Randy brought his face close to hers, so she could see the beads of sweat on his forehead and every mean thought behind his gleaming eyes. “Tell it to the judge, sugar, but Uncle Billy’s got a clerk at the pawn shop who swears on a stack of Bibles it was you who walked out of there with that guitar, so when it comes right down to who looks like a thief, how do you think that judge is gonna see it?”
Despite the ninety-degree heat, a chill spread under her skin. She didn’t have a sassy comeback to that question, and Randy’s smirk said he knew he’d scored a point. She glanced around, worried someone might see or, worse, overhear them talking, but the alley was clear. It wouldn’t stay that way forever. She needed to end this. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” His smile widened. He plucked the cigarette from her fingers, took a long, lazy draw, and expelled the smoke in her face. She got a full blast of tobacco and coffee breath. “Well, now, Rox, I want what you owe me. Nothin’ more. Nothin’ less.”
“Fifteen hundred dollars? Are you kidding me?”
“Hell no. I don’t want fifteen hundred.”
Thank God. A faint glow of hope warmed the ball of ice in her chest. Maybe she could end this reasonably and put it behind her for good? Maybe she could stay right here in Bluelick, sell her songs to Hollywood, have the real home she’d always longed for. No sneaking off because trouble had finally caught up with her. No forfeiting Gibson. No fall from grace in the eyes of a certain lawman whose admiration—maybe even something deeper than admiration—mattered more than she’d ever imagined it could. Because West mattered. He mattered so much it scared her.
“I want the two grand you owe me—yeah, I wrote off five hundred when I was being a nice guy, but I’m taking that back now—plus the grand Uncle Billy would have made on the sale of the guitar, plus another grand to help him forget how you waltzed into his shop and stole property from him, plus my fifteen percent of the gigs you’ve been playing here in Hicksville, USA. Let’s just call it five grand to catch you up on your debt, and then you can pay me my fifteen percent, moving forward, on the first of every month.”
The hopeful glow from a moment ago flickered out. That neither Randy nor Uncle Billy understood the actual value of the guitar they’d briefly had in their possession hardly helped. His demand was absurd. “Five grand? That’s…it’s…out of the question. And where do you get off demanding anything for the shows I’m playing here?”
“I get fifteen percent for the term of the contract. Tearing it up doesn’t cancel shit. Our deal runs for seven years from signing, Rox. You still owe me my cut of every penny you earn off your music for the next six and a half years. So yeah, I expect a damn check in my hand come the first of every month.”
“Seven years? That’s insane. I never signed any such thing. And no judge would enforce it.”
His smile went thin and wide. “We can take it to the judge, along with a theft charge. Maybe I’ll just call the cop you’re living with and ask him to compare the serial number on that guitar of yours with the stolen property report Uncle Billy filed with the Nashville PD. What?” he asked, in response to the surprise she didn’t manage to hide. “You think I just rolled up on you without doing my homework? Business, Rox.” He tapped his head. “I make knowing shit my business. I know where you’re living. I know where you’re working. I know you’re cozy with the cop.”
“You wouldn’t dare file charges.” She’d call his bluff. He wanted money, not legal headaches. He’d negotiate. He had to.
“You know what? I’d probably never get a chance to talk to a lawyer, much less a judge. I’m a reasonable businessman, but Uncle Billy?” He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Not so much. If I go back to Nashville and tell him I didn’t get every single penny that was coming to me—and him—he’s likely to take matters into his own hands. Do you really wanna know what that looks like?”
She didn’t. She had a bad feeling it looked like an ex-junkie suddenly disappearing from Bluelick and overdosing in some filthy flophouse in Nashville. She shoved him away. “Your threats don’t scare me, Randy.” They did. To her bones. “Folks here know me. This is the kind of place where people look out for each other. You’ve done your homework. You know I share a house with a cop. If I disappear, I’m going to be missed. Questions will be asked.” But would they? Everyone in Bluelick knew she was just passing through. Most would probably assume flighty Roxy had winged off to wherever whimsy took her, and the only question might be why she hadn’t had the decency to say a proper good-bye. But there was no room for doubt in a bluff. “Lots of questions. The kind of questions a guy like Uncle Billy won’t appreciate.”
“Oh, Rox. You don’t know Uncle Billy at all. He’s been succeeding in the loan business for damn near half a century. How do you think he maintains such a low default rate?”
At her mute headshake, he continued. “He looks at the whole situation, and he finds the cleanest, most efficient asset to leverage to ensure payment. You’re snuggled into this town deep as a flea on a rat’s tail. You take a knock in the head and everybody rallies around. But the cop? Well, now, that’s a dangerous job, even in a bumfuck place like this. No way to watch that guy every second of the day. Could be Officer Donovan drives back from a court appearance one afternoon, stops to help a stranded motorist on a slow stretch of Route 11, and ends up shot like a dog on the side of the road. That would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it? An unnecessary tragedy, I think you’d agree.”
Roxy’s heart stalled. Her head went light enough to float away. “Completely unnecessary,” she managed, but her voice sounded like it came from a vast distance. No good. She breathed deep and willed herself steady. Then she stared straight at Randy, so the rest of the alley became a blur. “Your beef is with me. With me,” she repeated, tapping her chest. “And I’ll pay.” She couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “I’ll pay the five grand, and I’ll pay the fifteen percent every month, so long as West is left alone. If anything happens to him, I swear to God I’ll—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to him, as long as you meet your obligations.” Randy dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the heel of his boot. “I got some other business to attend to this afternoon, but I’ll be back in three hours—right here—to pick up my money. Don’t be late.”
She grabbed his arm when he started to turn. “I can’t get five thousand in three hours. Half today.” That would pretty much wipe her out. “Half on Mon—”
“Hey, Roxy, everything cool?”
Over Randy’s shoulder, she saw Dobie and Kenny standing at the corner of the building, peering into the alley.
“Cool,” she called, forcing herself to smile and let go of Randy. She ran her sweaty palm down the front of her black skirt.
“Five grand, three hours,” he growled just loud enough for her to hear, then he turned and strode toward the mouth of the alley, shoulder-checking Kenny on the way.
“Ow, man.” Kenny craned his neck and rubbed his chest. “Asshole.” Turning back to her, he asked, “Who was that?”
She shook her head, buying a second to stabilize her voice. “Nobody. Random idiot who took a wrong turn and got pissed when I told him he’s a good three hundred miles from Nashville.”
Dobie made some crack, but it was lost on her. She smiled and shrugged to try to cover the fact that her mind was on fast-forward, desperately figuring. She’d go to Roger and beg for a loan against the advance from PlayHard Music. Whatever their terms, she’d accept them in exchange for the cash they’d offered. She’d already fucked herself and her potential career when she’d stupidly signed a contract with Randy.
It hardly mattered now whether the PlayHard deal was unscrupulously one-sided or turned out to be the most fair and straightforward offer she could have hoped for. All she cared about was keeping West out of Uncle Billy’s line of fire. Step one? Give Randy the five grand. Step two? Leave. Get gone. Put as much space as possible between her and the man she loved.
In hindsight, she could see that she’d been unforgivably reckless—with her career, with her determination to keep Gibson, and, most of all, with the man she loved. All that recklessness had finally caught up with her, and she couldn’t allow West to pay the price.
Chapter Twenty-Two
West pushed through the double doors of the old Bluelick courthouse-turned-police department, stepped outside, and stopped short. Kenny and Dobie stood on the top of the wide marble steps, about to walk into one of the last buildings in town he expected them to enter on their own accord.