He followed Hank back into the stadium without saying a word. From this angle, higher in the stands, the production value was more obvious. A small army of cameras, lights on top of lights, wheels of cords, and what felt like enough people to fill half the damn stadium covered the field. Hank led him into the seats along the low rail where Brock’s battered guitar case sat.
The bodyguard was there, watching every damn move Brock made with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. Like Brock was a problem? He stooped, grabbing the handle before Hank could reach for it. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” Hank nodded.
“Hank—” CiCi King came around the corner and the world seemed to shift into slow motion. “Oh.” Her head-to-toe inspection was all contempt. “Emmy Lou says her ankle is hurting her.” She held up Emmy’s boot. “I don’t know how she managed it, but the zipper broke. Guess she was trying to get out of it in the dark.”
Why the fuck she was in those boots in the first place, with a hurt ankle, didn’t seem to be a concern. Not that it was his business. He stared down at his guitar case and kept his mouth shut. If CiCi hadn’t been blocking his way out, he’d have left. As it was, he’d have to ask her to move. He didn’t want to say a thing to the woman.
“Must be hurting her something fierce then, I’d think.” Hank frowned. “Where is she?”
“Sitting over there.” CiCi used the boot to point. “Melanie has her ankle up, icing it. That girl has a dramatic streak a mile wide. Emmy’s still smiling—how bad can she be hurting?”
Was she serious? Emmy would smile through anything for the sake of appearances or to make her fans or family proud. CiCi King had been the one to drive that point home for him.
“I’ll go check,” Hank said, looking none too pleased with his wife. “We ready to go?”
“Yes.” CiCi nodded. “If she can walk.” She watched her husband and the bodyguard as they left the stands and headed across the field.
Emmy Lou sat, all sparkles and gold, with her leg up. She looked red cheeked and flustered. Or pained. She’s fine. Taken care of. Not my problem. He needed to get out of here. Now.
“You know, I was pretty sure I’d seen the last of you. Other than game day, that is.” CiCi sighed. “I’d like to think you being here now isn’t some sort of pathetic attempt to, what, remind Emmy Lou that you still exist?” Brock was too stunned to react to the vitriol she continued to unload on him. “I know your manager, Connie Jacobs. Right? She’s…tenacious. And clearly, more connected than I gave her credit for.” She smiled at him, those eyes narrowing. “She had to have pulled some big strings to get you here. Was it her idea? Or yours?”
Brock wasn’t capable of answering her—not without losing his shit.
CiCi smoothed a hand over her hair. “I know Emmy Lou is this bright, shining star that everyone wants a piece of. Having her love and losing it? How do you move on from that? How can anyone else compare? For that, I am sorry.” She carefully navigated two steps in her ridiculously high heels, then turned back his way. “But this video? And the two of you working on the same charity? Finding ways to get close to her? That ends now. You being here now? Someone might think you’re trying to use her to get back on top, help with your career ‘makeover’.” She used air quotes. “But that’s not going to happen. Press, fans, they’re fickle. You want to be real careful about whose bad side you wind up on.”
Brock stared after the woman. He’d never met anyone so capable of verbally eviscerating another human being. It was, in its own twisted way, a gift. She’d left him tongue-tied and reeling while throwing his motivation and decency into significant doubt. No, she’d let him know how easy it would be to do that to him publicly—and walked away smiling.
He stormed out of the stadium, his grip on the guitar case white-knuckled and shaking. What would happen if he went back in there and set CiCi straight? Hell, he’d set them all straight. None of this had to do with Emmy Lou.
Which was a lie.
Maybe not Drug Free Like Me. That was special to him—way before Emmy. But today, this shoot… Connie hadn’t pushed him to do this. It had been his choice, she’d said. He’d known exactly what today would be like and saying no had never once crossed his mind. Because you’re a damn fool.
He slid his guitar into the back seat of his truck, slammed the door shut, and pulled himself up into the driver’s seat. Fuck it. He’d made a mistake. All of this—today—one big mistake. But it was over and done and he’d make damn sure not to put himself in this situation again.
Chapter 7
Emmy stood outside the hospital doors, seriously regretting her spur-of-the-moment outing. It had been over six years since she’d seen David Watson, but that didn’t mean she’d stopped thinking about the man. Or caring. Still, why had she thought bringing him a cookie bouquet and gift bag full of sports magazines and puzzle books was a good idea?
In the days since all the video shoot and weirdness with Brock, she’d stayed as busy as her ankle allowed. With the tour coming up, she needed to be in tip-top shape. She’d filmed the rest of the AFL opening—propped up to hide her brace—then kept her ankle elevated and read every piece of news she could get her hands on. From politics to fashion, best book lists and must-see movies, to horoscopes and sports. The tabloids never failed to disappoint. She had to laugh over Jace and Krystal’s secret wedding, Jace and Krystal’s secret breakup, and Jace and Krystal’s secret baby. The King family had a hell of a lot of secrets—but these weren’t them.
That’s how she’d found out about Mr. Watson. A video of Brock waving to a kid in the ER waiting room made Tabloid News Media. The video had TNM reporters digging around to discover that his father had been admitted. For what and why had not been released.
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” she said, tugging Sawyer’s arm. Her ankle brace helped, a lot, but Sawyer had been pretty insistent about her using a cane or crutches…or him. He’d been pissed as hell to learn of her fall, since she was on his watch, and had been even more overprotective than usual. “Coming here?”
His noncommittal eyebrow bob did nothing to calm her anxiety.
“Gosh, thanks.” But she didn’t move.
After several minutes, Sawyer said, “You can leave your gifts at the nurses’ station.”
Which was probably for the best. If she’d thought this through, she could have ordered flowers or cookies or something and had it delivered by someone other than herself. Someone Brock wouldn’t object to. After their last run-in, there was no denying Brock had serious objections about her.
“That’s probably best.” What was I thinking? “This was really selfish of me.” She shook her head, letting Sawyer lead her across the parking lot. “I mean, Mr. Watson is in the hospital. Why would he want his son’s long-forgotten ex-girlfriend to suddenly show up with…random, silly things?”
“Are you asking me?” Sawyer’s brow rose.