You'd Be Mine(2)

Before she can protest, he silences her with a look and a waggle of his rusty brows and grabs my arm, tugging me along. “One, two, three, four…,” he mutters.

“Clay needs a clean shirt!” Trina yells, and Fitz holds up a plastic shopping bag without even turning.

“How the hell did you have time to stop for a shirt?”

“I have spares,” he says, his jaw ticking.

I blow out a breath, trying to shrug out of his grip. He doesn’t let go, just keeps dragging me to the glass doors of the lobby. “It wasn’t as bad as they made it sound.”

Fitz doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leads me straight past the security desk to a men’s room. He checks the stalls before locking the door and shoves the plastic bag at my chest. “There’s deodorant and a toothbrush in there. I suggest you use them.”

I remove my hat and glasses and pull my bloodstained T-shirt over my head before leaning over the sink. I turn on the cold full blast, splashing my face and rubbing the sticky grime and sweat from my neck. Fitz hands me a small hand towel, and I pat my skin dry. I use the deodorant—my usual brand—and brush my teeth. Twice.

“I like the shirt,” I say.

“You should. You own three of them already.”

“I have a contract.”

Fitz laughs, but it’s without humor. “Man, I don’t care about your contract. You could’ve been seriously hurt. You could’ve been shot. You could’ve got in a car accident. You did get in a fistfight like some kid.”

“He started it,” I say, but Fitz is already holding up a calloused hand in front of his face, cutting me off.

“We don’t have time for this. We’re going up there, and you aren’t gonna say shit in your defense. You’re gonna say ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and you’re gonna eat whatever crow they throw in your face and pray to God Almighty they don’t sue you for breach of contract. Do you hear me?”

I sprint to the toilet. The coffee burns as it comes up.

“Christ,” Fitz is saying when I come back to the sink, but he doesn’t seem as mad. I splash more water and brush my teeth again, and then he holds the door open for me. As I pass, he grips my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

Time to face the music.



* * *



I “yes, sir” my way through twenty solid minutes of lecturing done by three men in meticulous black suits. I manage not to throw up again. I manage to keep my contract. For now.

“Under one condition,” the CEO, Chuck Porter, a balding man with wire frames says. “We have a little side job for you.”

“Okay?”

“We’ve had our eye on your opening act for several months now. She’s been giving us the cold shoulder, but we thought if we sent you in…”

I slump back in my seat, relieved. “You want me to convince some singer to come on my tour?” Piece of cake. Last year, my tour grossed higher than any other country act across the nation. Who wouldn’t want in on that? It’s the chance of a lifetime. “Who?”

“Annie Mathers.”

A phone vibrates somewhere. Trina inhales softly. Fitz uncrosses his legs, sitting up.

I laugh. “You’re serious?”

Chuck Porter’s smile is all lips. “Perfectly. She’s been hiding out in Michigan since her parents’ untimely death. She’s been touring the local circuit—”

“I know,” I say. “I caught a show of hers last summer outside Grand Rapids.”

This seems to surprise Chuck. “Well, then, you know she’s special.”

“She’s talented as all get-out,” I concede. “So why is she giving you the runaround?”

Chuck looks at his partners uneasily. “We’re not sure. She’s recently uploaded some clips onto YouTube and garnered quite a bit of attention, including from our competitors. Her mother, Cora, had originally signed with us. We’d love to have the pair.”

I raise a brow at his wording. A pair, like they’re collecting a matching set. Except Cora’s been dead five years, so not much chance of that. I take my time, considering my odds. Annie Mathers is huge. Or, at least, she will be. It took approximately ten seconds of her performance for her smoky vocals to sear themselves into my memory. And with her famous name, she might just make everyone forget my recent indiscretions. Next to me, Fitz pulls up her YouTube videos on his phone, and even through the poor phone speakers, her voice draws goose bumps on my forearms.

We all sit, listening, before Fitz lifts his head and looks at me. “They’re pretty amazing.” He passes the phone to me, and I watch her figure on the small screen pluck out the melody on an old guitar. She is framed by a tiny brunette playing a fiddle and a Puerto Rican guy with black curls and bongo drums.

“Jason Diaz and her cousin, Kacey Rosewood, round out her band. They’ve been playing together for years.”

I can’t drag my eyes from Annie’s long fingers skillfully manipulating the strings as though they were an elegant extension of her limbs. Her wild brown curls spring in front of her closed eyes. Suddenly, she opens her eyes and stares right at me through the screen, and my stomach squeezes uncomfortably.

“So, what’s her hesitation?” I ask again.