Rising Star Page 7

  Stretching his arms, he found something wadded up under his pillow. Lifting it above his head, he couldn’t help but laugh. “If this is here, what did you wear home?”

  Dylan sat up and looked around. Boots. Jeans. Empty condom wrapper.

  “You little thief,” he whispered, but couldn’t help imagining how good she must have looked in his shirt. “Looks like we have some unfinished business, birthday girl.”

  “What do you want, Joanna?” Clay Benedict asked, foregoing civility. He’d considered putting Mrs. Rossi on the do-not-admit list, but to do so would only stir curiosity and make him look like more of an asshole than he already did.

  The diner waitress turned debutante maintained her brittle smile. “Don’t be so boorish, Clayton. You know I don’t scare off that easily.” She circled his office, taking in every bare inch and looking out of place in her white Chanel suit and pearls.

  All of Clay’s money had gone into launching Shooting Stars Records, with little left over for anything but the necessities. The staff possessed all the means to do their jobs, while he’d limited himself to a desk, a chair, and a computer. A minimalist at heart, the meager decor served Clay fine.

  “Does Tony know you’re here?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she replied. “He thinks I’m at church.”

  Which reminded Clay that he shouldn’t be working on a Sunday.

  “Won’t someone tell him you didn’t show?”

  The queen of lies and alibis said, “I put in an appearance. That will do if he asks, though I doubt he will.”

  Tony’s failure to pay attention to his wife had resulted in the errant Mrs. Rossi falling into his best friend’s bed, and it had also made their clandestine meetings so easy to pull off.

  “I have work to do, Joanna. Tell me why you’re here.”

  Stopping before his desk, she tucked an obscenely expensive clutch beneath her arm. “I want to know why you’re being so stubborn, Clayton. Tony has no idea that we’re lovers.”

  “Were lovers,” he corrected. “Past tense.”

  “Only because you’re being ridiculous about this.”

  Of course. Because no longer sleeping with his best friend’s wife was such a silly notion.

  “Tony suspected you were having an affair. For Christ’s sake, he came to me concerned that you were going to leave him. He thought I might know who you were seeing, and even I’m not bastard enough to keep up that charade.”

  She leaned on the desk, clutch still tucked tight. “But you know that I have no intention of leaving my husband. All you had to do was assure him that I was still the good little wife, and we could have gone on as we were.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” Clay asked, astounded that he’d ever found this woman attractive. Hell, he couldn’t even name a part of her body that hadn’t been upgraded, tweaked, or lifted in the last ten years. “That’s your husband you’re talking about. You may not have a problem making a fool of him, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to help you do it.”

  Her husky laughter filled the room. “You helped me for a year, until your conscience reared its ugly head. There’s no reason we can’t go back to enjoying each other, Clayton. Tony has his golf game and his poker nights, and I have my me time, which happens to include fucking you. We all win.”

  Clay shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, Joanna. Why don’t you divorce him? You know he’ll give you anything you want.”

  “Because I don’t want to divorce Tony. While you two begged and borrowed to get that damn record label off the ground, I put up with roach-infested apartments, piece-of-shit cars, and collectors banging down the door. I’ve earned my place as Mrs. Tony Rossi, and I have no intention of giving that up. Not for you or anyone else.”

  “And I have no intention of touching you ever again, divorce or no divorce.”

  Slate-blue eyes flared with anger, but she didn’t lose her composure. Instead, she rounded the desk and planted her nipped and tucked ass on the shiny brown surface, legs wide in invitation.

  “We were good together, Clayton. You can’t deny that.”

  “It doesn’t take much to be good at sex, Joanna. I’ve told you before. You’ll have to find someone else to scratch that itch.” Without another word, he rose from his chair and walked to the door, holding it open. “Goodbye, Mrs. Rossi.”

  She lingered for several seconds, as if waiting for him to change his mind. When Clay held his ground, she finally slid to the floor.

  “You still want me, Clayton. If you keep me waiting too long, I might not be willing to take you back.”

  “I’ll muddle through.”

  “Remember,” she purred, joining him at the door and standing close enough to leave her scent on his clothes, “if you replace me, I’ll know. And I won’t be happy about it.”

  “My personal life is none of your concern, Joanna. And I don’t give a shit if you’re happy or not.” Putting space between them, he motioned to the exit. “Now have a nice day.”

  With narrowed eyes and a pout on her berry-red lips, she toyed with a button on his shirt as if debating whether or not to press her case. In the past, he’d have caved and taken her on the desk by now. But Clay wasn’t that man anymore.

  “Goodbye, Joanna.”

  The blonde tapped a finger on his lips and said, “Until next time, my dear.” The warning was implicit—this conversation was not over.

  “The happy little hussy finally makes an appearance.”

  Charley was in no mood for Matty’s sarcasm. Grabbing a box of Cheerios from the top of the fridge, she dropped her phone on the kitchen table as she took a seat opposite her roommate.

  “This is my first day off in two weeks. I’m allowed to sleep in.”

  Matty flipped a page in her magazine. “You slept late because you strolled in around four. Spill, woman. I want details.”

  “You know who I was with, and you know what I was doing. That’s enough details for today.”

  “Oh, come on. Give me something.”

  Flipping the script, Charley said, “I’ll share if you will. How was your evening with Casey?”

  Her roommate waved away the question. “Please. The boy broke a cardinal rule—never talk about your ex with the chick you’re trying to pick up. If I’d have heard the name Pamela one more time, I was going to scream.”

  The name of the woman Charley had encountered in Dylan’s kitchen. Which meant Casey was the third roommate.

  “I met her on my way out. She seemed nice.”

  “To hear Casey tell it, she’s a harpy with trust issues. Which, of course, means she’s a strong woman who called him on his shit. What’s she look like?”

  Odd question. “Petite, blonde hair, and blue eyes.” Pausing with a handful of cereal, she said, “Now that I think about it, she looks like you.”

  “I knew it,” Matty mumbled, flipping another page. “After I sent him packing, he danced with three other women. All blue-eyed blondes.”

  “At least he’s consistent,” Charley credited. “She still lives with them, so that must be awkward. I wonder why she hasn’t moved out.”

  The magazine dropped to the table. “Why should she move out? Let him get another place. With the population growing by nearly a hundred people a day in this town, apartments aren’t easy to come by.”

  She had a point. If Matty hadn’t been looking for a roommate when Charley got hired, she wasn’t sure where she’d be living right now. “Fair enough. Did Ruby ask where I was?”

  “Yep. I told her you left with a hottie, and she said good for you.” Feet tucked into bunny slippers landed on the chair to Charley’s right, ankles crossed. “And since you were inconsiderate enough to cut out before we gave you your cake, we cut into it without you.”

  “You got me a cake?”

  “It was your birthday, numb nuts. Of course we got you a cake.” Matty pointed to the counter behind her. “Your piece is up there.”

  A piece? “You and Ruby a
te the whole thing?” she asked, setting aside the cereal and crossing to the counter.

  “Don’t be silly. We shared it with the VIP table.”

  Charley popped open the Styrofoam container to find one small corner piece of cake covered in white frosting. No words. No flowers. Nothing to indicate what the thing had looked like. “Did you at least take a picture?”

  Matty returned her attention to the magazine. “Someone did, but I can’t remember who. I’ll ask at work tomorrow and maybe we can find it.”

  Retrieving a fork from the drawer, she carried her sad little cake to the table. “Happy birthday to me,” she muttered as the fork cut through the chocolate sponge.

  “Hey,” the blonde snapped. “You got something way better than cake last night, didn’t you?”

  Chewing her treat, Charley recalled the night before, and her body flushed with heat. “He was really good.” Possibly the understatement of the decade.

  “That’s what I thought. Are you going to see him again?”

  “Heck no,” she said around another bite. “That was a birthday one-off. Over and done.”

  The bunny slippers hit the floor. “He’s gorgeous as hell and really good in bed, but you don’t want to see him again? Did you slam your skull too hard on his headboard or something? Woman, that’s a winning combination.”

  “No,” Charley explained, “that is a distraction. I’m here to build my career. I don’t have time for a relationship.”

  “Who said anything about a relationship? Use him for sex.”

  Regardless of the fact he’d taken her home only hours after they’d met, Charley knew for certain that Dylan was not the “use him for sex” type. If his own claims hadn’t been convincing enough, Pamela’s comment that he never brought women home had confirmed her suspicions.

  “Not an option,” she said. “I doubt our paths will cross again, and we didn’t exchange numbers.”

  Matty laughed. “You’re on the radio, Charley. He can find you if he wants.”

  Dang. She hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe leaving without saying goodbye ticked him off enough to make sure he doesn’t come looking.” Unless he wants his shirt back, she thought.

  “You left without even saying goodbye? Who does that?”

  Charley stuck the fork in her cake. “I’m new at this one-night stand stuff, okay? Things got too real, and I panicked.”

  “Too real?” Matty asked.

  How was she supposed to explain that Dylan had turned out to be one of the good ones—which Charley considered a bad thing—and not sound like an idiot?

  Setting the plate on the table, she leaned her elbows on the edge. “You told me you moved to Nashville to be with a guy, right?”

  Matty stiffened. “What does my stupidity have to do with this?”

  “You weren’t stupid. You put your trust in the wrong guy. He said all the right things, and you gave up everything to be with him.”

  “I did,” she muttered.

  “So I don’t want to do that.”

  Tucking the magazine under her arm, Matty rose and pushed in her chair. “Glad I could serve as a cautionary tale.”

  “Wait,” Charley pleaded, grabbing her roommate’s arm. “I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right.” She took a deep breath. “The fact is, my mother made the same choice that you did. She met a guy and fell in love, and suddenly none of her dreams mattered. She walked away from a college scholarship, and her lifelong goal of being a teacher, for a man.”

  Violet Layton, Charley’s late mother, never complained or even hinted that she’d regretted her decision, but then she couldn’t have known how unfairly her life would be cut short.

  Matty plopped down in her chair. “What happened?” she asked.

  Charley shoved both hands into her hair. “She got pregnant with me, my dad was killed in a combine accident before I was born, and then, when I was sixteen, Mama died of breast cancer. Two months before she’d been scheduled to start her online degree.”

  The kitchen chair scraped across linoleum as Matty scooted closer. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”

  Willing back the tears, she shook her head. “Forget it. I’m fine.” Charley swiped a knuckle beneath her nose. “The point is, a career in radio is all I’ve ever wanted, but I also know that for the right guy, I might do the same thing. So . . . I have to avoid the right guy. And that means not seeing Dylan Monroe ever again.”

  With an understanding nod, Matty said, “All right then. No more Dylan Monroe.”

  At that moment, Charley’s phone buzzed, indicating a text message. Checking the screen, she saw a text from Elvis.

  Maynard says he hasn’t heard from you in a while. Checking to make sure you’re still alive down there.

  When Charley rolled her eyes, Matty said, “What is it?”

  “Elvis checking up on me. Sometimes I think he and Grandpa believe I’ve moved to the jungles of South America instead of Nashville.” Setting her thumbs in motion, she typed her response.

  Still alive and kicking. Crazy busy with work. I’ll call soon, promise.

  “I still think it’s weird that your best friend is a guy,” her roommate said. “Maybe he checks on you so much because he thinks of you as more than a friend.”

  Charley shot her a droll look. “We’ve been over this. Elvis and I are more like sister and brother than friends, and he’d tell you the same. His check-ins are a combination of annoying me and concern that he thinks I’m ignoring Grandpa. If he actually thought I was in danger, he’d be pounding on our front door, prepared to rip the head off whoever or whatever had been stupid enough to attack me.”

  Interest twinkled in Matty’s blue eyes. “Maybe we should invite him down for a weekend. I’m dying to meet this ‘sibling’ of yours.”

  Such a meeting had trouble written all over it. “Elvis is not your type,” Charley mumbled as she read the returning text.

  I’ll tell him you’ll call tomorrow.

  The message served as a threat that Charley knew better than to ignore. And because she never let Elvis win one of these pissing matches, she rose from the table, phone in one hand and cake in the other.

  “I’m going upstairs to make a call.”

  “Invite him down,” Matty repeated.

  Charley ignored the order as she marched toward the stairs.

  Chapter 8

  “All I’m saying is that he ought to be here,” Casey repeated for the third time.

  Dylan had sent Mitch Levine four text messages and left him two voice mails after getting the news from Clay the day before. But as he waited in the lobby of the Eagle 101.5 offices for his big moment, he had yet to hear from his manager.

  “He doesn’t have to be here. Clay can handle things.”

  Casey, like most drummers, couldn’t sit still. “Clay shouldn’t have to handle things,” he said, tapping out a steady beat on his thighs. “Shit is getting real, man. Times like these are why you have a manager.”

  The argument was nothing new, nor was Dylan’s response.

  “Relax. He’s gotten us this far.” Though Dylan was the official act, with Casey, Lance, and Easton merely employees in the band, he still thought of them as a group. They’d been playing together for four years. They were a unit, regardless of what any contract said. “I’m sure there’s a good reason he isn’t here.”

  “If you say so.” Casey increased his tapping to double time, proving he was as nervous as Dylan. Only they were nervous for different reasons.

  Charley Layton knew Dylan’s secret. By now, she likely also knew exactly who he was, and she might see his failure to disclose certain details as some sort of deception. If she called him out on the air about writing his own songs, Dylan couldn’t be sure how he’d react. With luck, he’d get a minute alone with her before they went live.

  “There’s my boy,” said Clay, rubbing his hands together as he entered the building. Clasping Dylan’s hand, he patted him on the shoulder. “You ready for this?”
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  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Dylan replied, grateful for the executive’s support and enthusiasm.

  No one had been willing to touch Dylan after his first failed album. That was the downside to the Nashville music scene. Everyone knew everything that went on. When his first deal had gone south, so had his credibility as a viable artist. Pride had kept him from turning tail and moving back home, but if the Shooting Stars offer hadn’t come along when it did, Dylan would have been hard-pressed to stick it out.

  “Morning, Casey,” he said, glancing around. “Is Mitch here?”

  “Hell no,” Casey replied, earning a stiff elbow to the ribs.

  “Mitch got tied up,” Dylan explained. “He had a meeting he couldn’t cancel.”

  Clay no doubt knew the statement to be a lie, but he played along.

  “All right then. Let’s go launch a career, shall we?”

  Dylan’s gut clenched, and his palms grew sweaty. The dream he’d been chasing for nearly half his life was on the verge of coming true. Or that dream was about to crash and burn—again. If he failed this time, there wasn’t likely to be a third chance. And as the launching artist of Shooting Stars Records, the success of the company also rested on his shoulders. A reality never far from his mind.

  “This is what we’ve worked for,” he said, lifting his guitar off the floor. “Let’s do this.”

  “That was a classic from Reba here on the Eagle,” Charley said into the mic. “Don’t forget about our Manic Monday giveaway coming up in the noon hour. One lucky caller will pick up a pair of tickets to the Country Music Hall of Fame, and all you have to do is listen to win. Eleven seventeen now. Music from our favorite singing Aussie coming up after the break.”

  Charley fired off the commercials and removed her headphones. After rolling her shoulders, she reached for the weather and checked the computer for the current temperature.

  “You ready for your guest?” asked John Willoughby as he breezed into the booth. The program manager never simply walked into a room. He blew in like a tornado, without warning and moving fast. “He’ll be playing acoustic, so we’ll put vocals on mic B and the guitar on mic C.”