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It was better he didn’t answer at all.
His phone went off again and he gave up trying to ignore the insistent chime. Looking didn’t mean he had to answer.
An unfamiliar number showed up on his Caller ID and he debated just dropping the cell back into the tray. But curiosity had him lifting his phone to his ear. “Yeah?” he said, fully expecting it to be a sneak attack from the record company.
They’d already sprung a visit with some new up-and-coming songwriter on him for the week after next. The dude was in some kind of rock-metal outfit, for fuck’s sake. What did he know about writing country songs?
Wade had said yes anyway, because the fact was, his album sales were down. Lonestar Angel had moved half the units of his previous release, and radio wasn’t playing him like they once were. Without tour dates to get him back in front of the fans until the fall when his next unnamed single was scheduled to drop, he had no way of reconnecting with his base.
Maybe new music—music he hadn’t written—was exactly what he needed, but damn if it didn’t sting.
The pause on the other end of the phone ended with the clearing of a throat. “Wade, is that you?”
Wade frowned. The voice was vaguely familiar, like a song he hadn’t heard in too many years to count. “Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Joel Rodriguez. From—”
“I know where you’re from.” Quinn. Joel was from Quinn. Fuck. Had thinking about his old hometown been enough to conjure one of his old buddies? “This is a surprise.”
“Not a welcome one, it sounds like.” Joel laughed. “Am I calling at a bad time?”
“Yes. No. Shit, let me pull over. I’m on the road.”
“Oh, are you on the way to a show?”
The excitement in the other man’s voice made Wade grin before the disappointment in himself reared up once again. He wasn’t on the way anywhere if he didn’t figure out how to up his worth to the record company. “Nah, just driving to clear my head. Trying to come up with some new music. You know how it is.” The lie came easily, like so many others had recently.
No, I’m not having trouble coming up with new material.
No, I’m not frustrated, pissed off and bored.
No, I haven’t turned my back on this life.
That was the biggest one of them all, because part of him had. He’d stopped connecting with the fans when his sense of isolation within Nashville had reached critical mass. Instead of his years in the biz making it easier for him to meet new people, he was retreating into himself more and more. The mask he’d once worn to make it seem like he belonged had fallen away, and he couldn’t set it back in place no matter how hard he tried.
“Oh sure. I get it. You creative types need your mental space,” Joel teased, his familiar voice tossing Wade into the past so swiftly that he wondered when he’d stepped out of his Silverado and into a DeLorean.
The road in front of him melted away, becoming an acre of shimmering green grass. Joel, the center on the team, flashed Wade a grin as he walked up to the football and prepared to kick. It was an often-thankless job on the squad, but a hasty kick could set the wrong tone for an entire game. Tonight, Wade was feeling good. Ready to do some damage. With the roar of the hometown crowd in his ears, he glanced toward the cheerleaders, hoping to catch a glimpse of Charlene in her short black and silver skirt.
And he did. Oh, he did, but she was smiling at Colt. Pound for pound, a star linebacker was almost always worth more attention than the kicker who played his guitar better than he ran the field.
“You know it,” Wade said, steering to the side of the road so abruptly that Melody lifted her head and let out a low yelp. “Sorry, baby.” He patted her head and turned off the truck. For once, he didn’t want to listen to music.
Not even his own.
“So how’ve you been?” Wade asked into the silence, surprised to realize his palm was clammier than it had been just a moment ago. “It’s been a damn long time.”
“Too long. We haven’t talked in what, two years? Three?”
“Something like that. Damn shame how time gets away from us.”
“It is.” Joel sighed. “Look, Wade, this isn’t just a social call. I have some difficult news.”
Images flashed in Wade’s mind. His little sister, Hollie, nestled away in the library, surrounded by books older than she was. Colt, running with those stupid earbuds in his ears, music set on scream. His mama, rocking on her porch swing. His pop, working the land without a cross word no matter how long or hard the day he’d put in.
Charli. God, Charli.
“Who?” Wade asked, unable to say more.
