o—”
Kissing him was the best way to change the subject. No, she wasn’t okay. But she would be. He could help with that. The way he saw her, the way he made her feel—like she wasn’t something damaged and broken. It was a bittersweet fantasy that couldn’t last. But, for now, she was going to enjoy every minute of it.
His hands were tangling in her hair as he spun her, pressing her against the wall. “Good try,” he murmured against her lips. He cradled her face between his hands. “You can talk to me.”
She wanted to. Oh so much. But she wasn’t ready for this to end. “Go, get the keys. I’ll fix my hair…or something.” She headed for the bathroom, the fluorescent lights shockingly white after the near-gloomy hallway.
To the left was a powder room, likely one of the original dressing rooms for larger performance groups. To the right, the bathroom. She turned left and sat in one of the old, velvet-covered armchairs, her reflection staring back at her from one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
“I saw you come in here.” Becca Sinclair stood in the door. “I just had to meet you. I mean, you have no idea what your music has meant to me. Your songs.”
“Thank you.” Krystal smiled. “Have a seat. It’s a lot quieter in here. And cooler.”
Becca hesitated, one arm wrapped around her waist. She was super skinny. All long limbs and big eyes. “Sure.” She sat, her knobby knees peeking out from her frayed and studded white denim skirt.
“I like your skirt.” Krystal studied the girl, fully aware that Becca was studying her right back. “And your boots.”
“Jace seems really nice.” She shook her head. “And you two? That’s so cool.”
“You met him?” she asked.
“He and Tig were talking.” She shrugged. “You know how Tig is. Never met a stranger.” Her gaze wandered, bouncing off the sconces mounted near the mirrors, the pictures and prints hanging on the wall, and the rings and bangles hanging off her own arms.
“He’s always loved the sound of his own voice.”
Becca stared at her, then burst into laughter. “Good one.”
It would be too much to hope Becca would just come right out and say Tig was a good guy and had never done anything inappropriate to her. To anyone. Sixteen, twenty-one, to sixty and beyond. It didn’t matter. But knowing he wasn’t like that now, that her fear hadn’t given him permission to move on to some other love-starved girl, mattered a whole hell of a lot.
“How long has Tig been handling you?” she asked.
Becca was wide-eyed. “Handling?”
“Representing?” She clarified.
“Oh.” Her laugh was forced this time. “A couple of years. I was, gosh, seventeen? About?” She nodded. “He knows how to get things done.” She was doing that avoidance thing, looking anywhere but Krystal.
And it made Krystal want to cry. “You know there are managers you could consider? If you’re interested?”
Becca was playing with her bangle bracelets. “Why? He takes care of me.” Her dark eyes met hers then. “After everything he’s done for me, that wouldn’t be right.” She stood. “Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m a real big fan of yours. Real big.”
Krystal smiled, her fingers gripping the arms of the chair. “I know this job can be hard sometimes, so if you ever want to talk, I’d be happy to listen.”
“You mean that?” She took a deep breath. “Really?”
“Really.” She nodded. “Us girls need to stick together. Here.” She handed Becca her phone. “Plug in your number.”
Becca did.
Krystal called her. “Now you have my number.” She smiled. “Call me, for whatever. Whenever.”
“Okay.” Becca had a really sweet smile. “Okay, I will. Thanks.” With an awkward little wave, she left.
Krystal sat forward, elbows on her knees, and covered her face with her hands. She didn’t want to read into every little thing Becca had said or done. It was pointless and likely to drive her crazy. There wasn’t much more she could do or say.
Wrong. She stared at herself again.
“You should have said it.” She hugged herself. “Told her.”
And if she was wrong? And Tig Whitman only had been her own monster? What then? Becca could go to the press—to Tig—and share Krystal’s torment with the world. There was no damage control for that. She’d be labeled a liar. Her family? Their careers? Jace? All gone.
She curled up in the chair, resting her cheek on her knees, willing this all to go away.
“Krystal?” Emmy Lou touched her shoulder. “You okay? Headache?”
She nodded.
“You want to go?” She crouched down at her side. “Jace has the keys.”
Krystal nodded again, looking her sister in the eyes. “You know I love you, right? That I’d never do anything, say anything, that would hurt you?” She swallowed down the lump in her throat. “I’d never make something up for attention?” It was still a whisper.
Emmy took her hand and stared at her. The sheen in her twin’s eyes was bright, raw. “I know.”
Krystal squeezed her hand.
“Are you okay? I know, with Mickey here, it had to be awkward.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Mickey’s here?” Krystal laughed.
“And Tig.” Emmy Lou was watching her closely.
“I noticed.” She gave her sister’s hand another squeeze. “Daddy okay?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “That vein in his forehead?” She waited for Krystal to nod. “It’s all popped out. His cheeks are all red.”
“Not good.” Krystal stood. “Jace and I are going to Frank’s. Try to get him out of here. We’ll get a big table.”
Side by side, there was no denying they were twins. Krystal spent more time in the gym, she was stronger, curvier than Emmy Lou. But working out was one way to burn off some tension—something she had more than her fair share of. Emmy Lou had a willowy quality, fragile in all the ways Krystal wasn’t.
“Krystal.” Emmy stopped her. “I know you think I can’t handle whatever is going on but you’re wrong. You’re my sister and Daddy’s my daddy, too. I hate that you’re both eaten up with something. I might not be able to do anything, but I’d rather know—”
