Jace (Kings of Country 1)

“Aw shit.” Krystal heard Travis about the same time she slammed into his back.

“Travis?” she asked, pushing against her brother’s back. “What’s wrong?”

He turned to face her, his hands on her shoulders. “I need you to keep it together. There are witnesses.” He shook his head. “Are you listening to me?”

“Not that you’re making a lick of sense.” She brushed his hands off her shoulders and walked around him, into the room of waiting VIPs. Now she needed to get her mind off Jace, his light brown eyes, and all the witty comebacks she should have tossed his way before leaving him tonight. Chances were she’d nev

er see him again. She chewed on her lower lip, unexpectedly disappointed. No, it was good. Jace Black was bad news, period. She had no use for him.

Unless it was in the bedroom. She’d give him whatever he wanted there… Her body ached to do just that. Contrary to what the media said, she wasn’t the sort of girl to have a fling. Still—she blew out a slow breath—that man had kicked her long-dormant libido into overdrive. Every time his heavy-lidded gaze drifted her way, the temperature seemed a good ten degrees hotter, and it had nothing to do with the anger she’d hoped to hold on to.

Someone bumped into her, their murmured apology a reality check. Here she was, in the middle of a room full of people, imagining Jace Black in her bed? Talk about bad timing. As Emmy pointed out, these were the folks who shelled out a minimum of twenty-five hundred dollars for tickets and deserved their attention. For that low, low price, they got floor seats, free drinks and food, an autographed picture, a picture with the band, and a guaranteed thirty minutes of cocktails and socializing. Some were true fans, others were big-spending friends of their family or the record label.

Unfortunately, her mother was also there. Because her momma never missed an opportunity to collect information that might benefit her later. Krystal had no illusions when it came to her mother: CiCi King was not a nice person. The only thing her mother cared about was keeping Three Kings on the charts and the front page. If there was a way to get Three Kings more press, she was all for it. Her big eyes, bright smile, and charming laugh might have the rest of the world fooled—Krystal’s daddy included—but she knew the truth about the woman who’d birthed her.

That was one of the reasons she and her momma had a…strained relationship.

Travis hovered beside her. “You look way too calm. It’s freaking me out.”

What was wrong with him? Had her mother done something she didn’t know about yet? Worse than handing off her song, that is? Somehow, deep down, she knew her mother had had a hand in that.

If she were the one singing the song with Jace, she wouldn’t be upset. She paused then. Of course she’d be upset. Jace’s talent was unknown. What if he couldn’t sing? What if he butchered her song? No one knew what the song meant to her—but she did. Soulful eyes, glorious black hair, and a killer grin could only do so much on the charts.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Travis. Give me some room.” But then she saw exactly why Travis was freaking out.

Mickey Graham.

The son of a bitch was here. Laughing with her mother and her friends. Drinking beer and rubbing elbows with her VIPs.

“What the hell? Why is he here?” she hissed, grabbing onto her brother’s arm.

“There we go.” He covered her hand with his. “I don’t know why. But he is. And people are watching.” He patted her hand.

Krystal stared down at the concrete floor, fighting for composure. Nausea and fury clamped down on her lungs and heart and stomach until it was hard to breathe at all. The last time she’d seen him in person had been at the Awards for Country Music. He’d had the nerve to try to get a picture together. That hadn’t ended well—for her. Apparently stomping your heel so hard it punctured his boot and sent him to the ER for a few stitches in his foot was press-worthy.

Of course there was not a single picture of his hand on her ass. Or a sound bite of what he’d said about how he considered her voice her second-best asset and what, exactly, he wanted to do to what he considered her best asset. Not one. Instead, every radio show and entertainment magazine and TV show said Krystal King was out of control with bitterness over their breakup. And she was, but not the way they thought. He’d used her, publicly, mercilessly, and managed to turn her into the bad guy.

But it was her fault. She’d let him in. Believed him. Trusted him. Let her hunger for acceptance, for love, blind her. If she’d kept her guard up, he’d never have been in a position to launch the campaign that made him and almost destroyed her. She knew better. She’d been a fool. Again.

Now he was here, invading her world again. And it made her blood boil. Travis was right to warn her. An audience might just prevent her from totally losing it. But it didn’t change the fact that he had no right to be here. How had he even gotten in without an invitation?

An invitation.

She knew. Damn it all, she knew. And the veins in her head began to throb so that she pressed her fingers to her temples. “Momma?” she asked, her throat so tight it hurt to say the word.

“She wouldn’t, Krystal.” But there was doubt in her brother’s voice. “No…she wouldn’t. Would she?” He glanced at her.

“She would. And you know it.” Krystal cleared her throat. “And we’re all going to find out why soon enough.” Because her momma knew doing things in public, with an audience of highly connected people, was much harder to undo.

“What are you two talking about?” Her daddy hugged her into his side. “Should I be worried?”

“I would, if I were you,” Travis said, nodding at their mother, her friends, and Mickey Graham.

“What the hell is that rat bastard doing here?” Her father’s whisper was lined with outrage.

That’s right. Her daddy loved her. He’d get offended on his little girl’s behalf. But what would he do if he found out his wife was the one who’d invited the rat bastard?