The conversation yesterday with Bristol came back to me.
It was a younger couple. I thought they were there to ask Ida about the house. I’m not always on guard for reporters you know, and they didn’t fit the part at all.
I stared at Mack and the girl. If hadn’t known any better, I would have thought they were like any other couple. Except, she had a camera in her hand.
She took a picture of us.
“Keep going to the limo, Anson,” Lanny warned. My eyes darted to Robert. He was giving me that look that said I needed to climb into the car and keep going. I turned away from Mack and started for the limo.
“I met Bristol yesterday at your dear old grandmother’s place. Pretty girl, I’m surprised she’s still single.” That motherfucker actually called out those words to me, so loud I could hear them over the noise of the crowd.
Something inside me snapped, and I dropped the guitar case and made my way over to Mack.
“Anson, no!” Lanny yelled.
Before Robert could stop me, I walked up to Mack, drew my fist back and hit him. He stumbled back as the young girl and Lanny both screamed.
When Mack’s ass hit the ground, I smiled. Then I grabbed the girl’s camera and smashed it to the ground.
She stood there, stunned, as Mack scrambled to his feet. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“And did you know I had a restraining order filed on you for harassing my seventy-year-old grandmother and grandfather? You broke it yesterday.”
Robert and Lanny both said, “What?”
Mack rubbed his jaw. “I’m going to sue you for this.”
I pointed to him. “You want to play, motherfucker? I’ll play. You better check with that lawyer of yours since you went on Ida’s private property.”
“Fuck you, Meyer,” Mack spat out.
When I swung at him again, I missed. Arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me back.
“I want him arrested for battery!” Mack shouted. “Arrest him now! You saw him hit me!”
The police officer who always walked a few feet behind me as I left the arena looked at me.
I smiled, turned, and walked to his patrol car. When I glanced back over my shoulder, Robert stood there, stunned. Lanny ran up behind me.
“Anson.”
“Call Paul. Tell him to meet me at the police station.”
She nodded, pulled out her phone, and hit a button to call my personal lawyer. “Right. Okay.”
I took one more glance over at Robert and winced.
He looked pissed.
Bristol
“HELLO, BEN & JERRY. I’ve been dreaming of you all day!” I said as I dropped down onto my sofa. I opened my phone, held up the pint of ice cream, and snapped a picture. A few quick edits, and I uploaded it to Instagram.
“Boy, do I need this today!” the caption read.
I posted it, then set my phone down and turned on the TV.
The news came on, and I closed my eyes as I let the ice cream slide down my throat.
I moaned in delight. Ice cream is almost better than an orgasm. Almost. Then again, I hadn’t had an orgasm in so long, I had forgotten what they were.
“CMA award-winning country music artist, Anson Meyer, a homegrown Texas cowboy, has found himself in jail in Nashville, Tennessee.”
I nearly choked as I sat up and stared at the picture on the TV screen. It showed Anson being held back by someone and a man on the ground. I fumbled with the ice cream as I set it on the coffee table, then reached for the remote. I hit pause and stared at the man lying on the ground. Then I looked to the right of him, and there stood the lady who had been on Ida’s porch steps. My eyes darted back to the guy. He was holding his jaw.
It was him. That was the couple who had been in Comfort.
“Oh. Holy. Shit,” I mumbled.
My phone rang. I didn’t even bother to look to see who was calling; I already knew it would be Mindy.
“Hello?”
“Tell me you’re watching the news!”
“Yeah, I saw. Anson’s in jail.”
Just then, they changed to a video of Anson sitting on a stool, a guitar in his hand.
“Talk had been about how Meyer changed up the ending of his show, deciding not to play his first hit, ‘Let it Burn,’ but ending on a new song,” the news anchor said. “Here is a rare view of a very emotional Anson singing about a lost love.”
My heart leapt at the sight of him. Then his voice filled the room.
“This is a little song I wrote about a girl.” He laughed, but it was emotionless. “What is it about that one girl we let get away, guys?”
I heard a few guys whistle and call out.
“Let’s take a walk down memory lane, y’all.”
Then it went to a clip of Anson singing. His voice grew sad, and the words hit me like a brick. When his voice faded away and cracked slightly, the crowd went wild. He smiled, shook his head, and then started singing again as he smiled slightly.