Hillbilly Rockstar (10 page)

Trace popped open the soda and started pacing again, more than ready to do something, anything. His head pounded. If the damn lights weren't fixed in the next thirty seconds he was going to shove a microphone up someone's ass.

"Cut!" the director called again. "No, no. That's not right. You need to move left, remember? Stage left. And watch the marks on the stage. That's why they're there. Are you an idiot or something?"

Molly, one of the youngest performers on the show, stood still on the stage. She'd practiced her performance three times since Trace had come from backstage and each time had moved right instead of left, forgotten to look towards the camera or the audience area, and missed an entire verse. Trace knew she was tired. Hell, they were all tired. He was ready to break the director in half, especially when the girl started to cry.

"Dammit," Trace yelled, and stalked toward the director. "Hey, Buddy, what is wrong with you?" Trace was in the man's face, nose to nose. "She's doing her best. That's what rehearsal is for, Dumbass."

"You are not directing, I am. You are the idiot they hired to host this crap. So shut up and get out of my face," he yelled back.

Anger coursed through Trace's body, down his arm, into a fist. He punched the director square on the jaw with a powerful right jab. The director fell, knocking over a chair, a script stand, and almost hitting a camera. The crew and performers scattered, not wanting to get into the fray.

"You do not call me an idiot, Idiot!" Trace towered over the man on the floor. "You do not call me anything, do you understand me? It is time to leave. It is time to end this, right now." Trace picked up the fallen chair and threw it toward the stage where Molly stood, frozen, tears streaming down her face.  

The chair hit the stage with a
thud
and the entire studio fell silent. Trace, his breathing heavy, his heart pounding, his fist clenched, came back to his senses and looked around. He saw the director on the floor holding his jaw, the girl on the stage crying, everyone staring. His fist loosened, his hand fell to his side. "Fuck," he cursed, and walked out of the studio.

Chapter Eleven

Lisa could not believe what she was seeing. Tanya had called her not five minutes earlier and told her to check her email for a link. "It's everywhere," she'd said.

"What's everywhere? I'm trying to get ready for dinner, Tanya. I just put on my dress. I don't have time to watch puppies or something on You Tube."

"Check your email. You need to see this," her friend said before ending the call.  

Lisa watched in horror as Trace -- his image grainy from the cell phone recording but still recognizable -- yelled at the director of the show, punched him, threw a chair toward the stage where Molly Sims, the young girl Lisa had seen perform Saturday night, was standing on stage, and stalked out. The video's description named Trace directly and brought up a few of his past exploits, enough to make him seem temperamental and unstable. Comments offered ideas on what the argument had been about. "Did someone eat his strawberries?" one commenter asked.

Lisa watched the video three times, still not believing Trace had done those things. "Why? Why would you do this?" she asked the image, no explanation clear.

She dug through her purse and found her cell phone. As she dialed his number she heard familiar sounds from the television behind her. She'd turned it on for noise as she got dressed and now the video was being played on the five o'clock news.

"Grammy-winner Trace Harper, as seen in this video, apparently had a break down during a rehearsal of his new reality show this afternoon. Harper is a well-known former country singer and local favorite. He's known for his antics after a show, but this is a side of him that no fan has seen before. We have reaction from some local fans."

The camera cut away from the studio to a man-on-the-street interview.  

"Yeah, I saw the Trace Harper video on the Internet. I've been to a concert, I know he gets kind of wild. But that was crazy. I mean, throwing the chair at that girl and punching the director? I think the director's right. He is an idiot."

Lisa sat through the entire segment. It couldn't have lasted for more than two minutes, but by the end of the segment she'd heard supposition that Trace was an alcoholic, he was high on something, he had anger issues, he'd been having an affair with the young singer on stage -- that was a very interesting premise -- and there was speculation on whether he had been a good choice for the show and if he would be cut.

"If Trace Harper is cut from
The Next Country Star
, that would mean the show has gone through three male co-stars in as many years," the reporter stated. "Could the show be cursed when it comes to male performers?"

Frustrated, Lisa hit the off button on the remote. She had to fix this. This was her job. The date would have to wait. Unfortunately, she sighed. She opened her dresser to drag out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt to change into when her doorbell rang.

###

"Trace, what are you doing here?" He stood on her front porch, dressed in his usual outfit of jeans and button-up shirt, boots, black hat. "I was just about to call you."

"Let's go. I need to get out of here." He reached out, tried to take her hand.

"Wait, what happened at the studio?" She pulled her hand out of his reach.

He pushed his hat back, his eyes narrowed. "How do you know something happened?"

"Trace, it's all over the Internet. Someone took a video with their phone and uploaded it to You Tube. It was just on the news."

"Shit." Trace stomped, walked in a circle, his hands clenching into fists.

Lisa heard her cell phone ring. "Come inside, let me get my phone and change."

He followed her into the small house, stopping in the entry way instead of following her to the bedroom. Her phone had stopped ringing. Lisa checked the screen -- missed call from Leon. She sighed. She wasn't looking forward to that conversation.

She tossed the jeans and shirt she'd grabbed out of the dresser on the bed. "Let me change clothes, then we can talk about what happened. That was Leon on the phone, but I won't call him back until I hear your side of this."

"Wait," Trace said, appearing at her bedroom door. "Let's go, right now. I want to take you somewhere."

Lisa looked down at the green dress she'd bought Sunday. "Trace, I'm a bit overdressed, considering we can't go on our date. I need to deal with what happened."

He stalked to her, crossing the room in two giant steps. He ran his fingers through her hair, skimmed his hands over her body. They slid over the slick material of her dress, around her waist and down her butt. He pulled her close and lowered his lips to hers, kissing her like he couldn't get enough. He punished her mouth with his lips, his tongue forcing its way inside. She opened to him, her arms snaking around his neck for balance. Just as her knees sagged and her body grew limp, he was gone, pushing her away. But not a rejection, a pause, a brief delay.

"Put on your boots and let's go. It's not far."

Lisa fumbled in the closet and grabbed her favorite pair of cowboy boots. In seconds, she'd pulled on her socks and the boots. She snagged her purse from the chair next to the bed.

"Let's go," Trace said, reaching for her hand. This time she took it.

They headed out of the city, taking the interstate south for a few miles before exiting onto a two-lane country road. It had been a long time since Lisa had been out of the city, had explored the more rural area outside of Nashville. She'd found a few places to ride when she'd first moved to the city but as life got busier it was easier to stay close to work and friends and fun.

"Where are we going?" she asked. Trace lifted her hand, kissed it, then lowered it to the seat. He still gripped her hand -- he hadn't let it go since they'd climbed into the cab of his F250. When he didn't say anything, Lisa gave up, looked out the window. Hay, cows, trees, barns. For almost twenty minutes they sped through the Tennessee countryside.

Trace slowed and turned into a rutted, gravel driveway. He was cautious as he drove, making sure the truck didn't bounce as he avoided the trench eroded in the middle of the dirt.

“
Where are we?” Visions of haunted houses and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre crept into Lisa's mind.

“
My house.”

Trace pulled up in front of an old farmhouse surrounded by a fenced pasture overgrown with grass. An old barn was further up the hill to the right.

Lisa got out of the truck and walked toward the house. She was quiet, in deference to the serenity and sacred feeling the old house inspired. It looked lost and alone. But as she stepped closer, she felt a quiet anticipation, as if the house was sitting, waiting on them to do something. Trace walked up the drive and stood beside her.

“
You have an apartment in town.”

“
I do. It's more convenient. But this is where I grew up, mostly.” He passed her, heading up to the porch. “Come on, let's go inside.”

Chapter Twelve

“
Is it safe?” The grass seemed to have been kept trimmed, as well as the bushes growing near the house. It wasn't overgrown with vines, the porch didn't sag and the windows weren't broken. But Lisa felt it was better to be safe than sorry.

“
Sure, it's safe. I make sure all repairs are made, grass cut, everything. Sometimes I'll come out here, stay for a weekend if I need some quiet.”

She climbed up the porch stairs behind him and followed him inside, not sure why he'd brought her there.

“
This was my grandparents' house. They pretty much raised me during the summers and I moved here when I turned eighteen.” They entered a large living room, a fireplace against one wall. The floors were hardwood with scratches from generations of Harpers that had come before Trace had ever been born. Furniture was covered with white sheets and dust floated on rays of diluted sunshine from the windows.

“
I'll show you around. The kitchen's back here.” Trace led her through an archway into a comfortable, modern kitchen. “I had this remodeled for my grandmother after my first album went platinum. She had a blast picking out the appliances, the tile, the counter tops. The exterior is pretty much the same, but I did have some insulation blown in and some other work done to make the house more comfortable for them.”

“
That was kind of you.” Lisa touched his back, listened to him speak of the people he obviously cared about.

“
It was the least I could do.” He walked over to the counter, ran his hand over the granite surface. “Come on, let's go upstairs.”

They passed under the arch again and climbed the stairs, Lisa holding onto the railing. She'd seen a tiny half-bath under the staircase as they'd passed. The wall leading up to the second floor was bare, but she could see outlines where photos had hung for years and left their square shadows behind.

At the second floor landing he took her first into the large bedroom at the end of the hall, then the smaller one in the middle.

“
The large one was my grandparents' room, and this was mine. We started with just the one bathroom at the end of the hall, that way.” He pointed to the opposite direction. “I added the half-bath downstairs later.”

They entered his boyhood bedroom. The walls were bare, like the ones downstairs, but there was furniture covered by sheets here as well – a desk where she imagined him reading or working on a project, a full-size bed, a four-drawer dresser.

“
It's not much, but I loved it here. Grandpa taught me how to play the guitar. We'd sit outside on the porch after supper, and while the sun went down Grandma would swing on the porch swing and Grandpa and I would sit on the steps. He taught me the basics, of course, then some songs. Dixie, Rocky Top.” Trace smiled and Lisa could only imagine the visions, the memories running through his mind. “They died six years ago, left the place to me. And now I could lose it.”

“
What do you mean, lose it?” Lisa touched his arm, looked up at him with concern. “How?”

“
If I lose the show because of what I did today, I could lose this place.” Trace sighed, took off his hat and set it on the dresser. He sat on the sheet-covered bed and ran his fingers through his hair. “My ex-wife, Trixie, she had my power-of-attorney while I was on tour. She went to the bank and took out a loan on this place. I never knew about it, not until Charlie got sick and then I guess the bills stopped getting paid. I was paying on a loan and never knew it. How messed up is that?”

Lisa sat next to him, smoothing her dress behind her as she sat. “So did you work it out with the bank?”

“
I have payment arrangements. I have to pay it all off by the time the show ends. Otherwise they're going to foreclose.” He looked at Lisa and she saw the tears in his eyes. “I can't lose this place. This house, this land, this was home to me. Not my mom's apartment in Chicago. Not my dad's house with his new family. This was my home.”

Lisa took his hand in hers, tangled her fingers between his, and lifted his hand to her lips. She kissed it, the same way he'd kissed her hand in the truck on the ride over.

“
Trace, I don't know what Leon is going to say about what happened. I need to call him soon. But no matter what he says, I will do everything in my power to make sure you don't lose the show or your home.”

He leaned over, still holding her hand, and kissed her. Her lips parted and she returned his kiss, letting him know without a doubt how she felt about him. She released his hand and skimmed her hands up his arms, up his shoulders, into his thick hair. Trace leaned her back on the bed, his hand trailing down her hip and lifting her booted legs from the floor, spreading them open and settling between her thighs.

He broke the kiss and rose above her, moving his hands up her thighs, under her dress. Oh, God, a thong. He caressed her through the thin black fabric. Lisa moaned, her eyes closed, and writhed against his hand. Trace trailed a finger down the curved band, moved it out of the way, and touched her, felt her grow damp.