Travis groaned again. “You’ve met my sisters? I’d hoped they wouldn’t come after I explained things to them. But they didn’t believe me.” He shook his head. “I’ll go ahead and apologize now.”
“What?” Loretta was still scrambling to understand what he’d said. She’d managed to glean his sisters were here, but that was it.
“You. Not liking me.” He shrugged. “They don’t believe you—No, I guess they don’t believe I was telling the truth about you not liking me.” He shook his head, the corner of his mouth kicking up. “Most people like me. I’m a likable kind of guy. Try it, you’ll see.”
He’d told his sisters what she’d said? And now they were here? Loretta was horrified. But before she had time to make a quick exit, the beloved twins of country music, Krystal and Emmy Lou King, were walking across the stage toward her.
Loretta had nothing but respect for the sisters. As musicians and advocates for several worthwhile charities, they understood the difference they could make—beyond their music. They might be twins, but they were as different as night and day. While she didn’t know them all that well, the Kings were media and tabloid staples.
The midnight black stripe that had been added to one twin’s signature long honey-blond locks was a dead giveaway as to which twin was Krystal. But, even without the hair, Krystal’s resting bitch face and confident “Fuck you” vibe was unmistakable. What Loretta admired most was the woman’s refusal to explain or apologize for who she was. And who Krystal King was, was one hell of a performer—and one hell of a survivor.
Emmy Lou King had some sort of inner glow thing happening. She was like a fairy-tale princess come to life. From her megawatt smile to her genuine warmth, Emmy Lou King oozed “it.” Star power. Like millions of Instagram and Twitter followers and record sales and ridiculously loyal and adoring fans sort of star power. And yet, somehow, she’d managed not to lose her down-to-earth accessibility and, by all appearances, kindness.
“Loretta.” Emmy Lou drew her into a hug. “My heart hurts for you. I am so sorry about Johnny. He was a gentle soul.”
Between the emotion lacing Emmy Lou’s words and the ferocity of her unexpected embrace, Loretta nearly crumpled. There were times she ached for this—for support. Just as quickly, Emmy Lou stepped back and Loretta did her best to recover.
“I didn’t know him all that well, but I loved every single one of his songs. His lyrics said a lot about who he was, I think,” Krystal said, her green eyes assessing. “I am sorry. I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you.”
The ache in Loretta’s chest turned painful, but she did manage to say, “Thank you.” She could leave now, couldn’t she? The sting on her eyes was telling; so was the lump in her throat. She really needed to leave. “Well, it was nice to see you.”
“We thought, maybe, you’d like to have dinner?” Emmy Lou asked.
They wanted her to have dinner with them. She’d been thinking “Why?” but apparently, she’d said it too. And now they were all staring at her. Because that was rude. “I mean, that’s kind of you, but—”
“That’s Emmy Lou.” Krystal smiled, nudging her twin. “She’s kind. I’m not. But we are both nosy. Which is another reason we were hoping you’d come to dinner.”
Which was a bit brash but Loretta appreciated the woman’s honesty.
“Krystal.” Emmy Lou looked and sounded mortified.
Travis mumbled, “And now you see why I apologized.”
“You apologized?” Krystal’s brows rose, shooting her brother a narrow-eyed glare. “For us? Really?”
“Oh wow.” But Emmy Lou wasn’t commenting on their increasingly bizarre conversation. She was looking up.
With all the commotion going on, Loretta hadn’t noticed the large screens being lowered, let alone the images for tomorrow night’s “In Memoria” performance. So many faces. So much talent. Groundbreakers and innovators. Producers, lyricists, and composers. Music Hall of Fame members and fledgling artists taken way too soon.
The moment Johnny’s picture appeared, Loretta looked away. She had to. Seeing his smiling face tore at the still-raw wound. Every day, it was there. Every day, she missed Johnny. And every day she was tormented by the questions that would never be answered. She’d known it would be difficult but this…this ball of pain and anger wrapped up inside a ball of razor wire shredded her insides and left her bleeding.
But that was her problem and hers alone. She was not going to fall apart now—not publicly—and definitely not in front of the Kings.
Keep it professional. Calm, cool, and collected.
“I have dinner plans but thank you,” she managed, taking care to avoid direct eye contact with the siblings. “Maybe next time. Have a good night.” She was already walking, rapidly, backstage—and much-needed space. She dodged cords and workmen, wheeled wardrobe racks, and a group of dancers clustered together before pushing open a door and stumbling out into a mercifully quiet, mostly deserted, hallway.
A few of the stage crew workers had been taking a smoke break, but they took one look at her and jumped up, leaving a plastic cup with cigarette butts, an empty can of soda, and a newspaper on the box they’d turned upside down for a table.
Deep, cleansing breaths helped. So did leaning against the cool concrete wall and closing her eyes. She pushed off the wall and sat on one of the folding chairs. Eventually, it would get easier. Maybe not the grief part, but the anger part. I hope. When she thought about Johnny, she didn’t want to think about his death—she wanted to think about him. Smiling, laughing, singing. His beautiful face.
“I miss you,” she whispered, rubbing her palms against her thighs. But missing him didn’t stop her from being angry with him. And she was oh so angry. “I miss you so much.” Her words were a garbled mess and there were tears on her cheeks but, for a second, she didn’t fight them.
“Loretta?”
She jumped, surprised by Travis King’s sudden arrival.
“You left this.” His voice was low and soft.
Her phone. Her purse. She blinked, beyond embarrassed. That’s what running away gets you. “Thank you.” Her hand was shaking when she reached for her things—making things ten times worse.
“Here.” Travis dug in his pocket and pulled out a white cotton handkerchief. “It’s clean. Wrinkled, but clean.”
She sniffed, eyeing the white fabric.
“You can not like me and still take my handkerchief.” He shook his head. “And, no, I’m not offering it because I’m trying to change your mind, either.”