Roxy wanted to hug him, but given his arthritis and his general disposition, she settled for a sincere, “Thank you, Earl.”
“Thank me by coming back to work soon. Most of the time Jeb’s ideas on how to ‘take Rawley’s to the next level,’ as he puts it, are pure shit, but he hit on something when he hired you. I was skeptical, to put it bluntly, but you turned Wednesday nights into a moneymaker—folks stick around past happy hour to see the shows—and the place is packed on Fridays. Come back next week and I’ll pay you for your missed days plus bump you an extra twenty-five bucks a night.”
A raise from Earl Rawley? West really had worked a miracle. “You’ve got yourself a de…” Well, wait. If she didn’t have medical clearance, West would probably have something to say about the deal. She glanced at Ellie, who nodded. Confident she’d covered her bases, she held out her hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Earl shook it. “Good.” He eased off his stool and reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. “Glad that’s settled.” He pulled out three dollars and placed them on the counter. “Thanks for the coffee, Addy. Keep the change.”
“Thanks.” Addy sent the faintest of grins to Roxy. Coffee was bottomless at $2.99, and Earl was back on brand with his “tip.” He paused as he slipped his wallet back into his pocket. “Oh, almost forgot.” This time he withdrew a folded scrap of paper and handed it to Roxy. “This fellow called the pub, looking for you.”
Roxy’s heart froze and fell heavily into her boots. “W-who?” Her suddenly numb fingers refused to unfold the paper.
Earl shrugged. “Don’t know. Callie took the message. Said he’s a record producer out in L.A., Hollywood or some such place.”
“Looking for me?” Her voice shook. Had Randy tracked her down somehow? Or worse, Uncle Billy? Why would either of them leave her a message to tip her off? Surely Uncle Billy’s MO would be to show up and collect his money in person, perhaps add a bruise of his own to her forehead to really get his point across?
“Yeah. See, another one of Jeb’s big ideas was to give Rawley’s something he referred to as an ‘online presence.’ He set us up on the FaceTube or Twit-book or whatever the hell it was last year, and he posted a couple of videos of you singing at the pub for publicity. This fellow saw one and wants to talk to you about buying one of your songs.” He gestured to the note still clutched in Roxy’s stiff fingers. “I don’t know if he’s legit or not, but it doesn’t cost much to call and speak to the man.”
Heart pounding, Roxy unfolded the note. It read “J.T. Turner” and included a number with a 310 area code, which Roxy recognized as Los Angeles.
“Oh my God.” Addy bounced to her tiptoes and clapped her hands. “This is amaaayzing! Call him. Right now.”
“Here.” Ellie rifled through her purse. “You can use my phone.”
“I…um.” Dazed, she continued to blink at the note, as if staring at it would give her some deeper sense of the potential contained in the half-dozen words. “I have a phone,” she said lamely. And videos online pinpointing for anyone who might run a search just exactly where I can be found. But she couldn’t think about that right now, because Addy, Ellie, and Melody were looking at her like she’d just won the lottery, and it would seem strange if she didn’t share in the excitement. A show of nerves? Sure. That would be understandable. Behaving like someone whose witness protection identity had just been compromised? That would raise questions she didn’t want to answer. She dug for her phone.
Sweaty palms made the smooth case hard to hold, but after a couple false starts, she managed to unlock the device and key in the number. Still tentative, she pressed the phone to her ear and waited through one ring…two…thre—
“PlayHard Music. Mr. Turner’s office,” a female voice answered. “Maggie speaking. How can I help you?”
She could barely hear the woman over the pounding of her pulse in her ears. “Um…hi, Maggie, I’m returning his call. And shoot, I guess it would help if I told you my name. I’m Roxy.”
“Goodhart,” the much more level-pulsed Maggie supplied. “‘Wet and Reckless.’ Love your song, Roxy. J.T.’s in a meeting right now, but if you’ve got a sec, let me see if he can break away and take your call.”
“I—” Now her heart started to pound double time, and the back beat was pure excitement. She looked up to find three sets of eyes staring at her. “I have a second.”
“Great. Please hold.”
Chapter Twenty
West walked through his front door and barely had time to draw it closed before a black blur shot out of the kitchen and charged toward him, barking like a maniac. It skidded to a halt at West’s feet and jumped repeatedly, bounding nearly waist high, bug eyes extra wide and full of doggie panic.
“Down. Jesus. You crazy furball. Sit. Shush.”
The dog continued to jump and issue urgent warnings about God knew what. Before West could come up with a more effective command, shrieks of what sounded like absolute agony came from downstairs—loud, long, extremely high-pitched shrieks. Lucky plunked his butt on the hardwood, raised his short snout to the sky, and howled with enough mournful volume to put
