On My Way To You (Broken Love Duet 2)

I exit the stage and I’m only mildly surprised that Trisha is here with a towel in her hand. I grab it, wipe my face, and take the Gatorade from her other hand, drinking most of it down with one very large gulp.

I sling the towel over my shoulder and look at her—waiting.

“Nice set, Ryker.” I roll my eyes.

That’s another change. No one calls me Reed anymore, except for Junie. Without realizing my gaze moves to the stage where Greg—I’m not calling the idiot Shred or Shredder—is doing his solo. He’s damn good at what he does, but he’s not a good man. I would have gotten rid of him already if not for Junie. I don’t know why she stays with the asshole, but then, I think my history shows that I will never understand why women pick the men they do.

“You can call me by my real name, Trisha.”

“Ryker Lane is your real name now. You need to learn that.”

I shrug. It’s not worth the argument. Of all the changes in the past two years, my name is the least important. I’ve gone from Trisha hunting gigs for me to becoming Trisha’s most profitable act—which is why she’s here tonight. She devotes ninety percent of her time to me. You would think that would be a good thing. I would argue.

“You need to get your ass on the tour bus. You’re heading out tonight.”

“What do you mean? There are three more spots of this tour left. I thought I was slated to open on all of them.”

“Not anymore. You, my dear, have been asked to perform on the Grand Ole Opry tomorrow night.”

My heart stutters in my chest. “You’re shitting me,” I respond.

“Nope, your hero is going to be introducing you. He’s coming out of retirement and flying in from Texas to help induct you.”

“I don’t understand,” I respond.

“Bluebird has been number one on the charts for five weeks straight, now, Ryker.”

“But—”

“And as of today, your album has sold more copies than any other country artist in over a decade.”

“Holy fuck,” I gasp.

“Yes, indeed. So, get your pretty ass on that bus.”

“That’s all I am to you, Trisha, a sexual object of perfection.”

“You’re dollar signs,” she says snidely, making me laugh.

I look back at the stage. “Can we leave the guitar hero here with Jensen?”

“You really don’t like that guy.”

“Not really. He reminds me of my brother,” I admit.

“Jensen owes me. I’ll call in the favor and say they asked him to finish the tour with them. Then, I can get him a gig out west.”

“Sounds good. I owe you one, Trisha.”

“You owe me a hell of a lot more than that, Ryker. You made a good decision two years ago. Look at all the good things that are happening to you.”

There’s a bitterness rumbling in the pit of my stomach with her words. So, I don’t bother replying. I just walk away.

“Ryker! Can we have your autograph?” a herd of girls ask as I make my way to the corridor that leads to the private rooms for the bands.

I paste on my happy smile and tip my hat.

“You got it ladies.” Most of the girls are barely twelve. One might be fifteen. Standing beside her is a woman—obviously a mother of one of the kids. She’s got long, dark hair and beautiful eyes that remind me of Callie.

“See what I mean?” Trisha laughs, obviously seeing the way the woman is looking at me.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m living the dream.”

Epilogue

CASSIE

“Your love is like a whisper in the wind, a song that never ends. It greets me every day. And now you’re gone—leaving me alone. Ohh… Bluebird. Bluebird, fly away.”

I’m frozen. I have been for the entire length of the song. My heart somersaults, pounding so hard in my chest that I feel it in the tips of my fingers. I don’t even think I take a breath until it’s over.

“That was Ryker Lane with his new hit single, Bluebird. If you aren’t familiar with Ryker, he’s the hottest thing to hit country music in recent years. He’s going to be inducted into the family of the Grand Old Opry tonight. Word is the king of country music himself is coming out of retirement to do the honors,” the DJ says—right before I reach over to turn the radio off.

Tears fill my eyes. The sweetest ache I’ve ever known blooms inside of me. It’s a bittersweet ache, one that can only be described as an aching of loneliness and joy rolled into one.

“You’ve done it,” I whisper to no one but myself. I slide down to the floor and lean against the cabinets. I bring my legs up against my stomach and wrap my arms around them. “You’ve done it, Reed. You’re going to have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. No one can stop you.”