Country Music Cowboy

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2021 by Sasha Summers

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Stephanie Gafron/Sourcebooks

  Cover image © Magdalena Russocka/Trevillion Images

  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

  Excerpt from Jace

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Dedicated to Deb Werksman.

  Thank you for giving the Kings a home and introducing them to readers. It’s been a joy working with you!

  Chapter 1

  “If Wheelhouse Records thinks one practice session is going to change the way I feel about Travis King, they have another think coming.” Loretta Gram adjusted the wireless earpiece—well enough to clearly hear her manager’s heavy sigh.

  “Loretta, please remember you’re a professional,” Margot Reed said, near pleading. “This is important.”

  Tell me something I don’t know. Today was important. Very important. Margot had made sure to drive that point home.

  “When have I ever been anything less?” Loretta pushed through the front doors of the recording studio, the sting of Margot’s words sharp. “I get it, okay?” Her career was on the line. “I won’t let you down.” I won’t let myself down. “I’ll give one hundred percent. Charm them. And go.” Before I say or do something I’ll regret.

  “I know, Lori, I know you will.” Another sigh. “This year has been…a nightmare.”

  Nightmare? Hell was more like it. The year had started with Margot’s breast cancer diagnosis, then Johnny, then her father’s ongoing pleas for money, and now Wheelhouse Records expressing concerns over Loretta trying to go solo when the label “really needed more duos and groups.”

  “Look at today as your chance to turn things around,” Margot went on. “I know you’re not exactly a fan of Travis King—”

  Loretta couldn’t hold back a snort.

  “But this isn’t about him. This is about you. I’m not giving up, you hear me? You can go solo. I believe it. Now you need to start believing it, too, all right?” Margot had a knack for getting herself all fired up by her own pep talk.

  Loretta smiled. “All right.” A solo career had never been part of the plan. But without Johnny… Well, she was on her own now.

  “Rehearse, perform, and you’re done. That easy,” Margot reminded her. “Then we’ll go back to Wheelhouse to see what they’re thinking. If we need to look for a new record label then that’s what we will do. I don’t care how important Wheelhouse Records thinks they are, they’re not the only recording label in the world.”

  But they both knew Wheelhouse Records was one of the best record labels in the country music industry. Loretta ignored the bitter taste in her mouth, smoothed a hand over her hair, and scanned the lobby of the Kings’ lavish recording studio. All golden and shiny and privilege. Just like the man I’m singing with.

  “If I could be there, I would.” There was no missing the snap to Margot’s words.

  “I know. But you are where you need to be. Concentrate on resting, on your chemo, and taking care of yourself.” Loretta didn’t need to tell the woman she was pretty much the only person she had left in the whole world. I need you.

  “I’m fine. Who needs boobs anyway?” Margot chuckled. “I’m keeping my phone nearby. I expect a full report when you’re done.”

  “Will do.” Loretta forced as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

  “That’s my Lori.” Margot chuckled again. “Head up, girlie.”

  “You know it. You keep kicking cancer’s ass.” After their goodbyes, Loretta was left to her thoughts. And her frustration. Everything about this rubbed her the wrong way. From Wheelhouse Records CEO Ethan Powell’s sympathy phone call that turned into a “the future of your career” call to the fact that her opinions and objections about this duo with Travis King didn’t matter. All Ethan Powell had said was, “Travis King is a changed man, Loretta. I have every confidence that this performance will be unforgettable.”

  Unforgettable as in Travis King would humiliate himself, and her, and the whole thing would be a catastrophe? Or, less likely, they’d manage to pull off some sort of miracle performance that wasn’t a total embarrassment. A changed man, my ass.

  Mr. Powell was wrong. Plain and simple. She didn’t need to spend five minutes with the Comeback King to know a leopard didn’t change its spots. Travis King lived a gilded and entitled life, had more good looks that common sense, and fans who’d defended him even after that damning video had taken over every social media outlet on the planet. If he could still be loved after that, why change? He wouldn’t. People like him didn’t have to. The fact that she was standing here, eyeing the Kings’ wall of success with Wheelhouse Records in preparation for this disaster-in-the-making performance, proved that.

  Margot had an infinite wealth of wisdom she’d dispense at appropriate intervals—something Loretta could sorely use at the moment. Likely Margot would use one of her go-to sayings like, “Never let a bad situation bring out the worst in you.” Or, another favorite, “Learn to pick your battles.”

  Bottom line, Travis King wasn’t worth the fight.

  “Loretta? Glad you could make time to meet with us.” Hank King was headed her way, all smiles.

  Hank King. “Of course.” Her throat had gone bone-dry. Because…well…this was the Hank King. She didn’t want to get starstruck but… Hank King. Growing up, his albums had become the soundtrack of her life. There wasn’t a Hank King song she couldn’t play or a lyric she didn’t know by heart. “Thank you for this opp
ortunity.”

  Hank cleared his throat. “I’m pretty sure we should be thanking you,” he said, stepping aside…for his son.

  The Comeback King himself.

  Travis King, in person, was ridiculously good-looking. It was fact. Everyone knew it. Including Travis King.

  Be nice. Be charming. Smile. For Margot. Show them what you’re made of. Show him what it means to be a serious musician.

  “Loretta. It’s good to see you,” Travis said. “I am sincerely sorry about Johnny.”

  The familiar lump, cold and hard and jagged, wedged itself in her throat. “Thank you.” Two months of anger and frustration, sadness and grief so crushing that getting out of bed on some days was a challenge. But hiding under the covers, eaten up with useless emotion, carrying on and crying buckets of tears wasn’t her way. It’s not like it helped. It damn sure didn’t change a thing.

  “We were at the Oasis together.” Several of Travis’s trademark tousled dirty-blond curls fell forward onto his forehead as he spoke. “Last year.”

  The Oasis. Johnny’s home away from home. The Malibu California addiction treatment center catered to the very rich and famous. It had worked, sort of. Johnny always came home clear-minded and determined to stay clean and healthy…but it never lasted for long. This last time, he’d barely made it two months.

  “He was a good guy,” Travis added.

  “He was,” she agreed. Good and beautiful and gentle and too broken for this world.

  “You need anything?” Hank asked.

  “No, I’m ready to get started.” The sooner this rehearsal was under way, the sooner it was over.

  “Come on, then.” Hank waved her forward, then turned to head back the direction he and Travis had come from.

  She followed, glancing at the man walking alongside her.

  The Golden King. The Casanova of Country Music. The Heartbreak King. King of Smiles. King Charming. Over the years, that tabloids had given him an impressively long laundry list of nicknames. To be fair, she had never seen a bad picture of him. Even in the video, he’d looked pretty perfect. And yes, up close, he did have a blindingly perfect—almost Photoshopped—appearance. The hair. The blue-green eyes. The body. But his beauty was skin deep.

  “Here you go.” Hank opened the door for them. “I was hoping we could have this out at our place today.” He broke off, coughing. “Excuse me. My wife built a studio out there, we’re calling it the Music Barn, and it’s something.” Hank shook his head. “Saves time, back and forth from home and Austin.”

  “Another studio?” She scrambled to recover. “This isn’t… I mean, this isn’t yours?”

  “As of next week, Wheelhouse Records is the owner.” Travis stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans, looking more than a little uncomfortable.

  What was that about?

  “Made a lot of good memories in here. And some damn good music too.” Hank inspected the room. “But times change and you gotta learn to change with it.” With a smile, he added, “Y’all get set up and we’ll run a sound check. They sent the music?”

  She nodded. The music had popped into her inbox seconds after her frustrating phone call with Ethan Powell. “It looks good.”

  “It does.” Hank cleared his throat again. “I’ll give you a minute to get settled?”

  “Thank you.” Loretta turned, slowly, to take in the Kings’ private recording studio.

  That was when she saw Travis King pull a prescription pill bottle from his jeans pocket. He opened it, shook a pill into his hand, popped it into his mouth, and closed the bottle. Seconds later, it was back in his pocket and he was taking a drink.

  A drink—from a whiskey glass. A now empty whiskey glass.

  It was so surreal she wondered if she was seeing things. Surely that’s what it was. Surely Travis King hadn’t just taken a pill with a whiskey chaser? That hadn’t really happened. When had he started using pills? She glanced around, looking for other witnesses—hoping for confirmation that she was seeing things.

  Only she wasn’t. And, honestly, she was surprised. She’d known Travis wouldn’t stay sober for long… But that didn’t stop her anger, hot and fast, from damn near choking her.

  Ever since the news had broken that the duet for the International Music Awards “In Memoria” performance would be Travis King’s big return to the stage, the anticipation and buildup was everywhere. Unavoidable. Inescapable. All the hype and media were about him, his recovery—his comeback. The Comeback King.

  It was a lie. All of it. The proof was literally staring her in the face.

  Sonofabitch.

  How was she supposed to do this? This year’s “In Memoria” would include Johnny. Her best friend. Her singing partner of eight years. Whether or not they shared DNA or blood, he’d been her brother. He was gone.

  Professional. Cool, calm, and collected. One song.

  “Ready?” Hank King’s voice echoed in the live room, waving through the glass that separated the live room with the control room.

  No.

  “Side preference?” Travis asked, smiling, those blue-green eyes giving her a quick head-to-toe inventory of her, setting her blood to boil.

  “What?” she snapped.

  His smile dimmed, a crease forming between his brows as he asked, “Which stool?” He pointed at the stools arranged, mics at the ready, surrounded by the floating walls used for optimal acoustics. “Lady’s choice.”

  Choice? That was a joke. Her choice was to walk out. Or take all the anger she’d been boxing up inside and let him have it. Yelling. A few select curse words. Lots of finger pointing—a few solid jabs square in the middle of the well-sculpted chest his skin-tight grey T-shirt clung to. She’d put him in his place and wipe that smile from his too handsome face and, maybe—hopefully, finally—feel some relief.

  “You okay?” His voice was low and concerned. Or was that sympathy?

  No. Not really. But she wasn’t about to let him know he’d gotten under her skin. He already thought the world revolved around him—she wasn’t going to feed his ego. “Fine.” She would be fine. All she had to do was get through the awards show. “Left,” she said, crossing the hardwood floor. She picked up the waiting headset, took her seat, and waited for him to take his spot.

  The sooner this is done, the faster she could leave.

  Travis took his seat opposite and put his headset on. Eyes glued to the music, he flipped through the pages, took a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his hair. Another deep breath and he pressed his hands against the tops of his thighs, agitated.

  The pills were kicking in.

  “Ready?” Hank’s voice echoed in her ears.

  At their nod, the rising swell of music demanded one hundred percent of her attention.

  It was split, the verses split—two lines for Loretta, two lines for Travis. The chorus, they sang together.

  Day breaks, the sun rising in the sky.

  At work, my life is one big damn lie.

  Loretta resisted the urge to look at her singing partner. She knew how magical collaborating could be… But this wasn’t Johnny. The sharp twist of her heart reminded her of that.

  Hours pass, and there’s still no end in sight.

  Promised you, not to give up on the fight.

  Travis King might be an alcohol-addicted pretty boy set firmly on the road to self-destruction, but he could sing.

  But all your words are now the song left in my head.

  And all your smiles are brightest when I’m in our bed.

  Loretta closed her eyes, hoping to blot out a memory of Johnny’s smile.

  I get up and go out and live each day.

  Couldn’t know losing you would hurt this way.

  The rasp in Travis’s voice rolled over the words, the last three gruff and thick and lad
en with emotion so pure no one could manufacture it.

  Somehow, they were singing together now. Somehow, she’d made the mistake of looking his way. And now, the words became a melody—all while his blue-green eyes held her gaze.

  So, I’ll hold you closer.

  Keep you warm in my heart.

  Your name is a whisper.

  Until we’re not apart.

  She tore her gaze from his before the next verse picked up. Maybe this wouldn’t be a train wreck of a performance after all. As long as he sang from the heart, as long as she kept her cool, they might just be able to pull it off. And then? She’d move on and Travis King and each and every one of his bad mistakes would go back to being tomorrow’s scandalous headline for the entertainment tabloids.

  ***

  Travis had taken one look at Loretta Gram and known this was a mistake. The tension had been so much he’d resorted to taking one of his anxiety pills. Not that it helped. Since the studio was mostly packed up and ready for the move to the home studio, cup options were limited. After a quick search, he’d found only the whiskey glasses his father and Ethan Powell had used to toast the sale of the recording studio. Not exactly appropriate but he had no other options. Still, the ice rattling around in the cut crystal tumbler had him reaching for the guitar pick he kept in his pocket. It was a focal point. Something tangible meant to help him pause and process. When things pressed in on him, stringing him so tight he might break, rubbing the smooth surface between his thumb and forefingers helped him focus. It was also a tangible reminder that life was about the choices he made.

  Like now. He didn’t want any of it.

  It had been a year since he’d been on a stage. A year. A lifetime. Now Three Kings had a tour coming up, a tour that was supposed to be his return to the stage. That was something he’d done hundreds of times, safe and sound, with his sisters front and center while he played and sang from the periphery of their spotlights. But even after years of touring under his belt, he worried about screwing something up.

  Singing? A duet? Bearing the weight of a spotlight?

  If his daddy hadn’t asked him to step in, he’d have offered up an alternative—any alternative. But his father had asked, something he never did. It had been his choice, but there was no way Travis could say no.