Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 72828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
My eyes turn to his. I feel perilously close to tears, and that just pisses me off more, but the intense look of anger and protectiveness on my dad’s face makes me feel a little better. “Am I too old to let my dad fight my battles?”
“You’re my minor son, and if you think that I’ll let what she pulled slide by, you’re mistaken. This isn’t your fault, Keaton. You found a girl that you liked, you trusted her, and she betrayed you. It’s not unheard of when you’re a teenager.”
“Yeah, except she’s famous, you’re famous, and that means your name is all over the goddamn gossip media, which is exactly what you’re always trying to avoid. It’s just one more thing for people to talk about, all because I was stupid enough to fall for her shit.”
“Why don’t you sit down, and we’ll talk about this.”
“No.” My mind made up, I shake my head and peel my sweat-soaked shirt over my head and ball it up in my hands. “I don’t want to talk about it. Ever. It’s done. There will be no more dating celebrities. You’ve had it right all along. I want nothing to do with that life. I’ll just fade into the woodwork, and everyone can just forget about me.”
“Keaton.”
But I don’t turn around as I march to the door, yank it open, and head back upstairs.
This is a closed subject. And I won’t make this same mistake ever fucking again.
Chapter 1
Sidney
I’ve had a sick feeling in my stomach for a month.
Maybe longer.
Sure, I’ve been on tour all over the United States and Canada for the past year, and I’ve had a blast singing my ass off for thousands of people, but my sixth sense has been screaming at me that something isn’t right.
And that bitch is rarely wrong.
I know the numbers for this tour are down from the last one. Record sales are also down, and I wasn’t nominated for any awards for the new album this year.
Like I told my agent, I just need to write a better album next year. I’ve already got some ideas for that, and I’ve been setting up sessions with some friends to collaborate on songwriting now that I’m back in Nashville.
So, things might not be as great as they’ve been in the past, in regard to my career, but I’ll get it back on track.
I know I will. I just need some rest.
Last night in LA was the last night of the tour, and after a couple of hours doing meet and greets and celebrating with my band and crew, I flew through the night to get back to Nashville. I’m so damn exhausted I feel like I could sleep for a month. Maybe longer. I need a massage and a full day of pampering.
I need a damn day off.
“Thanks, Mike,” I say with a smile as my driver turns into my driveway on the outskirts of Nashville. He’s been on tour with me since the very first one, ten years ago, driving me around all the strange cities as if they’re his hometowns, and I like having him on my team. He’s almost like a bonus dad to me, and I trust him implicitly. I know that no matter what I say in this car, nothing will ever be repeated.
Trust is the most important thing in the world to me.
“You did a damn good job, Sid,” he says, watching me in the rearview mirror as he drives the black car down my driveway and comes to a stop just steps from the front door. I can’t help but notice the shiny red Jaguar parked nearby. “Now, get some rest before you dive head-first back into work.”
“Yes, sir. Go enjoy some time with your family and thank them for letting me borrow you for a while.” I wink at him and push out of the car. My bags and belongings have all been delivered to the house already this morning, and I’m pretty sure my housekeeper, Wendy, has everything put away by now.
Wendy doesn’t live with me, but she stops by a few times a week to make sure I have groceries and to tidy up the house. I trust her completely, as well, and I count my blessings for her every day. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out as I push inside and set my Fendi handbag on the foyer table, then kick off my shoes and pad across the tile floor further into the house. “Wendy? Is Annie here? I think that’s her car parked out front. She told me she got a new one last week—Oh.”
I stop when I see Annie sitting on my couch, casually drinking coffee, as if she does it every day.
She doesn’t. This is only the third time she’s been at my house since we’ve been working together. The first time was to tell me in person that I’d signed my first record deal.