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“Have you reached out? Talked to Ian or Rush?”
I shook my head. “There’s no going back, not after what went down. I abandoned them. I let the label break us up because my ego got in the way of everything.”
“And now you’re hiding from reality? Ignoring calls?”
He was right. I knew exactly what I was doing. If I didn’t answer the call, maybe it wouldn’t happen.
“I guess my question is, do you still want it? Are you Killian Wilde, Country star? Or do you want to go back to your roots, cowboy?”
“I was never Killian Wilde.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, you were. You’ve always been a Wilde boy, Kill. No matter what you want to think. You’re one of us. That means if you don’t want to go back to music, you don’t have to. You can stay here with us, run the ranch, ride all day, get your hands dirty, and fall in love with something else.”
I stiffened at that idea. There was part of me that wanted nothing more than to be immersed in a world where no one wanted anything from me except for my time helping with the ranch. But the truth was I’d never be able to ignore that gnawing ache inside my chest that needed to create music. Part of me was missing because I couldn’t do that now. No matter how hard I tried.
My phone rang again, the fucking thing buzzing in my pocket and making me grimace.
“Listen, Kill, it’s not gonna stop until you face it. I promise, it’ll just get harder every minute you ignore the truth.”
My jaw was clenched so hard my head began to throb at my temples. “Yeah.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and turned to walk away. Before he rounded the corner, he called over his shoulder, “Mack and I are having her family over for supper. Why don’t you come? Hawk will be there. Maybe you two could bring your guitars and jam a little?”
Hawk Langston had been in my first band, back when I was a kid, just starting out. He’d taught me to play one summer, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit I’d had a bit of a crush on him. Unrequited, of course. One, he was way too old for me, and two, the man was straighter than a fence post. I never stood a chance with him, but I sure as shit figured out a lot about who I was that summer.
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll let you know.”
My fucking phone rang again, and with an annoyed grunt, I sent my manager straight to voicemail. I might be avoiding the inevitable, but I just wasn’t ready for my entire career to be flushed down the drain. Maybe tomorrow.
Tonight, I’d drink it all away.
Two weeks passed, avoidance still working like a charm. This was good. Healthy. Avoidance worked. It wasn’t a crutch. It wasn’t bad for me. Everyone else was full of shit. I was managing just fine. Me, Johnnie Walker, and silence.
I narrowed my eyes at the guitar sitting in the corner, untouched, collecting dust. I’d had her for fifteen years. She’d been on every demo I made, every song was written with her in my hands. My perfect, solid cedar-topped Taylor acoustic. Nothing fancy. But she had a rich, warm sound I’d never been able to find from any other instrument.
“Don’t stand there and judge me. You don’t want me touching you right now, anyway. I’d probably break you.”
The doorbell rang as I carried on a conversation with my completely inanimate object. I was losing it. Gone off my rocker, as my grandaddy used to say.
The bell rang again, followed by the sharp rap of knuckles on the door.
It couldn’t be one of my brothers. Mav and Clara were still getting settled in Seattle, where they’d live during the hockey season. Sutton and Luke would just barge in using their keys after the first time I didn’t answer.
“Go the fuck away!” I shouted from the couch.
“Killian, you answer this goddamned door, or I’ll break that window and come in that way.” Jackie Russell, my manager, shouted back. Her voice was strong and a little terrifying.
With a long-suffering sigh, I adjusted myself in my boxer briefs and stumbled to the door. Was I still drunk? Maybe I should put some pants on? Shrugging, I continued on. She’d seen me at my worst before. She’d survive.
She banged on the door again as I unlocked it.
“Hold your horses, darlin’. I’m comin’.”
I opened the door and was met with the woman who had taken on the job of holding my balls firmly in check the last five years.
“Jesus, Killian, put some clothes on. You look like a goddamned underwear model...on Instagram…maybe TikTok. Actually, now that I’ve said it, that’s not a bad idea…” Her face crinkled in disapproval as she got closer. “And you smell like a whiskey distillery. This is what you’re doing with your life? Ignoring my phone calls, texts, and emails and drowning your liver in alcohol? Are you trying to join the 27 club? It’s not a good look. No one will remember you fondly. They’ll say, here lies Killian Wilde; he had so much potential but couldn’t cut it because he was a selfish bastard.”
I winced. God, she was harsh. I’d hate to be her kid.
