I’m not the kind of girl who makes friends easily—mostly because I work as much as I can, and I never have extra money to go shopping or get a pedicure. But now when it matters, and I’m living in a new town and knee-deep in a business where I’m not sure who I can trust, Tana has been a lifesaver.
Her advice was to tell them to fuck off and take my chances. So this morning I grew a pair of lady balls and marched into the office to tell them to screw this JC nonsense because it isn’t worth it.
I just didn’t plan on JC being there too.
“What the hell do you have to complain about?” he says, leaning back in the cushy leather conference room chair. “You’re getting plenty of press. Maybe you’re still too green to realize it, but there ain’t no such thing as bad publicity.”
I want to smack the smug look off JC’s face. He’s baiting me, just waiting to see if I’ll push Morty any further and get myself thrown back on that bus to Podunk.
“Well, in this case, I think you’re wrong,” I say, holding my chin high. “Crushing my career doesn’t seem like good business.”
JC laughs. “You’re just gettin’ started, sweetheart. This is the best thing that ever happened to you. I guess I can try to be a little more discreet . . . ,” he says, glancing at Morty.
Morty nods. “Good, then we’re done here.”
Oh no. No, we are not done here.
“I don’t think so,” I say, and point at JC. “He needs a babysitter to keep it in his pants, not a pretend girlfriend. If you want to save his career, why don’t you focus on putting out more hits, not on his love life?”
“I love when you talk about me like I’m not even here, baby,” JC drawls. “Maybe I’ll write a love song for you. How’d ya like that?”
He was patronizing me. I’ve never been exactly sure what that word means, but I’m pretty sure this is it.
“Don’t call me—” I start.
“Girl, if you don’t—” Morty interrupts, most likely to threaten me some more, but Jim, his partner, jumps to his feet and presses both hands to the solid wood surface of the conference room table.
We both shut up and look his way.
“You know, I think we’re going about this all the wrong way,” Jim says, nodding and looking very much like a man with a plan.
Relief filters through me at the hope that Jim might be seeing some sense. But my hope and relief are doused just as quickly as he continues.
“I don’t think it’s less of a relationship that we need for you two, but more.”
What in the world? More?
I look at JC, but he looks puzzled too.
“Go on,” he says. “I can’t wait to hear this idea.”
I’m pretty sure I could wait the rest of my life and never hear this idea and be perfectly happy. This is probably the moment I should march out of the room and search for some time rewinding device, because I have a feeling things are about to go from bad to worse for me.
Jim looks from JC to me and then back to Morty, his eyes lighting with excitement. “JC and Holly will get engaged; it’ll be perfect. We can set it up so it’s all public.”
He pauses and rubs his hands together like a kid on Christmas morning. “New Year’s Eve. That’s it. Boone and Holly’s tour will be on break, and JC, we got you that spot on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. You can propose at midnight, and it’ll be fucking brilliant PR.”
As my chest tightens in horror, Jim looks at me. “The press will forget about all this bullshit in the papers because they love a good celebrity romance. JC will put out a statement about how he’s been sorting through some things, but now he has his priorities in line and he’s ready to move forward.”
No, this is not happening.
“What?”
My voice, which is capable of hitting some pretty earsplitting high notes when necessary, screeches through the conference room, and for a moment I hope I have the vocal capacity to shatter the glass door.
I don’t.
I look at JC, who has slapped his hands over his ears. “Whoa, girl. Easy on the ears.”
“You can’t agree to this!” I yell. “This is insane!”
Morty slaps the table. “Jesus fucking Christ, Wix. Calm the hell down. It’s not like you have to marry the man. Just pretend to be engaged for four months. Maybe longer, depending on how things go.”
I bite my lip until the coppery tang of blood fills my mouth. It’s the only way I can stop myself from screaming and cursing them out. And maybe, you know, murdering them. I’m from the backwoods; I know how to hide bodies.
One phrase repeats in my head: Maybe longer?
Four months. That’s what’s left of my contract. Four. Months. And then Homegrown won’t own my soul. Oh, they could still try to blackball me, but they won’t have a legal hold over me.
I can’t do this. JC will never agree, either. Right?
I walk around the table to JC and sit down next to him. “You can’t think this is a good idea. You can’t go along with this.”
JC just smiles his easy good-ole-boy smile and lays his hand over mine. “You ever worn a strap-on before, baby? Because I think we can make this work. Country music’s power couple. Fuck, maybe even a real weddin’ and everything.” His eyes rake me up and down. “You’re lookin’ a hell of a lot sexier than the last time I saw you, so why the hell not?”
Oh. My. God.
I yank my hand out from under his. “Never. No way in hell.”