“You’re such a cliché,” she teased.
“What do you mean by that?”
“The pretty country singer who falls in love with her manager. It’s a tale as old as time.”
“You know why it’s such a popular tale, because it’s tried and true.”
“You’re a hopeless romantic.”
I frowned her words away. Truthfully, falling for Chap was the most uncharacteristic thing I’d ever done. Since high school I kept potential love interest at bay because I wasn’t going to let my heart get me stuck in Hume Tennessee, a two-stoplight town with a Gas Guzzle Convenient Store and a Farm Basket chicken and ice cream spot. I was destined for bigger things. My future did not include carrying a baby on my hip while I waited for my husband to purchase horse feed.
But Chap wasn’t from a small town. He was from the city, and he was showing me things I’d only seen in the magazines I flipped through at Welborn’s Grocery Mart while shopping with my momma. Dining at fancy restaurants and hanging out with other celebrities as they trekked from one hot party to the other. You know that feature inUs Weeklycalled “Celebs Are Just Like Us”? I can guarantee you they are not. Most spent insane amounts of money and didn’t bat an eye at the thought of chartering a private jet just so they could go swimming in the crystal blue waters of the Seychelles.
Chap would often have to remind me I was a star and I needed to stop with the small-town girl attitude and lean all the way into my big boss energy. So I treated myself to an Aston Martin that often sat idle in the garage of my high-rise, luxury condo because we were always on the road. But when I was in Los Angeles, I would hit the freeway in my convertible roadster.
This festival was packed, Heritage was the biggest country music festival of the year. Every power player in the countrymusic industry was in attendance or performing on stage. And it was a diverse gathering of acts with legacy artists like Rich Nickles, the country group Desdemona and new artists such as Josie Rae and Wyatt Harlow. Heritage was the festival any young country artist would offer up their left arm to attend. After our first appearance, our records sales saw a steady increase and doors we were once told were closed to us started to open. Late night television appearances, big budget videos, and features with country heavy weights.
“Just think in a few weeks we’ll start the final leg of our tour and then after that start working on the fourth album.” Our future was so bright it made my head spin.
“I still think we should call it Pitching a Fit,” Darla said.
“You know how this goes. We write the songs then we name the album.”
“Well can you write a song called Pitching a Fit so we can name the album after it?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I was the primary songwriter of the group. Darla mostly provided support and catchy ad-libs. Our next album needed to capture our growth as women and artist. My hope was to delve deeper into love and the complexities loving someone entailed. The good sign of an artist was being able to evolve from one project to the next. No one wanted four projects that all felt homogenized. This fourth album should be grown, sexy, and vulnerable.
We’d learned a whole lot in these past few years and there was an interesting story to be told. Plus, the fans and music journalists were all hoping for something big. When we were new there were no expectations, we could do whatever we wanted. I secretly missed that time because we could just riff and take risks. Now those big swings had to be planned and run by everyone at the record label before it was green lit, which stifled the creative process.
It took us several minutes to cross the patchy grass to get to the parking lot reserved for talent. When we finally rounded the corner of the line of trailers and buses that included ours, I was hot and sticky. Even at night the desert temperatures, which had been in the hundreds most of the day, cooled a bit at sunset, but not by much. The tour bus was emblazoned with our faces and group name in cursive. I told Chap I thought it was over the top, but he insisted that’s what country music was all about, bluster and big dick energy.
Upon entering the trailer, the cold air chilled my sweaty skin. I released a relieved sigh. Darla pushed past me on her way to the half bathroom. Grabbing a soda pop from the fridge, I headed through the bus toward the back in search of Chap. At the bedroom door, I could make out the faint sound of moans and giggling. You know the moment in the movies when the character’s life is about to change irrevocably? I was seconds from my “Oh Shit” moment. The voice in the back of my head told me to run. To get as far away from the bus as my feet could carry me.
I’d never been one to follow instructions. I reached out a shaky arm and when I opened the door, my world came tumbling down. You’re probably far smarter than me and can guess Chap was not alone in that room. He was butt-ass naked and balls deep into some pussy that was not attached to me. They didn’t even notice the door was open. Chap was just thrusting his pale ass off and telling this woman how good she felt. Words until this moment I’d only heard him utter in my ear.
My stomach turned. I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out.
Darla came up behind me and broke the silence. “What the fuck?”
Chap turned and all the blood drained from his face. The woman underneath him screamed at the presence of anaudience. Jumping up, my boyfriend’s still erect penis bobbed up and down.
Chap lifted his arms in an attempt to tamp down what I’m sure he suspected was my rising rage. “Fancy, baby. This is not what it looks like.”
“It looks like you’re fucking around.” Darla’s expression was one of anger.
Chap climbed into his jeans. “Fancy, let me explain. She came on to me.”
So now he thought I was naïve and a bitch he could sneak on? I should have commenced to whooping his ass within an inch of his life. But I was never my best when caught off guard. If I’d had a warning, I would’ve been prepared to eviscerate him with my words while raining down closed-fist punches that would leave lasting bruises. When confronted with the unexpected, I did the only thing that would allow me to save face and not give Chap and his side chick the satisfaction of witnessing me break down. My feet were already retreating, tears threatening to stream down my face. This fucking bastard. Why do men make you fall in love with them only to do some shit like this?
Chap pursued me hard. I was resistant to mix business with pleasure, but he was charming and handsome and as our manager he was an integral part of making our dreams come true. “If I was your man, I’d let you know every day what you meant to me.” His words when he was courting me. Shit sounded good then … real good. When I got to the bus door, I tossed a glance over my shoulder and witnessed Darla slapping Chap and screaming, “How could you do this?”
He didn’t lie. Today at eleven fifty-seven on a Saturday night, Chap showed me I meant nothing to him.
“Guesswho I ran into today at the Gas Guzzle?” Dial, my sister said.
This was a dumb question. Living in a small town, if you frequented the town square, you would run into everybody. Your kindergarten teacher, Ms. Noone, the dude you used to buy weed from, or that one person who you didn’t click with and was now your unspoken archnemesis. For me his name was Elrod and the sight of him made my trigger finger twitch.
“Who?” I said, humoring my sister.
