Jace, page 3
If she were the one singing the song with Jace, she wouldn’t be upset. She paused then. Of course she’d be upset. Jace’s talent was unknown. What if he couldn’t sing? What if he butchered her song? No one knew what the song meant to her—but she did. Soulful eyes, glorious black hair, and a killer grin could only do so much on the charts.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Travis. Give me some room.” But then she saw exactly why Travis was freaking out.
Mickey Graham.
The son of a bitch was here. Laughing with her mother and her friends. Drinking beer and rubbing elbows with her VIPs.
“What the hell? Why is he here?” she hissed, grabbing onto her brother’s arm.
“There we go.” He covered her hand with his. “I don’t know why. But he is. And people are watching.” He patted her hand.
Krystal stared down at the concrete floor, fighting for composure. Nausea and fury clamped down on her lungs and heart and stomach until it was hard to breathe at all. The last time she’d seen him in person had been at the Awards for Country Music. He’d had the nerve to try to get a picture together. That hadn’t ended well—for her. Apparently stomping your heel so hard it punctured his boot and sent him to the ER for a few stitches in his foot was press-worthy.
Of course there was not a single picture of his hand on her ass. Or a sound bite of what he’d said about how he considered her voice her second-best asset and what, exactly, he wanted to do to what he considered her best asset. Not one. Instead, every radio show and entertainment magazine and TV show said Krystal King was out of control with bitterness over their breakup. And she was, but not the way they thought. He’d used her, publicly, mercilessly, and managed to turn her into the bad guy.
But it was her fault. She’d let him in. Believed him. Trusted him. Let her hunger for acceptance, for love, blind her. If she’d kept her guard up, he’d never have been in a position to launch the campaign that made him and almost destroyed her. She knew better. She’d been a fool. Again.
Now he was here, invading her world again. And it made her blood boil. Travis was right to warn her. An audience might just prevent her from totally losing it. But it didn’t change the fact that he had no right to be here. How had he even gotten in without an invitation?
An invitation.
She knew. Damn it all, she knew. And the veins in her head began to throb so that she pressed her fingers to her temples. “Momma?” she asked, her throat so tight it hurt to say the word.
“She wouldn’t, Krystal.” But there was doubt in her brother’s voice. “No…she wouldn’t. Would she?” He glanced at her.
“She would. And you know it.” Krystal cleared her throat. “And we’re all going to find out why soon enough.” Because her momma knew doing things in public, with an audience of highly connected people, was much harder to undo.
“What are you two talking about?” Her daddy hugged her into his side. “Should I be worried?”
“I would, if I were you,” Travis said, nodding at their mother, her friends, and Mickey Graham.
“What the hell is that rat bastard doing here?” Her father’s whisper was lined with outrage.
That’s right. Her daddy loved her. He’d get offended on his little girl’s behalf. But what would he do if he found out his wife was the one who’d invited the rat bastard?
“Keep your distance, Krystal,” her daddy warned. “If you can’t hear him, he can’t say anything to set you off. And we both know the man lives to set you off.”
“Fine by me,” she replied.
And that’s when their mother spotted them. For a split second, her mother looked at her. In that blip of time, there was no doubting her mother’s excitement. Or her smug little smile of victory. Whatever CiCi King was up to, Krystal was at the center of it. And since Mickey Graham was smiling her way too, she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to like it. Not one teeny tiny bit.
“Hank.” Her mother held out one perfectly manicured hand, diamonds sparkling. “You look good, honey.” She tipped her face so Daddy could give her the obligatory kiss on the cheek.
He did. “CiCi, ladies.” He was all smiles for the women circled around his wife. But he turned his back to Mickey.
And Krystal loved him for it. So, so much.
“Wanna drink?” Travis asked, steering her away from her parents and Mickey.
“No,” she said, arm tightening. “And don’t you dare leave me.”
He sighed. “Can we at least walk to the bar then, maybe talk to some people?”
“Sure.” She followed his lead and gave it her all. If Mickey knew she was ready to pounce, he’d love it. And she didn’t want to give him any more power over her. She was done with that. With him. At least, she thought she was. Until Momma dragged him back into the mix.
Forget about Mickey. She smiled and turned all her attention to the fans and their questions. No, she’d never been to Alaska, but she was sure it was mighty cold in the winter. Yes, she had seen the new Tom Cruise movie but thought it was overrated. She did still have her three-legged Chinese crested dog, Clementine—an Instagram star with a huge following. And she was excited about the tour and how well tickets were selling.
At the moment, she wished she were back home in the rolling Texas hill Country. She could use a little peace and quiet, a long ride on her blue mare, Maizy, and lots and lots of wide-open space.
“Bad news about Josephine and Frankie.” His name badge said John. “Did you see it?”
Krystal had no idea what he was talking about. “Did I see what?”
“The arrest?” name badge Irma added. “Backstage, right before you went on.”
She blinked. Arrest? Josephine and Frankie? They were the opening act, a sweet couple who played a unique blend of bluegrass, folk, and classic country. They were low drama, something that was a rarity in the music world. “No…no, I didn’t see a thing.”
“It was all over the news, livestreaming,” John said, launching into the drugs found on their tour bus. Lots of drugs apparently.
“Who will be opening for you now?” Irma asked.
“No idea,” she said, but as soon as the words were out, she knew. No. No. No. Her momma wouldn’t do that to her. Mickey? She couldn’t. She was her mother, for crying out loud. The blood drained from her cheeks. Daddy wouldn’t let it happen. Surely. Her gaze flew across the room, searching for him.
Mickey Graham winked at her. He winked. And he smiled that lopsided smile that used to turn her insides to goo. Now it made her want to throw up. Preferably on his favorite pair of calf-skin boots. He loved those damn boots.
“Pictures,” Emmy said, leading her to the step and repeat wall. A drape of royal blue fabric, their logo—a cowboy hat with a hatband covered in crowns—and “The Three Kings” repeating every few feet. She, Emmy Lou, and Travis took at least a dozen pics before she noticed her father. He was angry in his own way. He didn’t scowl and yell. No, his cheeks turned red, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, and the muscle in his jaw locked tight. Like now.
When the cameras stopped and people started saying their goodbyes, she made her way to her daddy’s side. “You okay?” she asked, smiling up at him.
“Krystal,” Mickey Graham said, sneaking up from behind. Like the snake he was.
Her daddy squeezed her hand in warning.
She nodded, then sucked in a sharp breath. “Mickey,” she said, refusing to look at him.
But her mother pulled him around, into her line of sight. “Oh, sugar, isn’t it nice that Mickey stopped by to see the show?” her mother asked, watching her closely.
Krystal didn’t say a word.
“I’ve always been a fan, you all know that.” Mickey’s aw-shucks twang was too much. How had she ever dated him? Thought she cared about him?
“Of course you have.” Her mother was still smiling, still watching. “It’s been quite a night. First the whole drug bust, then Jace Black, and now, you.”
Why was one of her mother’s friends taking pictures? Holding up her cell phone. Was she recording this? Whatever. If she ever fully understood the way her mother’s mind worked, then she’d have reason to worry.
“You know, that Jace Black is all over the place right now. Have you heard him sing?” her mother asked.
Mickey stiffened at the mention of Jace’s name. Maybe she’d find a way to like Jace after all. He was sure as hell easy on the eyes. And, when he’d looked at her, there’d been nothing but warmth in his light brown gaze. Nothing like the way Mickey was looking at her now.
“Never heard of this Jace Black till tonight,” Mickey said to her mother, his posture defensive. “My manager didn’t mention anything about him when he said you’d called.”
“Me call?” Her mother rested her hand on her surgically enhanced chest. “Sugar, I never make phone calls. I have people for that.”
“Well, someone called,” Mickey said, glancing her way. “I thought it was too good to be true—me opening for you all. Especially after what happened between us, Krystal.” He stepped closer, his hand reaching for hers. “But at least I can say what I’ve wanted to say for a while now.”
Krystal stared at her hand, caught in his clammy hold, and fought for control. Mickey couldn’t be their opening act. And her mother—what was she thinking? The urge to scream at them, to yank her hands away, almost choked her. But she wouldn’t cause a scene—no matter how perfectly her mother had laid her trap. Instead, she bit into her lip so hard she tasted blood.
Everyone was staring at her, waiting. Even Emmy Lou looked nervous. So she managed to say, “There’s nothing to be said.”
“Maybe not for you, Krystal, but I have a lot to say.” His gaze bounced between her, her mother, and the camera.
She had to leave. Now. She gently but firmly withdrew her hand from his. “You’ll have to find someone who wants to hear it.” And she left the room as quickly and calmly as possible.
* * *
“Whoa,” Luke said for the fiftieth time. “I just keep saying it, man.”
Jace nodded. They’d left the VIP room, walked out of the stadium, and stopped in the parking lot, talking strategy and schedules. He couldn’t help but worry that, once he got into his truck and drove away, this would all disappear. He’d wake up tomorrow morning at five, head to the factory, punch his time card, and singing would only be his hobby again.
“It doesn’t feel real,” he confessed. Tonight had been weird…and a whole hell of a lot of awesome. He couldn’t wait to tell his sister all about it. Heather would want details, too—down to what they were wearing, who was there, and any gossip.
“It’s real, all right. We’re just getting started,” Luke said, glancing at his ever-present cell phone. “I’ll pick you up around seven thirty? We can get coffee on the way.”
The side door to the stadium opened, slamming loudly into the side of the building, and Krystal pushed out, her leather fringed skirt swaying. Seconds later, a man followed her. Even from this distance, he could tell Krystal was upset. Her hands clenched, arm held out, keeping distance between them. What was going on and who was giving Krystal trouble? When the two of them paused under one of the massive parking lot lights, he knew.
Mickey Graham?
Where was Krystal’s bodyguard?
From all the tabloids, headlines, and talk show interviews Heather kept up with, he knew their relationship hadn’t ended well. Krystal King, country royalty, fell for an up-and-comer on the circuit. Once they’d broken up, Mickey spilled his guts to the world. Krystal had ended it, cheated on him. And she was mean to Emmy Lou and Travis, fought with her mother and father, and was spoiled rotten.
Krystal had never said a word about any of it—not Mickey’s accusations, their relationship, or their breakup.
Jace had never believed it. Ever. Her music told him all he needed to know. She’d been hurt, deserted, and betrayed.
Still, Mickey’s song “Lie to Me” had released not too long after their split and shot to the top of the charts. He said it was about losing Krystal. But Jace couldn’t shake the feeling that Mickey was milking his short-lived romance for all it was worth—and it had been worth a lot. The single had gone gold regardless of the fact that Mickey Graham had no real musical talent. He ran around in sleeveless shirts and spray-painted-on jeans, his voice was nasally, and he had no range—he was all flash and no substance.
None of that mattered right now. Not when Mickey was up in Krystal’s personal space—so much so that Krystal was backing away.
When he’d started heading her way, he didn’t know. But she was upset and on her own and he wasn’t going to stand by and do nothing. He wasn’t wired that way.
“This could get ugly,” Luke said, following.
“Why won’t you go away and stay away?” Krystal’s voice rose. “I don’t want to see you. Get it through your thick head—I don’t like you.”
“You used to,” Mickey replied.
“I was an idiot.” She shook her head. “Why are you really here? Why?” The pain in her voice had Jace moving faster.
“You think I’d pass up an opportunity to open for the Three Kings? Hell no.” Mickey sighed, shaking his head. “Then your dad goes and screws it up. What the hell is he thinking? Bringing in that wannabe?”
“Talk to him about it,” she snapped. “Go on.” She pointed behind him. “Now.”
He chuckled. “You can’t tell me we wouldn’t have fun on the road together. You know we would.”
“Are you serious?” Her voice shook. “Why did you follow me, Mickey? Is there a camera out here somewhere? Looking for more PR at my expense? I’m tired of getting you more headlines.”
What was Mickey talking about? The Three Kings had one hell of an opening act. And why had her mother called him? From the way Krystal was staring at Mickey, she was just as surprised as he was.
“I’m not about to apologize for doing what it takes to get a platinum record. You’ve always known my career came first.” He shook his head. “Hell, it wasn’t all bad. Being in your bed. Mm-m. You remember, too. Don’t you? Miss me? I know you do.”
He and Luke were so close—but not close enough. Krystal’s hand shot out, the slap echoing in the still parking lot.
“You really are a bitch, you know that?” But Mickey was laughing.
The son of a bitch deserved more than a slap; Mickey Graham deserved getting his ass handed to him. Jace would be more than happy to teach him a lesson in manners. If the bastard didn’t step away from Krystal, class was about to be in session. Still, Krystal was upset—for good reason. Instead of busting heads, he’d get her out of here. He reined in his temper, ignored Mickey Graham, and stepped between them, facing her.
“Krystal?”
She was shaking, staring blindly at his chest.
“Krystal?” he asked again, his voice low. “Hey, it’s Jace.”
“You’re Jace?” Mickey asked, still behind him. If the son of a bitch was smart, he’d stay there.
Krystal finally looked up at him, dazed. He searched her pale face. “You okay?” She didn’t look okay. She looked terrified. Frozen in place and shivering.
Her eyes widened, truly seeing him for the first time. “Jace?”
“Yeah. Hi. Need a ride somewhere?” He grinned.
She blinked rapidly, running a hand over her hair. Her hand trembled like a leaf.
Damn, her fear had his stomach in knots. And his hands fisting. “Or a human barrier between you and the asshole behind me?” He tried, he did, but there was no denying the edge to his words.
She smiled, surprised. “Yeah,” she breathed. “I do… Thank you.”
“Taking her back to her hotel won’t get you anywhere,” Mickey snorted.
Jace spun on his heel, fists clenched, jaw tight. Being tall had advantages—like towering over assholes with big mouths. “You want to get punched? You keep talking, you will.”
Mickey’s mouth hung open in shock, but he didn’t say another word.
Jace turned back to find Krystal’s eyes closed, her face crinkled up tight, and her hands fisted at her side. He could only imagine all the things she wanted to say and do right now. Her restraint was admirable. His, on the other hand, was fading. It was time to go.
“Mr. Graham, isn’t it?” Jace heard Luke say. “I’m a fan, a big fan. Are you in the market for a new manager? If you are, maybe we could go get a beer?”
Jace didn’t wait to hear Mickey’s response. He glanced back at Luke, nodded, and led Krystal away. He hadn’t felt the need to fight in years, but right now, the urge to punch Mickey Graham was all-encompassing. Hard enough to wipe that smug grin off his face and land him on his ass. Though Krystal had landed one hell of a slap. “Let’s start walking. I’m parked out in the south forty.”
It was a smaller smile this time, but a smile nonetheless. “Lead the way, Jake.”
He laughed. “Now, you’re working at it. You know my name.”
She glanced up at him, peering up at him through her thick lashes. “Do I?”
Damn she was pretty. And feisty. And talented. “My name is Jace Michael Black. But most people just call me Jace.”
“Michael’s a good name. Why didn’t you go with that?”
He chuckled. “Jace is a bad name?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure yet.”
“You let me know when you figure it out.” Once they reached the jacked-up rental truck Luke had saddled him with, he opened the passenger door for her. The truck had a hydraulic lift, making that first step a doozy—especially for someone wearing a short, skin-tight miniskirt.
“A gentleman?” she said, taking his hand to step up into the large four-wheel drive.
