You'd Be Mine(9)

So, no, thank you very much. My way might be clumsier and less lucrative, but I may make it out with my old age intact. There’s just one tiny hitch I hadn’t counted on, and he’s laughing into his mic, making my palms sweat. Truthfully, high school boys held little interest for me. Aside from Jason, I barely dated, and I only kissed him because it seemed the natural thing to do at the time. But I didn’t get so much as a spark out of it. The next morning, I found him hanging around Meredith Norgaard and it barely stung. I wasn’t in love with him, and besides, I got a great song out of it.

But high school boys had nothing on Clay Coolidge and his jeans.

“Annie Mathers?” An elegant blonde with six-inch stilettos strides toward me, her bloodred manicure outstretched. I take her hand, and she does that thing where she brings her other hand around so I’m wrapped in her embrace. She beams a matte shade of hot pink, and I can’t help but gape at her. I don’t know whether to feel underdressed or plain intimidated.

“Holy hell. Are you for real?” Jason blurts next to me, and the magic is broken.

“I am, thanks,” the blonde answers with a wink. “I’m Trina Hamilton, your tour manager. I can see you three have been up north for too long. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the hair spray and Botox.”

I think I like her. She has a refreshing bluntness I dig. “It’s nice to meet you in person, Ms. Hamilton. Please just call me Annie.” I can feel my accent already drawling out even after being gone so long. It makes me a little self-conscious. “This blithering sack of hormones here is my old friend and drummer, Jason Diaz, and this little talented beauty is my cousin, Kacey Rosewood.”

I turn and keep turning. Kacey’s gone. Out of the corner of my eye, I see she is already shaking hands with a stocky, bronze-haired man in a faded green T-shirt and well-fitting jeans. Wherever these boys are finding their denim, I want a lifetime membership to their mailing catalog.

“Ah, yes. That’s Fitz Jacoby. He’s fiddle and banjo and basically all strings for Clay. He’s been on the lookout for your cousin. Fell in love with her YouTube videos.” Trina gives the couple a cursory glance like a major musician hitting on my cousin was a totally normal occurrence.

Which maybe it should be. Kacey is a catch, after all. But that was quick even by her standards.

Jason is still gaping after Trina, and Clay is onstage doing a sound check. He huffs, bleeps, and checks into the mic before belting out a line a cappella. I recognize the lyric, but hearing it live and up close sends chills along my spine. His vocals are razor sharp and burn going down. I feel them deep in my bones and reverberating in my skull in only the best possible way.

Sweet mercy. I don’t even realize I’m fanning myself until Jason snickers next to me and my hand stops midair.

“And that, boys and girls, is the story of how stone-cold Annie Mathers found her lady parts.”

I smack Jason in the arm with a loud thwack and shake off my reverie. A quick look over my shoulder confirms no one else was close enough to hear. I shoot him a glare. “Hush, you.”

He stifles his smirk just as Clay jumps off the stage and heads in our direction. His long legs eat up the distance in three strides, and I’m not really ready. He tugs a ball cap out of his back pocket and stuffs it on his head before holding out a hand. “Glad you didn’t chicken out.”

Something about his tone jabs. Not quite condescending but not quite friendly either. More like how your big brother’s best friend would talk to you. Not a business partner. This time I let loose on my accent—making sure it’s sweet as spun sugar.

“As if you could scare me away.”

He raises a dark brow under the shadow of his cap, and I catch a glint of something in his gray-blue eyes. “Good, then.”

Jason clears his throat and reaches out a hand. “Jason Diaz.”

Clay shifts his focus and shakes Jason’s hand. “Right, the drummer. Nice to meet you. Where’s your third?”

Jason grins in his affable way and jabs a thumb to where Kacey is still chatting it up with Fitz in the Jeans.

Clay’s lips quirk to one side in an almost grin. “Right, Kacey Rosewood, the fiddle prodigy who stares a lot. Looks like she’s gotten past that.”

My stomach slips a little at his seeming admiration of my cousin. How come she’s the prodigy?

How come I even care? Ugh. I will not be one of those chicks on this tour. Clay is just another guy with a guitar who thinks he walks on water. I knew something was up when the label sent him directly. Kacey confirmed it, telling me he got into trouble when a fight broke out after his show a few weeks back. Apparently, it was all over the news. Turns out Mr. “Clay Coolidge ain’t a bad name” almost lost his tour if it hadn’t been for me and my sparkling-clean image.

He needs me. He needs me. Of the two of us, he’s the one taking advantage of my name. I’d be smart to remember that and quit losing my head over the way his voice raises the little hairs on my arms.

“You’re welcome to the stage for sound check after lunch. We’ve called in catering,” Fitz offers with a wide grin, finally making his way past my cousin, though I notice she’s close behind.

“Not so fast. I’m gonna need Annie for a photo shoot this afternoon. Someone from the label will be taking publicity shots of Annie and Clay, and then they’ll follow back to get some shots of the sound check afterward. So meet back here at three?”