"And you can save yourself the hassle of security," Grandpa cuts in again as he angles himself to show Lev the weapon strapped to his side and then pulls up his right pant leg to show the one he has strapped to his ankle. "I got my own damn security. Don't let my age fool ya, son."
"No, Sir. I would never underestimate you, Mr. Callaghan," Lev respectfully tells my grandfather.
My grandfather is an excellent shot, and he taught me how to shoot as well. Most importantly, he gave me the knowledge on safely handling firearms and respecting them. And what Lev doesn't know is you won't hardly find a time I'm not carrying. "Well, I guess the only other question I have is when can we expect our guest?"
Later that night, I step out on the back porch with a glass of wine and my laptop. I had lain in my bed, unable to find sleep, for the better part of two hours. After Lev had left earlier, my grandfather and I looked at each other, and a few unspoken words were said before we went about our day. Bottom line: when someone needs help, and you have the means to get them the help they need, you do. Simple as that. It may not be the way of others, but it's the Callaghan way. Now, my problem is I am finding myself curious about Easton Evans. He’d better not be some cocky jerk who thinks he can come here and order people to be at his beck and call. Just because he's rich and famous doesn't mean me or anyone here will put up with any bullshit. Though it's probably wrong of me to judge the guy before he even gets here. But I'm not too naïve to know how those celebrity types can be. And because I like torturing myself, I decided to come out here and do my stalk of shame in private.
Sitting down on the lounge, I set my glass on the table beside me and tuck my legs underneath my butt. A cool summer breezepicks up, causing my exposed skin to prickle but feel good at the same time. The breeze carries the smell of honeysuckle, and I close my eyes as I take in the familiar scent. It also brings with it the comfort of home and how much I love this place. With that comes the dreaded reality of what would happen if I lost this place. I love Callaghan Ranch. There is no other place in this world I want to call home. Not wanting the weight of what the future might hold and the fate of my home in jeopardy, I push those thoughts away and bring my attention back to the computer sitting on my lap. Cracking it open, I move the cursor to the search engine and type in Easton Evans. I've listened to his music and seen a picture of him before, but I'm still not prepared for all that is Easton to pop up on the screen. I suck in a sharp breath and stare at the image of him up on stage at some concert: tall, black hair, piercing gray eyes, tattoos covering both arms. I won't lie, the man is gorgeous. I don't typically describe a man as beautiful, but if any male specimen on this earth can be described as such, it would be Easton Evans. He's standing on stage with a guitar in his hands, his mouth inches away from the microphone. He's wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders and a pair of faded jeans. And though it's just a picture, I can't help but be mesmerized by his full lips and the way he commands the crowd's attention in front of him. I imagine every person hanging on to each word that passes over those panty-melting lips of his.
Shaking my head, I force myself out of its current daze and continue to scroll through dozens of photos. Easton on stage and Easton leaving clubs. Some appear to be Easton hanging out on a bus with his bandmates. But most of the pictures filling the computer screen are of Easton with women. Walking into hotels, walking out of hotels, leaving restaurants, leaving clubs and bars. Each time he's photographed with a different woman. And they all have something in common; they all look like models—tall, willowy, long sleek hair, sophisticated. I snort. Seems he has a type. An unexplainable feeling settles into the pit of my stomach, and that feeling resembles jealousy. What a stupid thing to be feeling. I don't know this man. And if I did, it's not like I'm someone he'd look at twice. I'm the complete opposite of all those women. I'm five-feet, two-inches tall on a good day. I have red curly hair that I've long ago given up trying to tame. Summer tells me all the time she'd kill me if I ever cut or dyed it. I also like pie way too much to be considered thin. Though, I do like my curves. Life is too short to not have pie whenever you want.
Deciding I've had enough stalking, I slap the laptop shut and gulp down what's left of my wine. Lev said to expect Easton in a couple days, and I just hope I know what I've gotten myself into.
5
EASTON
When my plane lands back in Seattle, I get a text from Lev with the address and directions to Callaghan Ranch. Aside from the name, I know nothing about my destination, but peace and quiet away from civilization are just what I need.
Not allowing anyone to know I'm back in town, I head for my apartment. Something doesn't feel right the instant I walk through the door. The vibes I get cause me to pause, and I slowly reach for the handgun I keep hidden in a secret slide-out compartment within the bookshelf nearby. If there is one thing I have learned from my family after the band gained fame, it’s to always be prepared. Since our success, we've had more than our fair share of threats and unwanted visitors. I sweep the apartment, finding nothing out of place, but I still can't shake the feeling someone was here. Then it dawns on me. "Miles." I feel like an idiot. He came by the afternoon I left for Montana to get my cat and take him home.
After taking a quick shower and repacking, I lock up and ride the elevator down to the garage located downstairs. Tossing my bags onto the seat, I climb in behind the wheel of my ride and take a moment to appreciate the old classic. I don't take it outoften, which is a shame. My truck is a 1969 fully restored full soft top blue Ford Bronco 4X4 with a V8. When I bought it from my friend's uncle during high school, it was nothing more than a metal shell.
My parents rode my ass for weeks afterward, telling me I wasted hard-earned money on something I couldn't even drive because it had no motor. They just couldn't see the potential. Besides, it was my money. I'd busted my ass for two summers working for Bruce down at the guitar store to buy this baby and a new Fender Stratocaster.
I shove the key into the ignition and start her up—the sound of the motor echoes through the concrete parking lot. Reaching into the glovebox, I retrieve my shades and ball cap. It's not much of a disguise, but it works well enough to not draw attention to myself. Not that I'm famous enough to have paparazzi outside my building or anything, but we get fans who seek us out from time to time, sometimes camping outside our homes. Damn internet. You can find anyone nowadays just by searching their name.
Putting the truck in reverse, I back out and exit the garage.
After sitting in traffic for more than an hour due to road construction, I finally hit the open highway. Callaghan Ranch is roughly an 8 hour drive. I take a deep breath in and turn on some tunes. "Dream On'' by Aerosmith begins playing, and I crank the volume up. The words resonate with me. The guys and I have busted our asses day in and day out to make East of Addiction into what we are today. We had the hunger all those years ago to chase our dreams and make music, and after all this time, we still do—most days.
Hopefully, this retreat and some good old country living will give me the inspiration I need for a few new songs, because the moment our vacations end, we hit the studio and begin recording again.
Hours later, I'm taking my exit. In need of gas and the restroom, I pull into the first gas station I see and stop my truck at one of the gas pumps. Parked right in front of the store is a true classic. I pause a moment to admire it, then walk inside. I take care of business, grab myself a sports drink, a couple of sausage sticks, and a bag of skittles. The older guy behind the counter stands from his resting spot in a chair watching TV. "What can I do for ya, son?" he greets me.
I lay my purchase on the counter. "I need fifty in gas, please. Pump four."
"You in the Bronco?"
"Yes, sir," I tell him, and he nods.
"You got good taste. I own a classic myself." He rings me up and places my items in a small paper bag.
"The surf green Hudson Hornet out front?"
"Yep." The old man hands back my change then rounds the counter. "You know your stuff. Would you like to look at her?" His face lights up, and I can't say no to his enthusiasm.
"Love too." I grab my bag and follow him out the door.
"I've had her for a long time." He runs his palm over the hood of the car.
I walk around. "A 54?" I ask.
He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. "Close. She's a 1953."
"She's a beauty," I tell him.
"Can't say I've seen you around here before." He studies me for a moment.
