“You thought wrong.” A sharp spike formed in her throat, so she sipped her latte.
“But this is your song.” She shook her head.
Krystal didn’t say a thing. It was her song.
Emmy chattered away. “Momma said it was the best thing you’d ever written it. She was so excited about it.”
“Momma says a lot of things. What she means is something different,” she interrupted. Her dear, precious mother. The incident with Mickey had only reinforced how much she disliked the woman who’d birthed her. It was wrong, she knew it, but CiCi King brought it on herself. What sort of person tormented her child for profit or attention? How would that help the band? She would do anything, anything, to keep the Three Kings front and center. Like bring the man that forever tarnished her reputation to a VIP mixer hoping to stir things up. And suggesting he replace their opening act. She wouldn’t put it past her momma to have planted the drugs in Josephine and Frankie’s bus. But that seemed far-fetched, even by CiCi King standards.
Then again, it wasn’t completely implausible.
This was the same woman who’d dismissed her accusations against Tiger Whitman all those years ago. Krystal, according to her mother, was “looking for attention” and lying to get it. Her mother was furious—with her—for making up such vile, dirty stories about a dear family friend. Tiger, Uncle Tig to those who knew him, was a fine, upstanding pillar of the country music business. He’d helped so many careers along the way, including her daddy’s. The man was practically family. He’d never ever hurt her—Momma refused to believe otherwise.
But Krystal knew the truth. She lived with it every day.
Panic gripped her, pulling her muscles tight and pressing the air from her lungs. And she hated it. Hated the slimy bastard. Hated the weakness. Hated being locked in her head—in fear—when she was safe and sound sitting by her sister.
“Oh, Krystal.” Emmy took her hand. “I can’t do it,” she whispered. “How could she?”
Because it’s what Momma does. Stir things up. Keep drama front and center. As long as she was in charge, she was happy. Somehow, she knew her mother had pitched it to the Wheelhouse Records VP, a man she had firmly in her pocket, as a vehicle for Emmy Lou. She wanted to believe her father hadn’t played a part in that. Her daddy was a businessman, but he loved his children and that always came first.
How Jace Black wound up part of the deal, she didn’t know.
The car came to a stop and they made their way inside the studio her family owned. Between her father and the Three Kings, it had made more sense to build one than rent one every time they needed one, which was often. Of course, her daddy had a pretty open-door policy, when he or the Three Kings weren’t working on something.
She nodded at the sound manager and sipped her latte, wishing the caffeine would take the edge off. But there wasn’t enough coffee in the world for that. Mickey, her mother, her song—the song she’d written hoping to put some of her demons to rest…
“Are we late?” Emmy whispered, nodding toward the recording booth.
Jace Black was already waiting. Still way too hot. She pretended to take a long, slow sip of coffee to give him a thorough once-over.
His faded jeans did only good things to his perfectly sculpted ass. And the worn John Deere tractor shirt hugged his upper arms just right, hinting at his impressive muscles. The throb in her head was challenged by the throb of want flooding her veins. It’d help if he wasn’t smiling at her. Or he wasn’t so tall. Or so bone-meltingly gorgeous. The things she was imagining right now, with painstaking attention to detail and in slow motion, took more of the bite out of her headache.
“Morning,” he said, all dimples and white teeth.
She grunted.
“Jace,” Emmy Lou whispered. “Nice to see you.”
“You too,” he said.
“Krystal, rough morning?” her daddy asked. “Headache?”
She nodded, sipping her coffee.
“Before we get started, there are a few things we need to work through. You’ve all heard about Josephine and Frankie. We had a few guests step in the last two concerts since their arrest, but we need a solid opener.” Her daddy sat on a stool. “Jace, with the duet and all, Luke thought you might be interested.”
Krystal choked on her coffee. There was a vague recollection of him being mentioned that night, with Mickey, but she’d been too distracted and upset for it to register. Until now. Jace. On the road. Being nice and funny. Too hot for his own good. Driving her out of her mind—wanting him. In close quarters.
But her mother’s alternative—Mickey Graham—would make her life a living hell.
“Are you serious?” Jace asked, stumbling back a step to sink onto a stool.
Her father nodded.
Krystal was struck by Jace’s reaction. The man was truly shocked that her father would suggest such a thing. And, for some reason, it touched her. She had yet to discover if Jace was talented, but her father saw something in him. That spoke volumes.
Jace stared around the room, glancing at Emmy Lou, then her father, before his grey eyes locked with hers—and held. His gaze fell away, and he rubbed his hands on his thighs. He stood, eagerly shaking her father’s hand. “Thank you.”