“That’ll clear,” Billy added. “You have my word.”
West took the check and nodded. “Thanks. Here’s my word, gentlemen. If there’s any problem with this check, you won’t be dealing with Roxy to clear it up, you’ll be dealing with me. And if I ever see you”—he pointed at Randy—“anywhere near her, or hear a whisper of you contacting her in any way, you’ll be dealing with me, and I won’t be as understanding as your uncle. Got it?”
Randy swallowed and nodded. “Got it.”
“Great. What’s your arrangement with Jeb Rawley?” Stab in the dark, but Roxy had been coldcocked behind Rawley’s by someone she claimed not to recognize and Jeb claimed not to know. Jeb had posted the videos of Roxy performing. Randy had most probably found Roxy by virtue of the videos, so…
“Jeb fucking who?”
Not a glimmer of recognition. A look that clueless just couldn’t be faked, even by a “slick fucker.” Randy Boudreaux wasn’t the kind of sociopath to waste time or effort protecting people who were of no use to him. He didn’t know Jeb Rawley. He’d never heard of him.
“Jeb Rawley. Rawley’s Pub? Where Roxy performed.”
“Shit. I don’t know ev’ry hole-in-‘a wall dive within a thousand miles. I deal with high-class Nashville venues. I saw Roxy got herself a gig at a dive in ‘umfuck…‘uelick. That’s all I know. Whatever ‘ullshit is going down at Rawley’s ‘ub, it got nothing to do with…m…me.” Given how painful the short conversation was for split-lip Randy, West wasn’t too surprised to see the man turn and retreat.
The slick bastard might have gotten a boot to the balls after all, judging by the painstaking way he walked to the back room. West turned his attention to Uncle Billy. “Thanks for your assistance.”
As usual, Billy didn’t waste time on niceties. “She’s a star.”
“Sorry?”
“The singer. Roxy. I saw her perform at a club here in Nashville a stretch back. Randy told me he had a new client playing at the Saddlepeak and asked me to come check out the show. I don’t normally care for what he calls music, but my sister worked on me—said Randy needed a good crowd so the club would schedule more gigs through him. I went.” He shook his head at the memory. “Paid a ridiculous cover to sit in some yuppified version of a honky-tonk dreamed up by one of the big-city corporations that owns half of Nashville. Sprang for overpriced, watered-down drinks and grew irater by the second. Then Roxy stepped up to the mic, and I’m thinking, Holy shit. I just shelled out a thirty-buck cover like a fucking tourist, and another twenty in drinks, to see a bitch with a guitar? Not even a full band? Sure, she’s eye-catching, but I see pretty girls all day long without paying a penny for the privilege. My irate was working its way up to righteously pissed, and then she started strumming that guitar and singing, and damn. Girl’s got herself a first-rate voice and a way with a six-string to match the pretty face. Still”—he shrugged—“not so rare. But what she did to a song.” He placed his massive hand over his heart, displaying the script “P-A-Y-U-P” tattoo across his knuckles. “That got to me. She sang like she felt every word. Like she needed us to feel every word, too. And we did. The whole stinking club. That’s rare. That’s a star.”
“Yeah,” West acknowledged. “She’s very talented.”
“If that girl sticks with it, and steers clear of fools like Randy, she’ll be selling out stadiums someday.”
“Yeah,” West said again, wondering for the billionth time where a small-town cop would fit into that life. Wondering if he’d get a shot at convincing her they should find out.
He took Randy’s check, Uncle Billy’s prediction, and his own conflicted desires with him back to Bluelick. At least he had the full picture now. Randy had signed Roxy to a bullshit “management” contract and tried to liquidate the guitar through the pawn shop when she refused to keep paying him exorbitant fees to do nothing. She’d stolen Gibson out of the shop and bolted to Bluelick hoping to find refuge with the grandmother she’d never met. Nothing had popped when he’d run her for warrants because no theft had been reported to Nashville PD—on account of Randy being too stupid or greedy to properly log the guitar into the shop’s inventory. Nobody who mattered had known the guitar existed, much less had been walked right out of the shop by rightful owner Roxanne Belle Goodhart. Consequently, Roxy had spent the last six weeks looking over her shoulder like a fugitive for no reason.
If he’d been less suspicious of her from the outset, less hardwired for skepticism and less judgmental of every risky choice she’d made, regardless of her intentions or the outcome, she might have confided in him.
He loved her. Even before he’d taken that fall, he’d wanted to help her, but he hadn’t found a way to build a foundation upon which she could put down this burden. Inflexibility on his part. An inability to silence the cynical cop inside him who saw too much in black and white. He’d hammered her like a suspect, criticized her every decision—be it something genuinely criticism-worthy like hitchhiking Route 9, or something that was none of his damn business, like the clothes she chose to wear—and then harbored resentment when she hadn’t responded with transparency.
And yes, the failing was hers, too, for choosing to hide the problem and live with the guilt, but knowing how much Gibson meant to her, how losing it would be like losing a limb, made it harder to hold that particular choice against her.
He would do better, he resolved as he climbed the front steps to their house. He would flex, dammit. He’d disarm her with all his fucking flexibility, starting now.
“Roxy,” he called, stepping into the hall, but only the jingle of Lucky’s collar greeted him. The dog emerged from the
