Love Strung

  Love Strung

  A Novel

  Jamie W. Matlock

  Copyright 2015 Jamie W. Matlock

  Cover Design: Fiona Jayde Media

  To family, health and happiness.

  Special thanks to my wonderful Beta Readers: Mr. Handyman Matlock, Mara de Guzman, Jennifer Valencia and Katorah Kenway

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prologue

  I didn't exactly know what I wanted to be when I grew up. Not for a long time anyway. Some people just have it all figured out. Take my sister, Kole, for example. She had been training to be a professional tennis player her entire life. There wasn’t a single moment that hadn't been centered around that goal since the age of six. Her life had been a monotonous routine of waking up, eating the right things, working out, training and competing. Sleep - making sure to receive the full recommended eight hours - wake up the next morning, lather, rinse and repeat.

  Me on the other hand? I was a woman who was still sort of trying to figure it out. Which was okay by most people's standards because most people my age were still in college or heading off into the workforce to make their mark on the world. But I was different - not held to the same standards because I had a successful older sister and a demanding father whose expectations towered above most.

  I had always known what I was passionate about. It was just an added bonus that I was as gifted at music as I was zealous, and I had been since the day I was born. Or so said my mom who swore that I came into the world singing - red peach fuzz, balled up fists, hazel eyes and chubby cheeks, singing Dolly Parton "Islands in the Stream". Of course, her memories of my first days on Earth were probably diluted by the post C-section morphine, but I liked the story nonetheless.

  There were two big differences between Kole and myself. The first being that we only shared half of our DNA. The fact that we were only half-sisters had come as quite a shock to the both of us - news that, initially I hadn't taken well, but had come to terms with shortly after. We shared the same mother, but not the same father. Kole had gotten a break and I was stuck with the uncaring, unfeeling Bernie Masters and all of his shortcomings.

  The other difference - and the one that I perceived as being the biggest - was that she was disciplined, liked the structure of being a professional athlete, of being on a schedule. She was somewhat of a checklist super fan and she hated any sort of deviation from that structure. Her inability to simply let go was precisely why she had almost let Santiago Martinez slip right through her tennis induced, blistered fingers. But her focus had ascended her through the ranks, her star rising from being an amateur to touring around the world on the WTA circuit.

  I was proud of her and all of her successes. I mean, why wouldn't I be? Her life was admirable. She was a success. But, to me, her life was boring. And, Santiago aside - her magnificently tanned, toned and sculpted Spanish tennis player fiancé - her life had been one big fat yawn. All of that stressing over every minor detail over every little thing, all of that fine tooth combing, the look-before-you-do-anything attitude made me nauseous.

  Because I, Kennedy Masters, was more of an attempt-to-color-within-the-lines-only-when-necessary type of woman. I enjoyed the freedom of life. Go wherever the wind blows you. Take each moment as it comes and live it to the absolute fullest. I quite liked the unexpected, not knowing what was going to come next. The fact that I considered each day a blank canvas and my opportunity to paint it was exactly why the musician lifestyle was right up my alley.

  There was one very significant, very noteworthy problem with my choice of lifestyle. A musician's salary was shit until you hit the big time. And, admittedly, I was a far cry from hitting the big time. The thing about Nashville was this: While you might've been the best in your city, so too were 'they' and 'they' had all come to this city to pursue the same dream as you. The competition was tough. Making money from performing in this town was even tougher.

  Not too long ago, I thought I might've been gaining momentum, finally getting there, but the record deal that I had signed had turned into more of a development deal and my label and I were at odds. Call it creative differences. Whatever it was, it had put me in a funk, my brain on artistic pause. Not a good place to be when your source of income was intended to come from your artistry. Especially since I'd stopped depositing Bernie's checks, given up my downtown apartment and sold most of my things with the intent to make it on my own, to live up to the phrase struggling musician.

  Lately, my fingers hesitated over ripe strings, something they had never done. I had killed more trees in the past six months than I had in my entire life, which was saying something considering my affinity towards making basketballs out of lyrical duds. I couldn't quite wrap my mind around the root of the problem, but every time I sat down with my guitar, my brain turned to sludge, which ultimately led my hand to anything tall and strong. I at least had a diligent manager who, although a bit spacey, believed in me enough to land me a gig singing back-up for country music's hottest superstar, McGuire "Mick" Callahan.

  Trevor Mathis had found me a week after my arrival to Music City in a dilapidated bar that served cheap pizza and even cheaper beer, singing for the five people who occupied the establishment - all of which were on the payroll. No one would've stepped foot in the place otherwise. The reason for his presence at the rundown shack was still a bit unclear, but besides being a little flaky at times and his habit of sweating profusely under pressure, I couldn't complain with the services rendered. He had, after all, gotten me this gig and although not my ideal set of circumstances, it was at least drawing me a paycheck.

  There were a few things that had become alarmingly clear since I had joined the tour: 1) back-up singer's pay was peanuts, 2) I hated pleather and 3) Mick Callahan looked spectacular in jeans. The rhinestones glued expertly to the ass of them spelling out a very manly 'M' on the left pocket and a "C" on the right, sparkled at me from his spot at the front of the stage. The health risks associated with dreaming about rhinestones and firm asses every night was still unclear, but I'd started a journal and was committed to documenting my findings in the future.

  The heavy lighting made an arch over the crowd, spotlighting smiley-faced, drunken women and equally intoxicated men, all donning their finest country western attire, before swinging back to the stage and landing directly on me. I squinted, wanting desperately to shield my eyes from the glaring light, but continued my back and forth dance moves instead, shifting my weight from one foot to the other and adding a mandatory snap after each hip move. I was becoming quite the expert at this particular move. Doing it constantly for two hours straight, multiple times a week had afforded me that luxury. I had already added it to my professional resume under the 'Personal' section. It read: Flygirl who gave up her spot to Jennifer Lopez in the name of being friendly. All jokes aside, if the move consisted of a hip swing and a snap, I was your girl.

  I didn't consider myself ripe for this job. The women flanking either side of me were honed, expertly trained back-up singers and had been in this particular area of the entertainment industry for quite some time. They were content with the job title, okay with being pigeonholed into one facet of the business. But me? I'd like to think that I had more to give to the business than this.

  I wasn't altogether ungrateful for the opportunity. Far from it, actually. Turning my back on monthly allowance checks
from my father - something that I'd taken because I felt that Bernie owed it to me for being such an absolute prick to my sister and for not caring one way or the other about me - had left me with little other choice. It was sink or swim. And I fully intended to swim.

  So, I was stuck on this tour making peanuts and singing back-up for a rhinestoned ass. At least part of the equation wasn't unbearable. As the final song hit the last note, Mick turned that exact rhinestoned backside to the crowd, thrust his microphone into the air and slung his guitar over his shoulder so that it hung over his back, affording the audience a glimpse of his scripted name across the expensive wood.

  That was the ending to his show. And that was where all of my trouble began.

  Chapter One

  The crowd screamed and chanted Mick's name, the dark arena dotted with camera flashes and glow sticks. His fans yearned for one more encore that wouldn't come. I wanted a piece of that.

  I was riding the euphoric high, soaring from the aftermath of a successful show, of being on stage and hearing the crowd roar, hoping, begging for another piece of you. My ears had that ring to it; the hangover of every concertgoer who had listened to music at a deafening volume for two hours that usually took about the same amount of time to get over afterwards.

  I turned to my left, smiling over at Julie Sinatra - to my knowledge, no relation to Frank - who we lovingly referred to as Jewels. I think in large part because she wore so many sparkly, glittering things on her wrists, fingers and in her ears that it seemed only fitting.

  "Great show, Kid." She smiled back at me, running a hand through her teased hair. Jewels was an eighties teenager who had yet to realize that that particular decade had left us over twenty years ago. She had once been beautiful, but her face now carried the burden of a life lived on the road and one-too-many whiskey straights.

  I fought the urge to tell myself that I was headed in the same direction, and if I couldn't resist the alcohol, my face would bear the same lines. But it was hard to quit when most days the drink was the only thing that seemed to help me cope with the words that wouldn't come and the blank pages that came along with it.

  We exited the stage, crewmembers dressed in black ushering us back into a dimly lit hallway.

  "Thanks," I responded, my enthusiasm shining through. I couldn't smolder the fire burning inside me from the thrill of a screaming crowd and the rush of performing.

  Melissa let out a condescending snort. She flipped her stiff, overly treated curls and rolled the brown eyes that matched the color of her hair. I wasn't sure of Melissa's story, but I was well aware of her poor attitude, and the fact that she considered herself tour royalty.

  "What now, Sweets? You got a run in your panty hose from pulling them on and off too many times over the past few months?" Jewels beamed broadly, happy with the opportunity that she had been permitted.

  Ouch. Melissa's promiscuity was well known, but publicizing it seemed like a bold move considering her recent overnights on Mick's tour bus.

  "Watch it, you'll create a new wrinkle," Mel spat back.

  Double ouch. I visibly flinched.

  Jewel's mouth shot into a thin line, her eyes allowing a sliver of hurt before she was able to mask the pain from the verbal blow. Jewels being upset - especially at the hands of Mel - didn't particularly sit well with me. I had come to consider her a friend, someone who knew the business from decades of service, someone who had seen and heard a lot of things - knew a lot of people - and she'd taken me under her wing, making sure I knew the ins and outs. She'd made sure that I both knew and understood what type of person Mel was too, and I'd managed to steer clear of her ever since…Until now.

  I was ill prepared to give up my current source of income to a woman whose legs couldn't stay planted on the ground, but I didn't appreciate the callousness of her words. I'd never been good at just letting things go or backing down from a fight. Had I been more like Kole, I would've considered my options, realized that I'd be best served by keeping my mouth shut and simply walked away. But because I was just the opposite, I caved.

  "You've got a lot of nerve," I mumbled with enough venom in my voice to garner a look of surprise from both women. I stepped closer to Mel, lowering my voice so I wouldn't draw the attention of unwanted bystanders. "Jewels has more talent in her pinky than you have in your entire body," I said, my eyes narrowing, "and if you think-"

  "Ladies," a masculine voice drawled out the word.

  I froze. I knew that voice. Think, think, think…Shit! When the vision finally formed in my mind, placing voice with identity, I realized my misstep. Clearly I had a strong desire to ruin what little chance I had at a career. I could hear Kole's voice in my head, informing me that my inability to control my temper would be my undoing. That and the fact that you can't put pencil to paper. I shook my head, releasing the last thought from my mind.

  I spun around slowly, my features shifting into a smile. Had I not been so busy hoping that he hadn't heard my outburst and thinking of ways to maneuver my way out of a self-created, sticky situation if he had, I would've appreciated the view.

  "Mick," Mel purred.

  "Melissa," he acknowledged with a small nod, before his gaze leisurely found mine. His eyes slid down to my breasts, then farther South to my hips before retracing their tracks back upwards.

  Shit, shit, shit. My heart was palpitating - an action that I didn't appreciate considering the ease with which I typically handled these situations. The brim of his signature Stetson hung low, almost covering his eyes, casting a dark shadow across the bridge of his nose that danced along his cheeks. He pinched the brim with his pointer finger and thumb, tipping it forward as a greeting before sliding it just far enough back to afford me the luxury of those stunning blue orbs.

  He had melted panties off of hoards of women with those eyes. I was as sure of that fact as I was unsure about my music career. My brain was throwing up red flags left and right. Blue eyes mixed with a muscular build and a firm ass just so happened to be my favorite male cocktail. Not good.

  My heart was not supposed to be doing crazy happy dances...Not for the talent. I could hear Trevor's voice in my head telling me that, absolutely, under no circumstance, was I to drool over, lock lips with or fall into bed with the key players. Mick Callahan was definitely a key player, and I was definitely contemplating all of the above.

  "Are you okay?" he questioned, a smirk playing upon his lips.

  I shook my head, shaking Trevor and his warnings from my mind. Somewhere amidst my thoughts of lust, he had spoken to me and I hadn't heard. Hence the reason for the disturbed look he was giving me. I had been too busy calculating the amount of real estate on his lips that I'd like to nibble to make any sense of what he'd been saying. I cleared my throat, pulling myself together with a casual smile.

  "I'm sorry. I just can't hear very well," I said motioning towards my ears. Blaming my social clumsiness on the aftermath of the loud music seemed like a good enough scapegoat. "What were you saying?" I tilted my head to the side, narrowing my hazel eyes in question.

  "What's your name, Sweetie?" His lips formed the words like he was making love to them, his velvety voice gripping each well-aligned disk as it traveled down my spine.

  Normally I wouldn't have appreciated being called Sweetie by someone I barely knew. But staring at him now, the front half of the man whose back half had been pined over and dreamt about since I'd joined the tour, I deduced that I would afford him this one slipup. I knew I should've walked away right then and there. But I, unfortunately, was interested, curious and had been presented with the perfect opportunity for revenge. Nothing would make me happier than making Mel squirm in her pleather.

  Mel huffed from beside us. It was just enough to break his concentration and momentarily refocus his mind so that intentionally omitting my name wouldn't seem so obvious. He shot her an unappreciative glance that left little to the imagination about what it was that he meant. Whatever they had had, was over. Finished. Done.
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  "I'd like to have drinks with you. Celebrate you joining the tour," he drawled, lifting the hem of his shirt as he looped his thumbs through the belted jeans. I couldn't help but notice the fist-sized belt buckle that shone back at me, his initials scrawled across the front of the silver metal.

  Wonder if his underwear is branded too…My body went rigid with the thought.

  "I've been on the tour for almost a month," my mouth retorted. The three hundred dollars left to my name came to mind, reminding me that I needed to tread lightly - maybe be a little less Kennedy and try to channel some inner-Kole. "I'm sorry," I said with enough politeness to make it sound sincere.

  The bitter taste that the apology left in my mouth was made tolerable only when a vision of my former downtown apartment came to mind. I had apologized to keep this job, I rationalized. I was homeless, probably label-less and had only a suitcase full of clothes, a small storage unit outside of Nashville that I probably wouldn't be able to pay the following month and my mom's guitar to my name.

  He chuckled - seriously laughed out loud. His thick chest heaved up and down with the sound, drawing my eyes to the sculpted pectorals that were clearly visible through his form fitting 'Born to be a Rebel' t-shirt. "Feisty. I like that," he admitted, his voice dipping low and doing that soft, velvety caressing thing that I didn't appreciate. "Sometimes I get so caught up with the tour that I don't notice. Tonight, I noticed."

  Must've been the exceptional dance moves.

  "That's nice," I managed. I didn't like the fact that my voice came out an octave higher or that it cracked on the second word, making me seem like a complete idiot where the male species was concerned. At least the words were noncommittal.

  "Yeah, it is," he mumbled, his eyes unable to hide their own curious intrigue. He hadn't taken the words as they'd been meant. He had seen them as a challenge. A challenge that he had already mentally accepted.