Give me everything. I’m on my way. My dreams whispered promises that won’t fade away. I want to burn and I want to fly. I don’t have it in me not to live and to try.
The song is good enough, I know it is. This one will be my very first single.
I wonder what it’ll feel like … to burn and to fly. All those nights as I lay awake in the bunkroom of my boarding school, I thought about the long list of things I want to experience, to make my words ring true and not just like wistful dreams. To give my songs layers and heart and heat. I write about being on the road, falling in love, feeling the touch of a man—as my sisters have described to me in detail.
It’s the best feeling I’ve ever had.
I want to know that feeling.
Lust and love and … everything that comes with it. The feel. The taste.
It’s hard to write about things you’ve never even done.
Heartbreak, even. Loneliness and beauty and road dust on your skin. The rush of singing on stage to a crowd of a thousand people.
All of it.
That’s why I’m going to say yes to everything that comes along. Every opportunity. Every dream and every desire.
I sing the last note. As soon as I do, I feel the prickly heated sensation of someone’s gaze.
I turn and my heart nearly jumps out of my chest.
I stand up in mute shock, almost knocking over the piano bench.
Someone’s here.
A man.
He’s been watching me.
His hair is mink-brown but glints with a sun-bleached top layer. He’s big. Strong-looking. Tall and broad. He’s not wearing a shirt. All he’s wearing is a pair of worn jeans that hang loose on his lean hips. It vaguely registers behind my panic that he’s muscular. Very. Like, cut, as Rose would say. I’ve never seen anyone so outrageously … masculine in my life. His skin is sun-bronzed. There are a few tattoos inked to his shoulders and arms. There’s a dusting of hair on his chest, which for some reason shocks me. I’m not used to men. He might be in his early twenties or even twenty-five. And even through my alarm I’m aware that he’s insanely handsome. In an over-the-top kind of way and with a reckless edge, like even though he’s gorgeous he could be … dangerous.
We’re both stunned in place. He looks as shocked as I feel. There’s more to it than that, though. Something darker. Hungry, that’s how he looks. His eyes drop from my face to my body, lingering on my breasts. To my stomach. Lower. Then back to my face.
God.
I haven’t been this close to a man—especially a half-naked one, and especially not while wearing what I’m wearing right now—ever.
I’m trespassing. I have no clothes on. And I have no idea what he might do.
It’s obvious by his size and his strength that he could do … anything he wanted.
The thought scares me.
I step through the open window.
And I run.
I run my hand through my hair and take a swig from my flask. The temperature on the dashboard screen of my Shelby reads 98˚.
The countryside is ridiculously picturesque. And I’m alone.
It feels so damn good.
The trickle of new ideas swirls somewhere behind my brain. Already.
I don’t usually have trouble writing. Or at least I didn’t. Until lately. Hell, I was starting to worry that the well of my inspiration had run dry. The music used to come so easily, until I couldn’t help but pick up a guitar and start strumming along to it. The urge to write it down and let it out would wake me up in the middle of the night. Every night. But lately … there’s been nothing. No tunes humming behind my thoughts or notes hanging in the air. None of the lyrics that flit across my mind seem to come together in a way that works. So I’ve been grappling with the realization that maybe there are only so many songs a person can write before things just fizzle out.
But now, as I cruise along the country road with George Strait cranked up, I can feel the threads of inspiration starting to uncoil.
It’s a relief.
And it’s exactly what I was hoping for. All I needed was some distance. From the demands of our grueling schedule, the long days and sleepless nights, the band, roadies, photographers, journalists and the chattering endless legions of culture-vultures who all want a slice of yours truly.
I’m even burned out on the fans, if you can believe that. The women pounding on my doors and camping outside my houses. Begging me and my brothers to let them into our lives and our beds. So many of them. At first we didn’t mind being “God’s gift to women, times three”—Rolling Stone’s description, not ours. Of course we didn’t mind. Most people only dream of the kind of fame and stardom and crazy wealth we’ve achieved in a few short years. But for all the recognition and devotion, there’s something so … easy—too easy—about the romantic side of this superstar life. Not that I’m complaining. But they’re all so damn willing. So easy to please. So ready to give up everything about themselves, in every possible way, in a desperate attempt to get close to you. They’ll tell you anything you want to hear. Truth, lies, it doesn’t matter. They’ll whitewash their lives and their souls for you, if you’ll just say yes to them. They only have one thing to give. Turns out it’s not enough.
After a while, the one-sided desperation takes the shine off. You start looking for a challenge. Some fire and fury to match your own.
Anyway, I’ll show up to our last two shows and sing my heart out. Other than that, over the next few weeks all I want to do is to fully immerse myself in solitude and some undistracted writing time. To be alone with my thoughts. To let the music spool its way out of my fingertips and onto the page, with no interruptions.
My phone rings through the Bluetooth. Roxie flashes up on the dashboard screen.
“Hey, Rox.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way to my new house.”
She pauses at the news. “What new house?”
“The one I bought last night. Out in the country.”
“Travis. Why? We’re still on tour.”
“With two home shows left. I’m only forty minutes out of town. I need some peace, Rox.”
“You’ll get peace when the tour’s over, Travis. I need you in Nashville at nine a.m. tomorrow morning. You have that interview with Alana Powell and Fergus Rollins. All three of you have to be there. On time.”
Shit. I completely forgot about that. Alana Powell and Fergus Rollins have a popular show on some entertainment network where they interview celebrities. Roxie’s been trying to put the interview together for months.
“Please don’t tell me you forgot about it.”
I don’t bother confirming it.
Roxie sighs. “It’s going to be impossible enough to get Vaughn there on time. I’m going to have to drive him there myself.” I feel for my little sister, trying to manage the three of us. Some days it isn’t easy. The stress and manic demands of three months on tour have taken their toll. I sometimes forget she’s only 22. My sister is a firecracker but she has her own demons to deal with, some of which overlap with mine, Vaughn’s and Kade’s, but not all of them. You don’t grow up with parents like ours and walk away unscathed. Not that they were bad parents, just … complicated ones. Like so many are.