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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Sasha Summers

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks

  Cover art © Rob Lang Photography

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Excerpt from Brock

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Dedicated to those who face their fears and seek justice.

  Your voices heal our wounds.

  Your strength gives us hope.

  You are not a victim. You are a survivor.

  Chapter 1

  “Are you kidding me?” They could not be serious. Krystal glared at her daddy, country music legend Hank King, in pure disbelief. “Why would this be great news? For me, anyway.” Blood roared in her ears and a throb took up residence at the base of her neck. She slipped the leather strap of her favorite Taylor spruce acoustic guitar from around her neck and placed the instrument tenderly on its stand. “It’s great news for what’s his name—”

  “Jace Black,” her manager, Steve Zamora, said.

  “Whatever,” she snapped, shooting a lethal gaze at the balding little man. “I’m sure he’s ecstatic. He gets to sing my song, my best song. With the one and only Emmy Lou King.” She downed a water bottle, parched from singing for almost two hours straight.

  “Come on now, Krystal. They’re singing one of your songs,” her father soothed. But she wasn’t ready to forgive him. Or see any good in this. And when he added “You know Emmy will do it up right. She always does,” it stung.

  Unlike me. Her spine stiffened and her fists tightened. She and her twin, Emmy, were different as night and day. A point her momma was all too happy to point out at every opportunity.

  “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, now. You know I didn’t mean anything by that.” Her daddy tipped his favorite tan cowboy hat back on his forehead, crossed his arms over his chest, and frowned.

  Poor Daddy. He said the women in his life were the reason he was getting so grey. It wasn’t intentional. She didn’t like disappointing him—he was her hero. But, dammit, he couldn’t pull the rug out from under her and expect her to smile and thank him. She wasn’t a saint. She wasn’t Emmy.

  Steve tried again. “This is a win all around, Krystal.”

  “No, it’s not. Not for me,” she argued. Blowing up wasn’t going to change their minds, but maybe reminding her daddy how special this song was. “Daddy, you know this song means something to me, that it’s…important. I’m connected to it, deep down in my bones. I can sing it and do it justice.” She hated that her voice wavered, that sentiment seeped in. This was business. And while the business loved raw emotion and drama in its music and lyrics, they weren’t fans of it from their performers.

  “Now, darlin’, you know how it works. It’s all about timing.” Steve used his soft voice, the please-don’t-let-her-start-screaming-and-throwing-things voice. Like lemon juice in a paper cut.

  “Timing?” she asked. The only thing Steve Zamora cared about was kissing her legendary father’s ass and managing Emmy Lou’s career. “It’s been my sister’s time for ten years now.”

  Not that she begrudged her sister an iota of her fame. It wasn’t Emmy Lou’s fault that she was the favorite. She had that thing, a megastar quality—that universally appealing sweetness that the world adored. Krystal had a real hard time with sweetness.

  Why the media, fans, even the record company labeled Krystal the rebel, a black sheep, the wild child of the King family was a mystery. Marketing, maybe? The good twin, bad twin thing? Whatever. She had her days. And her very public breakup with Mickey Graham hadn’t helped. To hear him tell it, she was a selfish prima donna who’d broken his heart. It’d hurt like hell that everyone was so willing to believe the worst of her. But her pride had stopped her from telling the truth—the real truth, not Mickey’s version of it. His tall tales cemented her bad-girl image, so she’d embraced some of the freedom it gave her.

  “I get you’re disappointed, Krystal, but there will be other songs.” Daddy’s hand cupped her cheek, his smile genuine and sympathetic.

  He did not just say that. His easy dismissal cut deep. Yes, there would be other songs, but this one mattered. People might chalk it up to her breakup with Mickey. She knew better. The song had come from a wound that wouldn’t heal. A wound that haunted her dreams and reminded her to guard her heart, to never let anyone in. Every scribbled note, tweaked word, chord change, or key finagle had led her to both love and hate the finished product. But it made her proud.

  Her daddy had said he was proud, too. Just not enough. While she’d never asked her father to plead her case at their label, Wheelhouse Records, she realized, deep down, she’d hoped he would—for this song—without her having to ask. But if he had championed her, she’d be cutting the single, not Emmy and some new music reality TV star.

  “You good?” her father asked.

  No. She glared.

  He sighed. “Breathe, baby girl. Don’t want you spitting fire at folk for the rest of the night.”

  She didn’t need to be reminded of the Three Kings fans lined up outside. This had been her life for the past ten years. It was more than singing side by side with her twin sister and older brother, playing her guitar until her fingertips hurt, or waking up humming a new melody, new lyrics already taking shape. It was making people feel. The only thing that mattered was the fans. Was she upset? Yes. Hurt? Most definitely. But when she left her dressing room, a dazzling smile would be on her face—for them. After the meet and greet would be another story.

  Her father let out a long, pained sigh. “Might as well go ahead and send him in.”

  Send who in? Her dressing room was entirely too crowded already. Not that protesting would make a bit of difference. She flopped into the chair before her illuminated makeup mirror, all but choking on frustration, and rubbed lotion into her fingers and hands. Hands that were shaking.

  Steve leaned out her dressing room door, calling, “Come on in, Jace. She’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  Jace. She froze. As in Jace-the-song-stealer Black? She was not looking forward to meeting him. Some wannabe singer from a no-count TV talent show. American Voice? Or Next Top Musician? Or something else gimmicky and stupid?

  In the mirror, she shot daggers her father’s way. He was pushing it—pushing her. She applied a stroke of bloodred color to her mouth, jammed the lipstick lid back on, and pressed her hands against her thighs before risking a glance in the mirror at the man who’d stolen her dreams.

  He was big. Big big. He had to stoop to get through the door of her dressing room.

  “Mr. King, sir.” Jace’s voice was deep and smooth and impossible to ignore. But that didn’t mean he could sing. “It’s a real honor.” He extended a hand to her father. Polite. That was something.

  “Good to meet you, son,” her father answered, shaking his hand and clapping Jace on the shoulder.

  Tall and broad-shouldered. A weathered black leather jacket hugged the breadth of his shoulders and upper arms. As he pivoted on the heel of his boot, her gaze wandered south, revealing a perfect ass gloved in faded denim. She blew out a long, slow breath. Very nice packaging. But a great body didn’t mean diddly when you were performing live, in front of an audience of thousands.


  He glanced her way then. It was a glance, nothing really, but it was enough.

  Oh hell.

  Of course he was drop-dead gorgeous. Thick black hair, strong jaw, and a wicked, tempting grin on very nice lips. Dammit. He shook hands with her weasel manager, Steve, before giving her his full attention. A jolt of pure appreciation raced down her spine to the tips of her crystal-encrusted boots. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. She fiddled with her heavy silver Tiffany charm bracelet and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, too agitated to sit still.

  Talented or not, it wouldn’t matter. Not when he looked like that. Which was exactly why he was here. That face. That body. Jace Black and Emmy Lou King? His dark, dangerous good looks and her sister’s golden sweetness? They’d make quite a pair onstage, singing her song…

  Her song.

  Her temper flared, quick and hot. She didn’t give a damn what he looked like. Or if he had manners. He hadn’t earned the right to her words, not by a long shot. And since he was a big boy, she’d take it upon herself to show him how tough this industry could be. Starting right here, right now.

  His gaze locked with her reflection. “I can’t tell you how…amazing it is to meet you, Miss King.” That velvet voice was far too yummy. “I know every word to every song you’ve written.” He needed to stop looking at her so she could stay pissed off and feisty.

  But he didn’t. And the longer he looked, the harder it was to overlook the way he was looking at her. Admiring her as a singer and songwriter was one thing. But right now, something told her he was appreciating more than her music.

  Too bad she couldn’t like him. At all.

  She ignored her daddy’s warning look and stood, turning to face Jace. Her momma raised her daughters with a deep understanding of female charm and the power it could wield. With a dazzling smile, she shook the hand he offered, fully intending to use her powers for evil. But the brush of his calloused fingers against her palm threw off her concentration. It had been a long time since she’d been even slightly attracted to a man. But this time, there was nothing slight about what she was feeling. No, no, no. Stay mad. “Oh, I doubt that, Chase.”

  “Jace,” he said, grinning.

  Oh hell, this is bad. That smile. She knew his name, but still… “Right.” She bit into her lower lip, drawing his attention to her mouth.

  His nostrils flared just enough to make her insides soften. Not the reaction she was hoping for. He cleared his throat and tore his eyes away, that square jaw of his clenched. Tight. That was a weakness of hers—a man’s jaw muscle. Only two things made a man’s jaw tick like that: anger or desire. And, right now, she was pretty sure Jace Black didn’t have a thing in the world to be angry about. But she did. Big-time. The slow, liquid burn taking up residence deep in her stomach was beyond inconvenient.

  Steve said something original like, “What did you think of the show?”

  “Incredible. Y’all are even better live, I think, if that’s possible,” Jace said. “I’m a little starstruck—guess you can tell.”

  Was he? She couldn’t tell—his hotness was getting in the way. No way she was going to let a pretty face and tingles lead her astray, not this time. “That’s always nice to hear.” If it was true.

  “I want to thank you,” Jace said to her father—of course. Only someone like Hank King could get a nobody reality star this sort of break. “I know how lucky I am to get this opportunity.” He had no idea. His luck was her loss. Not that he could know or understand how much his words stung. His gaze returned to her when he said, “Your music has always meant a lot to me—a lot of folk, I’m sure. But your new song—”

  “My song?” She couldn’t take it anymore. His reminder lodged a sharp spike in her throat. “From what I hear, it’s yours now.” She ignored her daddy’s disapproving frown and the panic on Steve’s face. Like her temper was totally unexpected? They should have thought about that before bringing him in here seconds after crushing her hopes and dreams. The sting of tears infuriated her further. None of them would ever see her cry, dammit. Ever.

  “It’s a good song.” From Jace’s expression, he knew something wasn’t right. But he kept right on talking. “It’s one of the best things you’ve written. When I read it—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I’m still in shock I get to sing it.”

  “That makes two of us,” she whispered. But at least he got it, about the song, anyway.

  He hesitated, then stepped closer. If she’d had room, she’d have stepped back. Because Jace Black up close was even better—worse—than Jace Black at a distance. Good skin. Even, white teeth. And a holy-hell amazing scent that had her toes curling in her blinged-out ostrich-skin boots.

  “I’m guessing I wasn’t your first pick?” His gaze never left her face, waiting for an explanation.

  She shrugged, wondering why she’d suddenly lost her ability to fire off something quick and biting.

  “And you’re not happy about it.” He swallowed, the muscles in his throat working.

  She heard him—she did. But the air between them was crackling something fierce and it was taking total concentration not to get lost in those light brown eyes. After spending the last two years avoiding men, she wasn’t sure what, exactly, was happening. Only that she needed to keep her guard up and as much space as possible between them. Pretty words and even prettier packaging might have made it easier for him to worm his way in with other people, but it wouldn’t work on her.

  What did he want? Beyond singing her song, of course. She studied him openly, exploring his face and searching his gaze for some nervous flutter or guilty flush. Mickey’s eyes tightened when he was hiding something. Just a little, mind you, but when she saw it now, she knew it was a red flag. And Uncle Tig… No. She swept thoughts of him aside.

  But Jace?

  The flash of pure, unfiltered male appreciation in those incredible eyes had her insides fluid and hot. If only they’d met under other circumstances…then it would be okay to get tangled up in bed somewhere—and have one hell of a time wearing each other out.

  She swallowed, the images all too tempting. Too bad she had to hate him. “Don’t you worry over me, Jason. I’m tough.”

  She wasn’t feeling very tough at the moment. The sooner today was over, the sooner she was done with Jace Black. Which was better for his career, anyway. Even though she was pissed he’d taken her song, it wasn’t in her to intentionally sink his career just to spite him. No, that was more her momma’s MO—and she was nothing, nothing, like her momma.

  Enough. She was tired and irritable and on the verge of coming undone. Her fans were waiting and they deserved the best her she could muster. She turned, glancing at her reflection and smoothing a wayward strand of long blond hair into place. Crystal chandelier earrings and a beyond-blinding crystal necklace—Momma was all about the bling—accented the plunging neckline of the concert’s final costume change. The ultrafine black suede fringed dress felt like silk and was cut to perfection, clinging in all the right places.

  From the tightness of Jace Black’s jaw, he noticed.

  Maybe she could muster up the energy to mess with him a little, for the hell of it. “Time to go meet the fans.” A dazzling smile just for him. Yep, that floored him. “You are planning on tagging along, aren’t you?”

  His gaze narrowed—confused. Maybe even a little nervous.

  “We weren’t staying—” a man in the corner said.

  “Well, that doesn’t make any sense.” She hooked her arm through Jace’s. A warm, very thickly muscled arm. Not that muscles mattered. “And who are you, anyway?”

  “My manager. Luke Samuels,” Jace said.

  A weasel—like Steve. He had hair and was dressed better, but there was no denying the similarities: too eager to please and dewy with anxious sweat. “Miss King, it’s an honor, a real honor—”

  “Sure. But since you’re here and all, might as well come meet some fans. Since our fans will be your fans soon enough.” She beamed up at Jace again, but this time around, he looked downright suspicious. So he was smart, too?

  “If you want—” Luke began.

  “I do,” she said, tugging Jace along. “Besides, you should meet Emmy, maybe get a few pics of the two of you.” She didn’t know why she was torturing herself. Seeing her sister and Jace together, paired up to sing her creation, wasn’t going to improve her mood. But there was no going back now.