“I don’t know, babe. He’s your husband.”
“So, what do I do now?” I don’t know if I’m asking myself, Tana, or the universe in general. Luckily for me, Tana has an answer.
“Get your ass back to Nashville. Come to my place and lay low.”
My phone beeps with another incoming call. I pull it away from my face, once again expecting to see Creighton’s name on the screen. But it’s not. It’s Chance.
“Shit. Chance is calling me too. I better take it.”
“He’s gonna tell you the same thing that I am. Get your ass back to town, and your people will circle the wagons.”
“Thank you for the heads-up. Now to do damage control on my life.”
“You got this, babe. Love you.”
I hit the button to flip over to Chance’s call.
“You heard the news that you’re news?” he says without preamble.
“Yep. Just now.”
“Good. Get yourself back to town. You’re gonna lay low and finish your songs. Boone says he’ll put you up so you’re out of the public eye. I’ll send you Garcia to get the songs finalized, and then you and the band can practice at Boone’s. We’re going to cut that album as fast as we fucking can.”
It’s so much information to take in, I’m reeling. “Slow down, Chance. This is all—”
“No time to slow down, kid. As of this morning, you’re the girl everyone’s talking about. We need to ride the wave before it goes south.”
I should appreciate his opportunistic business sense, but I need a second to breathe. “It’s my goddamn life, Chance. Not a fucking wave.”
“I know, doll. But all you can do is hold on and enjoy the ride. Call me when you get to Boone’s.”
I pause in my pacing, the phone still to my ear, and I listen to nothing but dead air for ten seconds before I snap out of it enough to hang up.
Seriously? That’s it? He didn’t even stop and ask me if I wanted to stay at Boone’s. I planned to crash behind Tana’s gates. I grit my teeth, knowing I’m about to ride into the shitstorm of the century.
My stomach twists and turns with guilt. Mama better be long gone, because if I track her down, there’s no telling what I’ll say or do. And Creighton . . . I don’t even know what to think. The guilt that I’m the reason his past is smeared across the tabloids fights with the hurt that he didn’t tell me he bought the label and is facing serious legal issues because of it.
This is supposed to be as real as it gets, and yet he said nothing. Why? And why hasn’t he called me today? I stare down at my phone and quickly search for his contact. I tap his cell number, trying to figure out what I’m going to say.
But no need—the call goes straight to voice mail.
I call again.
And again.
And again.
Nothing.
Finally, I call his office. Instead of the receptionist I got the last time, I get a prerecorded message thanking me for my call before offering me the number of the PR department at Karas International. I blink as I lower my phone to the counter.
Seriously, Creighton? What is this?
The only thing I can fathom is that they’ve been overrun with calls about today’s news. For a moment I think about calling the PR department and asking them to have the boss call his wife. But I decide that’s not the best course of action.
My imagination is jumping all over the place. Is he locked inside some kind of super-top-secret meeting that he can’t get away from? Was the Homegrown deal the reason he stood me up when I needed to be back in Nashville? So many secrets, and I’m not privy to a single goddamn one of them.
So much for this being as real as it gets. Because real is telling your spouse that you’ve bought their record label. Real is telling your spouse that the shit is about to hit the fan because you bought their record label.
And from my side of the fence, real is apologizing that I opened my goddamn mouth to my mama and gave her anything to tell the press.
I want to rage at him and apologize all at the same time.
Why is love so damned complicated?
When he still hasn’t called by the time I’m shoving my bags in the Cadillac, rage is winning out. Where the hell is my husband?
The bowling bag is the last thing I put in the backseat. I thought about leaving it, but said screw it. I have a feeling that screw it is going to be my mantra of the day.
Your mama sells you out to a tabloid? Screw it.
Your husband buys your record label and doesn’t mention it? Screw it.
Your husband gets sued after buying said record label and doesn’t mention that either? Screw it.
I slam the car into gear and tear out of the drive. I’ve got one stop to make before I leave town, so I crank the wheel in the direction of Logan’s service station.
I’m pretty sure the tires on the Caddy are smoking when I squeal to a halt. Screw it.
I fling the door open and hip check it shut. Screw it.