Page 4 of Pink and Country

From her five-foot-four height, with three-inch heels on, June had a lot of spunk. She stood for herself—and me—no matter what.

With long brown hair and exotic caramel eyes with dark-green rings around the pupils, June resembled a college student more than a grown-up thirty-two-year-old assistant manager to one of the biggest country music stars in the world.

I trusted June with my career. Most times. Not today. Today I didn’t dig it. “We broke up weeks ago. It was all pretend anyway. I don’t owe her anything.” My hands balled into fists. “I don’t care about her big multi-million-dollar Hollywood contract. Listen. I. Am. Done. D. O. N. E. Been there, done that.”

A low grunt escaped my lips. Savannah Prince, my ex-girlfriend, could say whatever she wanted, I refused to be her puppet any longer. I’d been pacing back and forth from the kitchen to the living room of my penthouse for the last fifteen minutes, arguing with June over the phone.

“Listen, honey, Miss Hollywood is a big girl. I’m sure she’ll deal with the breakup being public like the narcissist bitch she is. She’ll make me the villain and gain all the sympathy and exposure she’s always dreamed of. Savannah doesn’t need me by her side,” I growled.

My grip tightened on the phone, and I unglued it from my ear. Relax, man. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t let Savannah Prince ruin your day. Not after she wrecked the last two years of my life. Evil manipulator. Torturous witch. Selfish huckster. Why did I endure this nightmare for so long? I punched the dining table, and the vibration echoed through the room.

Savannah and I met at a movie premiere in New York. She seemed so sweet and harmless. How did I not see the signs?

The press loved the idea of the two of us together. The rising movie star dating the country music’s bitter bachelor.

We met again and fucked a couple of times. Nothing serious. First mistake.

Soon enough, people portrayed us as the new celebrity power couple—we even got one of those celebrity couple corny nicknames: Cartannah. Like, what the actual fuck—and our PR teams didn’t deny we were in a relationship. Second mistake.

My new publicist, Carla, convinced us to play along. People talked about us, and she said it would be beneficial for both of our careers. I had just released an album—getting a new fan base was the main objective—and Savannah wanted the lead role in a mega Hollywood production, but the producers believed she wasn’t enough of a star to lead the project. So being paired up with me would help her get the entire world’s attention. I had nothing to lose, and it somehow made sense—or in the midst of everything, I thought it did. Third mistake. Carla tipped off the press about our whereabouts, trying to get pictures of us together in every magazine, blog, or gossip website.

In a moment of what-was-I-thinking, I agreed to give my fake relationship with Savannah Prince a try.

A real one. Beyond the limelight. Fatal mistake.

My relationship with Miss Hollywood turned out to be the worst decision of my life. By far. Worse than the sophisticated snake tattoo I got on my upper back at sixteen.

Big fucking joke.

The tattoo had been removed.

However, nobody could ever erase my relationship with the queen bitch.

June babbled in my ear, but I tuned her out for a moment. “Which part of I won’t make a statement don’t you understand?” I pivoted on my heels, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on the kitchen island, and threw it across the room. Bam . Thanks to the open floorplan, it crashed on the living-room wall, next to the flat-screen TV mounted up.

Bile rose in my throat. I loathed myself for letting others decide what was best for me. I was the one who got caught cheating. The press enjoyed my downward spiral, as they called it. And Savannah used it to gain some fucking pity. She didn’t care about me fucking anyone else—I learned a month ago she’d been screwing a producer on the side for over a year—but she gave multiple interviews, asking fans to forgive me because she loved me too much to let me go. She promised them we’d work things out. Together. Big joke. In private, she always insulted me. One day I was a loser and the next, a pathetic jerk.

Savannah wore the victim costume like a second skin.

I heaved at the thought.

We were toxic together. Poison. Before her, I avoided all relationships, and she knew it. She took advantage.

Savannah used me and didn’t show any sign of regret, even suggesting, on live television, I should enter a sex rehab facility for my addiction. Never flinching once, she brushed off crocodile tears with her perfect ruby-manicured fingers. The color of the devil.

I wasn’t sexually sick. I was sexually frustrated. Castrated.

Jerking off to my hand for the last eight months hadn’t been healthy.

“Get me Carla on the phone.” I barked the words at June and slapped myself mentally. Come on, man, be nice. June is on your side.

“Carter, forget it, you’re not in the right state of mind to talk to her. Anyway, she’s not here right now.”

Before Carla came on board, everything was fine. She was the one who put this nightmare into motion.

“I don’t care where she is. Mars or in the middle of the fucking jungle. Get her on the phone.” I paced the room, tugging at my hair. I exhaled through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry for yelling. You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit again. It’s not your job. But I appreciate your help, and I promise I won’t punch anyone this time.” Last year, I punched a paparazzi who followed me in New York City for no apparent reason, and sixth months ago, I stormed out of an interview when the host didn’t stop praising Savannah’s talent. Fucking idiot.

June sighed and kept her tone even. “Carter, listen to me. Calm the fuck down before you talk to anybody else. Nobody wants to deal with you when you’re like this. Take a break, go to the country, spend time with your family, then we’ll talk. I’ll clear your schedule, and we’ll only keep the engagements you can’t miss. Meditate, do yoga, rub one or too many, or do any other shit that’ll help you relax. Stay away from the press, and let the Savannah story wear out. And please, keep it in your pants. Don’t fuck around.”