“I never agreed to Gibson.”
Randy brought his face close to hers, so she could see the beads of sweat on his forehead and every mean thought behind his gleaming eyes. “Tell it to the judge, sugar, but Uncle Billy’s got a clerk at the pawn shop who swears on a stack of Bibles it was you who walked out of there with that guitar, so when it comes right down to who looks like a thief, how do you think that judge is gonna see it?”
Despite the ninety-degree heat, a chill spread under her skin. She didn’t have a sassy comeback to that question, and Randy’s smirk said he knew he’d scored a point. She glanced around, worried someone might see or, worse, overhear them talking, but the alley was clear. It wouldn’t stay that way forever. She needed to end this. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” His smile widened. He plucked the cigarette from her fingers, took a long, lazy draw, and expelled the smoke in her face. She got a full blast of tobacco and coffee breath. “Well, now, Rox, I want what you owe me. Nothin’ more. Nothin’ less.”
“Fifteen hundred dollars? Are you kidding me?”
“Hell no. I don’t want fifteen hundred.”
Thank God. A faint glow of hope warmed the ball of ice in her chest. Maybe she could end this reasonably and put it behind her for good? Maybe she could stay right here in Bluelick, sell her songs to Hollywood, have the real home she’d always longed for. No sneaking off because trouble had finally caught up with her. No forfeiting Gibson. No fall from grace in the eyes of a certain lawman whose admiration—maybe even something deeper than admiration—mattered more than she’d ever imagined it could. Because West mattered. He mattered so much it scared her.
“I want the two grand you owe me—yeah, I wrote off five hundred when I was being a nice guy, but I’m taking that back now—plus the grand Uncle Billy would have made on the sale of the guitar, plus another grand to help him forget how you waltzed into his shop and stole property from him, plus my fifteen percent of the gigs you’ve been playing here in Hicksville, USA. Let’s just call it five grand to catch you up on your debt, and then you can pay me my fifteen percent, moving forward, on the first of every month.”
The hopeful glow from a moment ago flickered out. That neither Randy nor Uncle Billy understood the actual value of the guitar they’d briefly had in their possession hardly helped. His demand was absurd. “Five grand? That’s…it’s…out of the question. And where do you get off demanding anything for the shows I’m playing here?”
“I get fifteen percent for the term of the contract. Tearing it up doesn’t cancel shit. Our deal runs for seven years from signing, Rox. You still owe me my cut of every penny you earn off your music for the next six and a half years. So yeah, I expect a damn check in my hand come the first of every month.”
“Seven years? That’s insane. I never signed any such thing. And no judge would enforce it.”
His smile went thin and wide. “We can take it to the judge, along with a theft charge. Maybe I’ll just call the cop you’re living with and ask him to compare the serial number on that guitar of yours with the stolen property report Uncle Billy filed with the Nashville PD. What?” he asked, in response to the surprise she didn’t manage to hide. “You think I just rolled up on you without doing my homework? Business, Rox.” He tapped his head. “I make knowing shit my business. I know where you’re living. I know where you’re working. I know you’re cozy with the cop.”
“You wouldn’t dare file charges.” She’d call his bluff. He wanted money, not legal headaches. He’d negotiate. He had to.
“You know what? I’d probably never get a chance to talk to a lawyer, much less a judge. I’m a reasonable businessman, but Uncle Billy?” He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Not so much. If I go back to Nashville and tell him I didn’t get every single penny that was coming to me—and him—he’s likely to take matters into his own hands. Do you really wanna know what that looks like?”
She didn’t. She had a bad feeling it looked like an ex-junkie suddenly disappearing from Bluelick and overdosing in some filthy flophouse in Nashville. She shoved him away. “Your threats don’t scare me, Randy.” They did. To her bones. “Folks here know me. This is the kind of place where people look out for each other. You’ve done your homework. You know I share a house with a cop. If I disappear, I’m going to be missed. Questions will be asked.” But would they? Everyone in Bluelick knew she was just passing through. Most would probably assume flighty Roxy had winged off to wherever whimsy took her, and the only question might be why she hadn’t had the decency to say a proper good-bye. But there was no room for doubt in a bluff. “Lots of questions. The kind of questions a guy like Uncle Billy won’t appreciate.”
“Oh, Rox. You don’t know Uncle Billy at all. He’s been succeeding in the loan business for damn near half a century. How do you think he maintains such a low default rate?”
At her mute headshake, he continued. “He looks at the whole situation, and he finds the cleanest, most efficient asset to leverage to ensure payment. You’re snuggled into this town deep as a flea on a rat’s tail. You take a knock in the head and everybody rallies around. But the cop? Well, now, that’s a dangerous job, even in a bumfuck place like this. No way to watch that guy every second of the day. Could be Officer Donovan drives back from
