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“Right, exactly. Get along.” Travis was all smiles. “And you two seem to be. You’re crushing on him. I even have a picture here of you two, getting along.” He held up his phone.
“You do not.” Krystal sighed. At least, he better not.
Her brother lived to get a rise out of her. This was what he did. After hours of traveling and rehearsing, Travis got restless. Why he thought picking on her about Jace was a good way to pass the time, she didn’t know. Teasing, as a whole, was his preshow process.
“Something tells me I’ll have a whole album full of you and Jace getting along.” He shrugged, staring at his phone. “Might even post it online. Can’t hurt launching this song.”
She shot him a look. Whether he meant to or not, he’d struck a nerve. The last thing she’d ever do was exploit her personal life for work. “Not funny.”
“I wasn’t exactly joking.” His eyebrows rose.
“Are you kidding me?” After everything she’d been through with Mickey, there was no way she and Jace—if that was even a thing—would become part of their marketing plan. People ended up getting hurt. Meaning she’d wind up getting hurt. Again.
“Hold on a minute.” Travis shifted the guitar strap on his neck. “You want this solo thing, I know you do. Use what you’ve got, Krystal. A good song. An interested guy fans approve of. And obvious attraction.” He shrugged. “Before you go there, you have to know Jace is nothing like Mickey. Jace is a seriously nice guy.”
All she could do was stare at her brother.
“The song is enough.” Emmy Lou spoke up. “More than enough.”
“Thank you.” Krystal hugged her sister.
“It is.” He nodded. “We know that. Sometimes record labels and charts and sales need a little push, though. I’m not saying it’s a good idea one way or the other, I’m just saying.”
“You’re starting to sound a little too much like Momma for my liking, Trav.”
“I’m not the one who posted a picture of him holding Clementine, now am I?” he asked. “You didn’t think that’d cause a reaction? Because it did. Might as well use it.”
She frowned. “That was for Heather. His sister.”
“And a few million of your closest Instagram and Twitter followers,” he murmured.
Even Emmy nodded at that. “The post got serious attention and reposts and all sorts of fan love. Not just for Clementine, either.”
She wasn’t the social media guru her sister was. When Krystal posted, she tended to throw whatever caught her fancy out there. Like Jace. And Clementine. Together. Adorable. For the whole world to see and jump to conclusions.
“You three ready for makeup?” Misumi, her and Emmy’s assistant, asked. “The label wanted to do a few shots of you three and Jace when they announce Jace is joining the tour.”
Krystal didn’t miss the look her brother sent her. All smug.
Curling irons, hairspray, and false eyelashes were her immediate future. Travis teasingly called their makeup regime “battle gear.” The last few years, her look had gone darker—smoky eyes and bold lips—while Emmy Lou stayed pink and soft and innocent. As if anyone could confuse the two of them?
Her colors were dark—black, navy, the occasional splash of red. From fringed suede, her favorite, to sparkle-heavy sequin-covered dresses, her costumes fit like a glove but allowed her to move. When someone came to a Three Kings concert, they were blown away by the energy and production values of their show.
Last, but definitely not least, came the jewelry. Bling was important to her image. Crystal chandelier earrings, a crystal collar necklace, and crystal-covered bangles on both wrists. Not to mention her boots—even the boots sparkled. After she was deemed photo ready, she attempted damage control by shoving Clementine into the arms of everyone on her crew. The pics were posted instantly, witty comments and obnoxious photo stickers, too. Maybe now her post with Jace wouldn’t matter so much?
With Clem in the arms of Misumi, she endured a final makeup touch-up and followed her siblings into a staged room for the photo shoot. Bright lights beat down on the pristine white backdrop, their electric hum audible over the handful of conversations taking place as props were brought in, removed, rearranged.
Jace was there, doing his best to make her trip all over herself by standing there looking good enough to eat. That’s all he was doing, standing there, but it was enough. She smoothed her hands over one of her favorite curve-hugging, black suede dresses, the jangle of nerves in the pit of her belly unfamiliar.
If he thought she was going to let him get to her, he was wrong. She knew better. Dammit. She did.
“Channeling your inner Johnny Cash?” Travis asked, giving Jace a head-to-toe sweep.
“Black.” He shrugged. “Jace Black.”
Black was his color. Black Stetson. Black boots. Skin-tight black T-shirt to match the tattoos, and faded black jeans that should be downright illegal for the things they were doing to the man’s ass… She swallowed, fiddling with the fringes of her skirt.
“Clever,” Travis chuckled, glancing her way. “Now you two match.” He was enjoying this way too much.
