Page 6 of Hideaway Heart

I wondered what would happen when I showed up. Would she accept the situation or would she insist on putting up a fight?

I remembered all that red hair and those loud ruby lips, and I had a feeling I knew what the answer was.

Fine by me.

I liked a good scrap.

TWO

kelly

Two weeks to myself.

Two weeks of peace and freedom and reflection.

Two weeks of being plain old Kelly Jo Sullivan, rather than country music sensation Pixie Hart.

I could get up early or sleep ’til noon. I could spend my days hiking in the sun or reading in the shade. I could sip wine as I watched the moon rise and play my guitar beneath the stars.

I could listen to music or enjoy the silence. I could meditate or masturbate. I could ponder and plan what should come next for me without any other voices in my head.

I wouldn’t have to wear sequins, put rollers in my hair, or sit through two hours of makeup. I wouldn’t have to attend meetings with the suits at PMG Records who didn’t like the lyrics I’d written, the haircut I’d gotten, or the five pounds I’d gained. I wouldn’t have to tell anyone my plans.

If I wanted to go get a cup of coffee, I’d drive myself. If I felt like cupcakes, I’d make them. If I wanted to leave my hair unwashed for a week, no paparazzi was going to catch it on camera.

Don’t get me wrong—I thanked my lucky stars every single day for Pixie Hart’s career, but after the last few months, I needed a little break from her. From everybody.

That’s why I’d fired the security guard my brother had hired. I just wanted to feelnormalfor two weeks, andnormaldid not include an ex-Navy SEAL lummox following me around, watching every move I made.

I sat on my suitcase to get it closed, pumping a fist with triumph when I finally got it zipped. Rising to my feet, I dragged the suitcase into the hall and somehow managed to get it down the wide, curving staircase of my new Nashville home. At barely seven a.m., no one was up—my mom was a late sleeper, especially when my father was around—but I winced at the banging noise my bag made as it thumped on every marble step. I wanted to sneak out of here undetected.

After deactivating the house alarm, I opened the front door and slipped out into the damp heat of a late August morning. In the circular drive was the minivan my assistant, Jess, had rented for me in her name. It was a couple years old, gray and nondescript, with a dent in the bumper and a scratch on the driver’s side door. It looked like a vehicle for a harried soccer mom with three young kids rather than a country music star, which was exactly what I wanted.

I rolled my suitcase down the porch steps—thunk, thunk, thunk—and popped the van’s tailgate, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not lift the damn thing into the back. I was debating transferring some stuff to a second bag when a Chevy truck came careening around the curve of the driveway and screeched to a halt. The door opened, and a middle-aged guy wearing jeans and an ancient Willie Nelson tour T-shirt jumped out. My manager, Rick Wagstaff, or Wags, as everyone called him.

“I got your text.” Wags shook his phone in my direction as he strode toward me. “What do you mean, you fired the bodyguard?”

I sighed. “I shouldn’t have even told you.”

“Kelly Jo, come on. You need security, even up there.”

“I don’t want a stranger with me on my vacation, Wags. And after everything I went through with Duke and then the leaks to the paparazzi on the tour, I’m in a serious no-trust zone right now.”

“I don’t blame you for that.” He tucked his phone into his back pocket. “But this is someone your brother chose.”

“I don’t care.” I paused. “You fix that thing with the disgruntled security guard threatening to sue me?”

“I’m working on it. I don’t think he’ll actually sue. He’s sniffing around for a payout. Claims he was wrongly terminated.”

“Is it possible he wasn’t involved? Do I need to feel bad we fired an innocent guy?”

“Look, the photographer who came to me said it was absolutely happening and the entire team knew.”

“Then I don’t feel bad. Fuck him.” I pointed at my giant, overpacked suitcase. “Can you help me with this?”

He folded his arms over his chest. “I will not aid and abet.”

Rolling my eyes, I left the suitcase on the ground and went back into the house for my guitar.