“Boone—”
“I’ll talk to you later. Love you both.” I hang up without letting her say good-bye.
I’m such a fucking chump.
After I shove my phone back in my pocket, I stalk back to Nick and Charity. “We’re done, right?”
They both nod.
“Then I’m getting out of here.”
“Try to lay low and let it all blow over,” Charity says.
“And write that damned record,” Nick adds.
Predictable responses from each of them.
I turn to leave the room, but Charity stops me with a hand on my arm.
“I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but it would be a good idea to avoid being seen with any women for a while. I think you can make the most of this by playing up the media’s sympathy. If you go out and start banging every girl in sight, they probably won’t hold it against you, but it’s not going to get you the kind of response we want. Your relationship with Amber really cleaned up that manwhore image you had, so let’s try to keep it that way for as long as we can.”
When Nick groans, I crane my head to meet her gaze. “Are you seriously telling me what to do with my private life right now?”
Charity lifts her hand and holds it up, palm out. “No, not at all. But I’m telling you that public perception matters. You can screw whoever you want in private, but the paparazzi are going to be watching you close for a while, ready to get the scoop on who Boone Thrasher is going to date next. I’m just saying that we can play this in a way that boosts your career and doesn’t tarnish the image you’ve shined up, so why not do it?”
I know it’s Charity’s job to look out for me and my image, but right now her instructions are the last thing I want to hear. I don’t bother responding as I stride from the room.
Nick follows me out. “The SUV is already waiting to take you home. If you want me to get you some company, just say the word. Charity doesn’t need to know shit.”
I stop in the middle of the hallway, and Nick almost runs into me. With my voice pitched low, I deliver my reply. “There has never been a time in my life, even before I had enough money to buy and sell you, that I needed help gettin’ a woman. You might still think I’m a dumb hick, but I’m a dumb hick who doesn’t have a problem gettin’ laid. You get me?”
Nick nods. “Sorry, man. I just—”
I shake my head, and he goes silent as I leave.
I love my life. Really, I fucking do, but there are days like today when I wish I could walk away from it all. Trade it for a simple existence where I work eight-to-five with my dad and brother in their small-engine repair shop and coach Little League during the summer. Maybe meet up with buddies at the bar every Friday night for a beer. The life I would have had.
But as I climb into a blacked-out Cadillac Escalade and the driver pulls away through a crowd of flashing cameras waiting on the sidewalk, I think about everything I sacrificed to have this opportunity. The birthdays and holidays with my family I missed because I didn’t have money to get home and was too proud to ask for help. Those nights I spent choking on smoke and hoping I’d make enough in tips to eat the next day. The days I spent living in my car because I didn’t have a couch at someone’s place to crash on. All that would be for nothing if I walked away, and what’s more, I know I could never forgive myself for wasting what I’ve been lucky enough to achieve.
And then I think about that punk kid with more balls than talent who headed to Nashville with nothing but a guitar and a crazy-ass dream.
So what if the media hounds me for every detail of my personal life? He’d tell me to suck it up and who the hell cares, that nothing is sacred when you live your life on a stage for the world to watch.
He’d tell me to give them the best damn show I can, because I worked too hard and gave up too much to do anything else.
Thirty-five minutes later, when we roll up to the gates of my house, I decide that punk kid is right.
I’m Boone Thrasher, and nobody dictates my future but me.
12
Ripley
It’sWednesday and the clock on my phone just flipped over to eleven forty-five, which means I’ve got exactly fifteen minutes before I’m late for lunch with Pop.
My Javelin doesn’t like being pushed to her limit, so there’s still a chance I’m going to be late, which will no doubt earn some kind of snide comment from him.
Does it make me a terrible daughter that I’m glad I only see him once a week now? When he lived in the apartment above the bar, every day was soaked in bitterness and anger, and too many of them included a stinging cheek from the back of his hand.