Muse: ( Groupie Volume 2 of 2) Read online

  Muse

  Copyright © 2017 by Susan Daugherty

  Cover design and title page by Ana Grigoriu-Voicu

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Copyright credit and acknowledgment for the following songwriters of which small portions were used: “Stupid Boy”: Dave Berg, Deanna Bryant, Sarah Buxton Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc., Universal Music Publishing Group, Spirit Music Group. “Shameless”: Billy Joel Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, “I told you so”: Randy Travis Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

  ~Sanctuary Publishing~

  *

  *

  *

  DEDICATION:

  TO MY DAD

  WHOSE BELIEF IN ME WAS ALWAYS GREATER THAN MY OWN

  *

  *

  *

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Trees blurred into a tall line of shadows. The sun peeked over the horizon, giving a soft illumination to the outside world. The steady hum of the bus’s engine, along with the gentle rocking motion, tried to lull me back to sleep. It was no use. I awoke early with a jolt that made me sit up in bed, and rest eluded me ever since. The cause of what interrupted my slumber was a mystery. If I had a nightmare, I couldn’t remember it now. Perhaps it was just my heart, still crippled and demanding to be heard.

  Since eight o’clock, I stared out the window of the bus, seated in the kitchen booth, my knees pulled up to my chest with my arms wrapped around them, as if I could simply comfort myself out of heartache. Helen was beyond the closed partition, driving the coach four hours to Huntsville, Alabama, just as planned. Everything continued on schedule. The outside world kept right on spinning. Everyone else on tour was moving along as usual, excited for the next show.

  Everyone, except for Jack Morgan and me.

  Our world crashed around us in the previous days. We navigated new waters, trying to keep from drowning. I knew options existed. I could quit. I could quit the tour and leave Jackson without a physical therapist to complete his rehab for the next three months on the road. It would mean breaking my contract and going back on my word; it would mean failure. It wasn’t in my nature to give up, so I decided to stick with it and try to make it palatable.

  One thing stood true, I couldn’t forget each detail of our journey so far. It seemed like much longer than a month ago that my best friend, Ashley, dragged me to Jack’s concert in Knoxville. The night I witnessed a massive light pole fall across the stage and break two bones in his leg. The night that changed my life forever.

  I sighed and rubbed by face back and forth in my hands, trying to physically erase the memories from my head. When that didn’t work, I pressed my fists against my forehead in frustration. Tears stung behind my eyelids, but I refused to let a single one escape, I looked upward and blinked rapidly to force them back.

  The large wall calendar hanging behind Jackson’s desk caught my eye, and I felt compelled to rise from the booth and move across the space toward it. Andy’s neat print covered each day of April. As Jack’s assistant, he kept track of each city stop on the tour, the days allowed for travel, and the publicity events. I flipped the page back a month and traced my finger over March 30. Departing Knoxville. My chest constricted. It was the day I arrived with my suitcase to join the crazy tour group, leaving behind my home.

  I browsed the dates for all of our stops—Tampa on April 1, then onto Gainesville, Jacksonville, Savannah, and Augusta. April 20 and 21 had Atlanta scrawled across them, and my stomach churned in response. The city held both the best and worst memories of my life so far: an incredible birthday celebration from Jackson that led to our undeniable chemistry crossing the line into romance ... followed by my choice to end our fledgling relationship because of pressure from my bosses. Then, his drunken retaliation.

  I shuddered and returned to the booth, tucking my knees up to my chest again. I promised to stop rehashing the details and second-guessing myself, or I would go mad. There were simply too many should-have, would-have, could-haves to count. If only I never agreed to go on tour. If only I kept my professional distance. If only I stood up to my boss, instead of giving into her ultimatum. If only Jackson waited one more night before running to his groupies.

  Outside the window, the tree line became sparse, and buildings dotted the interstate in regular intervals. Traffic grew around us, distracting me from my endless thoughts. I heard the unmistakable sound of Jackson moving around in his room, one crutch thudding the ground with each step he took. I braced myself for the sight of him when he opened his bedroom door and stepped into view. He paused in the alcove between his room and my bunk, then turned to survey the living area until his eyes locked with mine.

  My breath caught in my throat while my body betrayed me, filling with butterflies at the first glimpse of him. Why did he always look so edible when he woke up? Messy, brown curls, sleepy, blue eyes, and low-slung pajama pants suited him.

  “Mornin’, Lexie,” he said in a soft voice as he stretched his arms overhead and yawned. I watched his bicep and pectoral muscles flex, then jerked my eyes back to meet his. Looking at his eyes was even worse than at his body, so I averted my gaze to focus on my hands instead. This was torture.

  “Um, hi. Good morning, I mean,” I stammered like an idiot, still looking away.

  He cleared his throat and asked, “You okay?”

  No, of course not. What a stupid question. I met his eyes again and lied, “Sure, of course. Um, I didn’t start you any coffee, I wasn’t sure when you’d get up.”

  “Don’t worry about that, you don’t even drink the stuff. I’ll make some when I get out of the shower.” He turned toward the bathroom, then looked back. “But ... thank you, anyway.”

  I shrugged, trying to swallow the lump in
my throat. Sitting there like a zombie didn’t hide the fact that I was a mess, so I got up to start cooking breakfast. If I sat in the booth and brooded all day, he’d realize how unsure I still felt of my choice. I was the one, after all, who insisted we return to professional boundaries with the hope of being friends again. He wanted another chance to call our mistakes a draw and start over romantically, but I simply couldn’t get over the image of finding him in the bunk with two girls. Though I did believe his story that he stopped before actually crossing home plate with them, it was still too much.

  I finished cooking sausage, scrambled eggs, and toast when he emerged from the bathroom. He was dressed for therapy in his gray gym shorts and white t-shirt. The movement of his abdominal muscles under the fitted shirt distracted me while he limped toward the booth on his crutch. My hands clenched as I remembered touching each ridge of his muscles while we made out, completely swept up in each other. The speed of my breathing increased, and I finally tore my eyes away as he sat down, pulling his cumbersome boot under the table.

  His eyes searched for mine again, and I prayed my thoughts hadn’t been plain to see across my face. I focused on turning off the stove and plating the food. We sat facing each other, eating in awkward silence for a few moments.

  “This was a nice surprise. Thanks for cooking.” His deep voice washed over me, and I once again cursed my body’s response to him.

  “Sure thing. Got to pass the time somehow.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Nothing. I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did. You meant something specific with your hmm.” I knew him too well by now, and he understood he couldn’t get anything by me.

  He sighed. “I couldn’t help it. I just thought that I sure know of ways I’d like to pass the time with you that don’t involve food.”

  A grimace crossed my face. “Jackson—”

  “I know, I know. Sorry. I told you I’d honor your decision. Damn, I don’t want to make things harder.” He stood up quickly, wobbling on his good leg while he arranged his crutch under his arm. He hastily carried one dish at a time to the sink and cleaned the kitchen in silence.

  Not knowing what else to do, I got my Netbook powered up to start a therapy session. After all, that was my reason for being on this tour, for living on his bus, for having any relationship with him at all. I would focus on providing his rehab and getting the best outcome possible for him, while keeping him safe on tour. I’d lost sight of that and fell for him just like so many girls before me. I nearly laughed aloud to think about it. I used to be the one girl who didn’t swoon for him, detested his music, and took my task of knocking his ego as a daily challenge. How had I ever thought we could be together?

  Jackson sank onto the couch next to me and doffed his boot to give me access to his leg. The surgical scars were healing nicely, I noted. My measurements showed less swelling, with exceptions on days when he stayed on his foot too long. I performed edema massage from his foot up toward his knee, and then gently mobilized the ankle and foot bones to keep the joints moving. He responded to my prompts to start on his exercises silently.

  I cleared my throat. “Your ankle looks really good today. How about your hip and back, still feeling better?”

  “Yeah, Doc. I think you’ve straightened them out for now.”

  We were quiet again while I typed the progress note into his medical chart. To break the suffocating tension, I offered, “I’ve never been to Huntsville.”

  He completely ignored my random comment and blurted out, “I read your letter, you know.”

  My fingers stopped typing, but I kept my eyes on the screen. After a steadying breath, I replied, “I shouldn’t have let you see it. You knew it was a moot point.”

  He waited patiently for me to meet his gaze before he spoke again. “It’s worth it—the pain I feel from knowing how much I lost with one stupid mistake—because at least I know you did care for me. It wasn’t just wishful thinking that you felt the same way I did.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and whispered the truth. “Yes, I did. I cared much more than I ever should have allowed myself, and it caused a whole lot of problems.”

  “Is it still fear driving you away from me? Can’t you give me a chance to make it right? I think we deserve that much.”

  “Please, don’t.” I covered my face with both hands until I was composed. “We can’t go back in time, okay? Too much has happened, and we have to move on ... or else I should leave the tour.”

  He shook his head slowly back and forth. “No, don’t do that. I won’t talk about the letter again.”

  “Can we just try to get into a new routine? We’ve got three months to go here.” I was talking to myself as much as him. We had to find a way to be around each other. His head tipped in agreement, and then his phone rang with Amos’s familiar ringtone. For once, I was glad Jack’s manager, and my nemesis, interrupted, and I took my chance to leave the room.

  I couldn’t comprehend how to manage such a strange relationship in close quarters for the months to come. I allowed myself the luxury of hiding away one more time, as I crawled into my bunk, popped in my ear buds, and listened to music for the rest of the ride.

  Chapter 2

  We arrived by afternoon for our stay in Huntsville. Parked on a lake outside of the city for four days, the team prepared for the concert at Probst Arena. Jackson and I managed to settle into the new routine we’d talked about. We remained polite and even managed to smile here and there, but acted far from our old selves. Gone were the lighthearted jokes and teasing, the deep conversations, the comfortable silences, and the easy touches. If he had work to do in the bus, I disappeared with long power walks or hung out on the kitchen bus. If I worked on my case study, he gave me space by heading out to jam with the guys or play poker in the evenings.

  I purposely avoided talking to Ashley until Thursday, the day of the concert, because telling her would confirm the truth. Pretending it was a bad dream wasn’t practical any longer, so I spilled the entire story to my best friend. It sounded like a horrible soap opera plot coming out of my mouth, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity. Though she did implore me to give him another chance, Ashley also extended sympathy. The last thing she said stayed with me the rest of the day. “You know, eventually you may have to end up with him, because with that kind of connection, neither of you will be able to move on.”

  Nerves steadily increased in my belly after we finished the initial arena walkthrough. Caterers served dinner in the lounge, but I barely nibbled as I anticipated the start of the show. Would Jackson want his kiss? Would he sing to me? More importantly, did I want him to do those things, or did I really want to move on? I headed backstage to watch Delilah’s last song, and before I knew it, he appeared next to me.

  “Have I ever told you how many compliments I get on this custom paint job?” He waved his crutch in the air, his lips turned upward. I returned the smile and thought it seemed like a year passed since I painted the camouflage pattern on his crutch as a surprise gift. Too bad it didn’t feel like a year since the last, disastrous concert in Atlanta.

  “Have a great show,” I said meekly, “See you on the dock for the ride back, right? We can start therapy then?”

  “Yeah, I probably need to stay an hour for the meet and greet. You should just come to the lounge.”

  I shrugged and toyed with my hair nervously as the crew changed out the set and the band walked onto the stage. He cleared his throat but his voice was still low, “I still hope you’ll listen to the song of the night. Um, and, maybe I could score a friendly little kiss right here for luck?” He pointed to his cheek and I felt the tension rising between us, making it hard to get a full breath of air into my lungs.

  I rose on my tiptoes and gave a very quick peck before stepping back again. He pressed his lips together, as if assessing my response, and then saluted before he turned on his cue and headed for th
e elevator. I watched the first song, but groups of girls in the front row were literally wearing string bikini tops, and it made me sick as they jumped around and screamed for Jack. I knew, indeed, that he sang a song about such swimwear, but, really, who does that? I walked back to the dressing room to hide out but returned in time for the second to last song, the song Jackson always dedicated to me at each show.

  “Tonight, I had to borrow one from good ol’ Randy Travis because it’s the best song I know about seeking forgiveness.” He began to strum from his perch on the stool, and the band joined. His smooth, rich voice belted out:

  Suppose I called you up tonight, and told you that I loved you,

  and suppose I said, ‘I wanna come back home.’

  I was grateful for my concealment in the curtains, because I knew my face betrayed me, just like the thudding of my heart. I didn’t want to be so affected, but such a classic, beautiful song tore me apart on the inside and my emotions were plain to see.

  If I got down on my knees and told you I was yours forever,

  would you get down on yours, too, and take my hand? ....

  Or would you say, ‘I told you so, I told you so…

  The torturous song lasted an eternity. While half of me wanted to run on stage and throw my arms around him, the other half wanted to run far away and hide. He glanced my way as the song wound down, and I was too slow to put on my neutral mask. He saw the pain and confusion before I finally fled. Like a coward, I stayed in the dressing room instead of going to the after-party, replaying the lyrics in my head and trying to erase them again. Should I respond to the song, or just pretend it didn’t happen? Did it actually require an answer when, in truth, it was sung to an audience of thousands? I needed to stick to my guns and give an honest effort of cooling things off—not jump back in once we got to a new town.

  I made my way into the lounge when it was time to close down the party and leave the arena. My choice to avoid the scene that night was reinforced. The bikini squad had backstage passes and fawned all over Jack and the band. Security ushered the guests out first, then the tour gang was ready to go. I purposefully hung back with Kate to take the last transport car back to the RV park.