PROLOGUE
Ryder
A concert is a lot like love. There’s an opening act. The person that comes before you, either leaving the audience cold and distant, or wanting for more. That’s when you take the stage, front and center.
In love, like any good show, the beginning starts hot, full of passion, sparks, electricity. You’re on your best behavior. The middle tends to slow down, you settle in, get comfortable—introduce the band, sing a ballad. The end comes in a fury, a heat. You want to go out with a bang, leave them waiting more, leave with the last word.
But then the inevitable happens. The lights go out, everyone leaves, and you’re left alone with nothing but memories hanging in the air, like the faint echoes of notes strummed from your guitar.
My eyes land on the last seat in the first row. That’s her seat. Always will be.
CHAPTER ONE
THREE MONTHS AGO
New girl in a small town
You were sixteen and so was I
Ryder
“I love you,” someone screams from the audience. I’ve lost count how many declarations of love I’ve gotten tonight. I’m two-thirds through the show, so there’s no telling.
In a stadium of seventy thousand people, I only get a vague sense of where it came from. Smirking, I look toward the direction of the voice, the blinding stage lights preventing me from seeing past the first few rows. Most performers would yell back, “I love you, too,” but not me. I use a lot of four-letter words, but love isn’t one of them.
Thousands of people yelling how much they love you, holding up signs asking you to marry them—it’s something you never get used to. Ten years into my music career, and it’s still bizarre. Wish I could say I’ve never fallen for the trappings of their love, but I have—too many times, too many nights.
A pair of panties lands on top of my shoe, causing me to chuckle. Shaking my head, I wonder how many of these young ladies in the crowd are without underwear. Those are the trappings I’m talking about.
“Ryder,” the crowd chants.
My band starts the next song, and I kick away the thong, the soft strum of my guitar drowning out all the other noise. Women, music, and the road go hand-in-hand, but the curves of my guitar are all I’ve ever really needed. Some call me a loner. Country music didn’t initially know what to make of me. I don’t fit the typical mold—no boots or cowboy hats. Jeans, t-shirts and my guitar—that’s it.
Magazines have dubbed me as brooding. Truth is, everything I need to say comes out in my songs. I write my own stuff, always have. For some reason, it’s always been easier for me to say what I want in a song. Want to know me, then listen to the lyrics, because the stage show, the star, the “Sexist Man Alive” isn’t me. It’s all bullshit.
I was late coming into music, didn’t start until I was seventeen, but now, at almost thirty, I can play most any instrument, at least a little. But the guitar is my favorite. The curve of the wood reminds me of that beautiful curve of a woman’s body between her tits and her ass. My favorite spot. My fingers stroke the strings. Playing the guitar is like playing with a woman. Depending on how well you stroke, the sounds that come out could be soft moans or loud screams. The biggest difference between a guitar and woman is I keep my guitars around forever, and a woman is always gone the next morning.
Tonight’s show is the last of the tour. Over two hundred shows across three continents, and it ends tonight. The set we are playing tonight, I’ve played so often I could do it in my sleep. It’s all scripted—from the “how you doing tonight” to the “encore” performance. Same shit, different day. I might sound like an ungrateful asshole. I’m grateful. I know I don’t deserve what I have, but I don’t do what I do for the money, the fame. I don’t even do it for the fans. I do it because I have to. I could never write another song, do another show and retire today, but it’s not about the money. It never has been. It’s about salvation. Music is the place I find some peace.
Still, I’m ready to take a break, write, get back in the studio. We’ll still be doing a smattering of shows here and there, but on a smaller scale—charity gigs, awards shows, that sort of thing.
I hit the chorus of the song, my eyes scanning the first few rows of the crowd. I recognize a pair of blue eyes staring back at me. Has she been there the whole time? She’s not singing along. Her hands aren’t waving in the air. Her body doesn’t sway to the beat.
Kailey.
No last name.
Only Kailey.
Only one night.
The only girl I ever wanted another night with. The one that got away. The one I let get away. We hooked up in New Orleans, nowhere close to L.A., but I do remember her saying she was from California. I know stalking is illegal, but for her I might allow it.
Smiling through my lyrics, I wink at her. The girl next to her starts screaming, but Kailey’s eyes cast downward. Not missing a beat of my song, I follow her gaze.
To the little bump in her belly.
Shit! My heart thunders against my chest, and I’m not sure whether I’m dying or coming back alive. The noise of the crowd fades away. I know my band is still playing, but I can’t remember the song. Slowly, her hand runs over her stomach.
My eyes dart back up to hers. A guitarist moves up beside me, and I realize I’ve missed two verses. “Sing with me,” I yell, holding the microphone out to the crowd, letting them finish out the song while I say a prayer to God that she’s just gained weight.
The song ends, and I motion to the band that I need a minute. Every musician has a set of signs they use just in case they have an emergency on stage, and if this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is.
Walking off stage, I try to calm my mind, but it’s impossible. Is this why she’s here? She wouldn’t show up at my show to tell me she’s . . . I left her no choice, not leaving her my phone number or any way to contact me. I left her alone in an empty hotel room.
I find one of the road crew and ask him to get Kailey, giving him her seat location and a brief description, and instructing him to put her in my dressing room backstage. No one questions me. Let’s just say this isn’t the first time I’ve had them bring me a woman from the crowd for a little meet and greet.
I return to my place center stage, my eyes in her direction. Any performance jitters are usually gone after the first few chords, but what I’m feeling right now makes that seem like child’s play. My palms are so sweaty, I can barely hold the guitar, but my heart is racing like a thoroughbred horse in the Kentucky Derby. The band kicks off the next song and somehow, I manage to sing, my eyes glued on hers, as I see someone from my crew whisper in her ear. She nods, glancing at me, then she’s escorted away.
I’m two songs away from the end of the show. Well, two songs away from the fake ending, before I come back out for my predetermined encore, which isn’t going to happen tonight. Two songs until my life changes. Two songs until I hear the words from her lips. Two songs—that’s all I’ve got.
I can’t even think the words. It can’t be. Maybe I’m wrong. It was one night, for fuck’s sake. Multiple times, but still? I should sue the damn condom company!