Jace (Kings of Country 1)

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 woul

d 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…