“You need anything?” Hank asked.
“No, I’m ready to get started.” The sooner this rehearsal was under way, the sooner it was over.
“Come on, then.” Hank waved her forward, then turned to head back the direction he and Travis had come from.
She followed, glancing at the man walking alongside her.
The Golden King. The Casanova of Country Music. The Heartbreak King. King of Smiles. King Charming. Over the years, that tabloids had given him an impressively long laundry list of nicknames. To be fair, she had never seen a bad picture of him. Even in the video, he’d looked pretty perfect. And yes, up close, he did have a blindingly perfect—almost Photoshopped—appearance. The hair. The blue-green eyes. The body. But his beauty was skin deep.
“Here you go.” Hank opened the door for them. “I was hoping we could have this out at our place today.” He broke off, coughing. “Excuse me. My wife built a studio out there, we’re calling it the Music Barn, and it’s something.” Hank shook his head. “Saves time, back and forth from home and Austin.”
“Another studio?” She scrambled to recover. “This isn’t… I mean, this isn’t yours?”
“As of next week, Wheelhouse Records is the owner.” Travis stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans, looking more than a little uncomfortable.
What was that about?
“Made a lot of good memories in here. And some damn good music too.” Hank inspected the room. “But times change and you gotta learn to change with it.” With a smile, he added, “Y’all get set up and we’ll run a sound check. They sent the music?”
She nodded. The music had popped into her inbox seconds after her frustrating phone call with Ethan Powell. “It looks good.”
“It does.” Hank cleared his throat again. “I’ll give you a minute to get settled?”
“Thank you.” Loretta turned, slowly, to take in the Kings’ private recording studio.
That was when she saw Travis King pull a prescription pill bottle from his jeans pocket. He opened it, shook a pill into his hand, popped it into his mouth, and closed the bottle. Seconds later, it was back in his pocket and he was taking a drink.
A drink—from a whiskey glass. A now empty whiskey glass.
It was so surreal she wondered if she was seeing things. Surely that’s what it was. Surely Travis King hadn’t just taken a pill with a whiskey chaser? That hadn’t really happened. When had he started using pills? She glanced around, looking for other witnesses—hoping for confirmation that she was seeing things.
Only she wasn’t. And, honestly, she was surprised. She’d known Travis wouldn’t stay sober for long… But that didn’t stop her anger, hot and fast, from damn near choking her.
Ever since the news had broken that the duet for the International Music Awards “In Memoria” performance would be Travis King’s big return to the stage, the anticipation and buildup was everywhere. Unavoidable. Inescapable. All the hype and media were about him, his recovery—his comeback. The Comeback King.
It was a lie. All of it. The proof was literally staring her in the face.
Sonofabitch.
How was she supposed to do this? This year’s “In Memoria” would include Johnny. Her best friend. Her singing partner of eight years. Whether or not they shared DNA or blood, he’d been her brother. He was gone.
Professional. Cool, calm, and collected. One song.
“Ready?” Hank King’s voice echoed in the live room, waving through the glass that separated the live room with the control room.
No.
“Side preference?” Travis asked, smiling, those blue-green eyes giving her a quick head-to-toe inventory of her, setting her blood to boil.
“What?” she snapped.
His smile dimmed, a crease forming between his brows as he asked, “Which stool?” He pointed at the stools arranged, mics at the ready, surrounded by the floating walls used for optimal acoustics. “Lady’s choice.”
Choice? That was a joke. Her choice was to walk out. Or take all the anger she’d been boxing up inside and let him have it. Yelling. A few select curse words. Lots of finger pointing—a few solid jabs square in the middle of the well-sculpted chest his skin-tight grey T-shirt clung to. She’d put him in his place and wipe that smile from his too handsome face and, maybe—hopefully, finally—feel some relief.
“You okay?” His voice was low and concerned. Or was that sympathy?
No. Not really. But she wasn’t about to let him know he’d gotten under her skin. He already thought the world revolved around him—she wasn’t going to feed his ego. “Fine.” She would be fine. All she had to do was get through the awards show. “Left,” she said, crossing the hardwood floor. She picked up the waiting headset, took her seat, and waited for him to take his spot.
The sooner this is done, the faster she could leave.
Travis took his seat opposite and put his headset on. Eyes glued to the music, he flipped through the pages, took a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his hair. Another deep breath and he pressed his hands against the tops of his thighs, agitated.
The pills were kicking in.
“Ready?” Hank’s voice echoed in her ears.
At their nod, the rising swell of music demanded one hundred percent of her attention.
It was split, the verses split—two lines for Loretta, two lines for Travis. The chorus, they sang together.
Day breaks, the sun rising in the sky.
At work, my life is one big damn lie.
Loretta resisted the urge to look at her singing partner. She knew how magical collaborating could be… But this wasn’t Johnny. The sharp twist of her heart reminded her of that.
Hours pass, and there’s still no end in sight.
Promised you, not to give up on the fight.
Travis King might be an alcohol-addicted pretty boy set firmly on the road to self-destruction, but he could sing.
But all your words are now the song left in my head.
And all your smiles are brightest when I’m in our bed.
Loretta closed her eyes, hoping to blot out a memory of Johnny’s smile.
I get up and go out and live each day.
Couldn’t know losing you would hurt this way.
The rasp in Travis’s voice rolled over the words, the last three gruff and thick and laden with emotion so pure no one could manufacture it.
Somehow, they were singing together now. Somehow, she’d made the mistake of looking his way. And now, the words became a melody—all while his blue-green eyes held her gaze.