Hillbilly Rockstar (3 page)

Lisa watched him for a few minutes as fans greeted him, asking for pictures and autographs. He seemed to be having the time of his life, and either didn't realize -- or didn't care -- that his performance sucked. He was much different than the man she'd met at the office some years ago when he'd come in for a meeting with Charlie. She'd been new to the agency and to Nashville. Seeing celebrities around town and at work had fascinated her and there were a few times she'd embarrassed herself when speaking to them. It also didn't help that she'd had a huge crush on Trace Harper when he'd first come on the country music scene fifteen years earlier. But that was then, and this was now, and she wasn't a wide-eyed-twenty-something-girl with stars in her eyes anymore.

Well, may as well get this over with. She made her way to the stage as the crowd around him thinned out, ignoring the blonde begging Trace for a picture.

"Sure, honey." Trace flicked his black hat back on his head and put his arm around the woman. "Hey, you." He pointed at Lisa. "Come take our picture, sweetie pie."

"I am not your sweetie pie, Mr. Harper." Lisa said.

"Well, tonight you are, so take our picture."

"Here," the blonde said, her voice high and squeaky. She handed Lisa her cell phone and cuddled closer to Trace, squeezing him around the waist and laying her head on his shoulder. Trace held up his beer and put his arm around the blonde's shoulders. Sighing, Lisa held up the cell phone.

"If I take this picture, can I speak with you for five minutes, Mr. Harper?"

"What is it with the Mr. Harper crap? Sure, whatever, five minutes. Take the picture so I will never forget meeting the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Oh," the blonde cooed, looking up at him and smiling. Lisa hit the button on the phone and took the photo.  

"Take another one, just in case."

"In case of what?" Lisa asked.

"Just in case."

"Last one," Lisa said, and pushed the button just as the woman placed her palms on Trace's cheeks and pulled his mouth to hers. The camera caught the kiss, exactly as Lisa assumed the woman wanted.

"Thank you
so
much," the blonde said to Trace before taking her phone and heading back to friends, all similarly clad in various tank tops, halter tops, jeans and mini-skirts, at a nearby table.

"Now, what would you like to talk about, sweetie pie?" Trace ambled over to her, waving off a few people that were asking for autographs. "Hold on, folks. I promised this lady five minutes."

With groans and sighs the crowd dispersed, but didn't go very far. Lisa did not understand how people still wanted photos and autographs after his terrible performance, but there they stood, waiting for him to finish talking.

"Mr. Harper, I work for Cahill-Waters Talent Agency. I've been trying to get in touch with you."

"Yeah, Charlie's company. Yeah, sorry, I've had some issues with my cell phone recently. Wait." Trace flicked his hat back on his head again and came closer, his brown eyes focusing on her face, then down her body.

"Do I pass?" She crossed her arms over her chest, tapping her booted foot on the wooden floor.

"I know you from somewhere." He scanned her again and Lisa felt as if she were being inspected from her blonde hair framing her face, down her skinny blue v-neck t-shirt and flared leg jeans to the cowboy boots peeking from the hem. "You were at Charlie's funeral. The blonde in the black dress and boots, with the redhead."

"That's right, I was there." It unnerved her to think of Trace seeing her at the funeral, seeing her now, and even remembering what she'd been wearing that day.

He leaned in closer and she had to uncross her arms to keep him from bumping them. He bent just a little and whispered in her ear.

"I loved that dress on you. I enjoy curves on a woman, and you got 'em in just the right places." He reached down, placing his hands on her hips.

She pushed him away. "Mr. Harper, I am here as a professional. I need to speak to you regarding your representation with Cahill-Waters."

He laughed, taking a step back. "Okay, not interested. I get it. What about my representation? You guys are just going to keep doing whatever you're doing, right?"

Before she could answer, the crowd wanting his autograph had grown and were pushing closer them. A sea of bodies, primarily female, separated them and Lisa was forced to step back to the wall to keep from being crushed.

"Hey, sweetie pie, I'll call you," she thought she heard Trace call out over the noise, then he was gone, trapped in a frenzy of female fans.

Lisa headed back to their table and found Tanya snuggled in the lap of the dark haired man she'd danced with earlier. "Well, I tried."

"You didn't get to talk to him? Oh, this is Doug, by the way." Tanya smiled down at the man and ran a finger over his cheek.

"Hi, Doug. Lisa. I did, but I wasn't able to tell him everything. He hit on me."

"Really?" Tanya looked up at Lisa in surprise.

"Yes, really. Now, can we go? I want to get home and get some sleep." Lisa grabbed her purse and jacket from her chair and slung them over her arm.

"Okay. Bye, Doug." Tanya kissed the man then slid off his lap, taking her purse from the back of the chair as she stood. "I had fun. You got my number?"

"I sure do," Doug said, and winked at the cute redhead. "I'll be calling you later."

"You better." Tanya waved at him before following Lisa out of the bar.

"Looks like you found a friend." Lisa unlocked her sedan and they climbed in, buckling their seat belts.

"Yeah, I did. Too bad you didn't get to speak to Trace. Well, except to get hit on."

"Yeah, too bad." Lisa started the car, but didn't back up right away. She remembered the sound of his voice near her ear, the tickle of his five o'clock shadow on her cheek as he leaned close to her, his warm breath on her neck, the feel of his hands on her hips, and shivered.

"What's wrong?" Tanya asked, noticing her shake.

"Nothing," Lisa said. "Trace is a jerk, that's all. I'm not going to keep trying to call him. I'm going to send the letter to his agent. I have better things to do."

She put the car in reverse and backed out of the lot, heading for home, determined to put Trace Harper out of her mind once and for all.

###

"Lisa, I'm heading to Atlanta. I'll be back next week." Boyd Waters stepped into her office, his briefcase in his hand and his coat over his arm. "I emailed you a list of tasks I'd like completed by the time I get back."

"All right." Lisa looked at him, and they stared at each other in silence. "Was there something else, Mr. Waters?" she finally asked him.

"I think it's time for you to move your office closer to mine. There's no reason to work in here anymore, is there? When the audit of the business is complete this space will be free for two or three managers to share."

"Right now I'm comfortable where I am, Mr. Waters. And in all fairness, you should be aware that I am currently looking for another position."

Her announcement seemed to surprise him. "Well, I will be sorry to see you go. I appreciate you telling me." He turned to leave her office, then turned to face her again. "I almost forgot. Order some new business cards and stationery. Per the auditor's suggestions, and since Charlie is no longer with us, the business name is changing. Have the cards and letterhead read 'Boyd Waters Talent Management.' Order about five hundred cards and two boxes of stationery."

Sadness came over her and tears welled in Lisa's eyes. She felt helpless, unable to stop this man from taking over and erasing every part of Charlie that had been in the business. But no matter what he did or said, she would
not
let him see her cry.

"Yes, Mr. Waters, I'll order them." Her voice shook.

"Okay, I'm gone then." He walked out of the office. As soon as he was gone Lisa buried her head in her hands. She didn't want to be there anymore. There had to be a way to get out -- soon.

Chapter Four

Trace stumbled through the dark apartment, his head pounding. He tripped over the coffee table, falling to the floor, his head almost hitting the edge of the leather couch.

"Damn," he swore, then climbed up on his knees. He stopped for a moment, allowing a wave of dizziness to pass before standing on his feet. He staggered across the room.

"Shut up!" He yelled to the ringing phone, but the persistent blaring continued. He finally reached the slim phone hanging on the wall and lifted it with a jerk.

"What?" he yelled into the receiver.

"Hello?" A man's voice said on the other end of the line. "Is this Trace Harper?"

"Yeah, this is Trace Harper. Who are you?" Trace's head continued to pound and his voice was booming in his ears. His eyes began to water and he rubbed them, trying to clear the fuzz from his brain.

"This is Mike Elliott with First Tennessee Bank. There's a problem with your account and we need to see you right away."

"What kind of problem?"

"You are overdrawn, Mr. Harper, and your mortgage is several months past due"

"Yeah, okay. You guys just charge whatever fees you need to charge, I'll pay you next week. I got a couple gigs coming up, it'll be okay." Trace sat up on the couch, wiping his hand over his face. Then something the man had said wormed its way through his brain. "Wait, mortgage? What mortgage?"

"Your ten acres and home outside of Nashville. The mortgage is almost a year past due."

"I don't have a mortgage on that property. It was my grandparents' and they left it to me in their wills. It's paid for." He scratched a hand through his dark hair. He really needed to shower. "What time is it? Why are you calling me at the break of dawn?" He squinted at the clock on the wall but couldn't see it clearly.

"Mr. Harper, it's just after ten a.m. I have the documentation on the mortgage on my desk. A loan against the property was opened just under two years ago, and payments were being made until one year ago. We'd like you to come in this afternoon if possible."

"This afternoon." Trace grabbed a half-empty beer from the coffee table and sat down on the couch. He took a swallow, then spit it out into a coffee cup on the table. He poured the rest of the beer - including a cigarette butt - into the cup. "I'll be there this afternoon, with my grandparents' wills and deed to the property. I never took out a mortgage and the property is paid for."

"Mr. Harper, I need you to come in so this can be cleared up. Would two be good?"

"Two?" He shook his head. He needed to wake up and pay attention.  

"Yes, two o'clock here at the bank."

"Two is fine. I'll be there and we'll get this straight." The fog was beginning to clear from his brain and he was starting to think again.

"I will see you then, Mr. Harper. Goodbye." The phone clicked in his ear.

"Damn." Trace hung up the phone and headed on unsteady legs to the shower.

###

Trace pushed open the doors at First Tennessee Bank just before two o'clock. His headache hadn't quite left from its morning visit and he was still annoyed at the bank's phone call from earlier.

He walked across the quiet bank, his booted feet tapping on the marble floor to the mahogany customer service desk.

"May I help you?" the pretty brunette at the desk asked, smiling in greeting with the fake Leave-Me-Alone smile that most customer service representatives sport.  

"I sure hope so." Trace noticed her name placard as he approached the desk and leaned over the counter. He smiled, pushed his hat back on his head and turned on the Tennessee charm. "Well, Peggy, I got a call from you all this morning about my account. Trace Harper."

Peggy's bright smile faded. "Oh, Mr. Harper. Let me get Mr. Elliott, our bank manager, for you." She was on the phone in a hot minute, turning away from Trace as she whispered into the phone. She soon turned around, hanging up the receiver. "Mr. Elliott will be right out to see you, Mr. Harper. Would you like to have a seat in our waiting area?" Her friendly demeanor had definitely turned all business since he'd said his name.

"Sure, Peggy. Hey, do you know what all this is about?" May as well try to charm something from Peggy while he was there. He flashed another of his brilliant performer smiles.

"I'm sorry, I don't. But I'm sure Mr. Elliott can explain everything." Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. Something was going on, Trace was sure of it. Peggy probably knew more than she let on. Most likely everyone at the bank knew something about his business and it would be all over some country music information website within the hour..

Trace moved away from Peggy's desk toward the waiting area, but before he could sit in one of the Queen Anne chairs and browse the magazines on the low table, a short, dumpy man wearing an ill-fitting suit appeared from the back of the bank. He was balding and sweating and as he came closer to Trace he pushed a pair of bifocals further up the bridge of his nose.

"Mr. Harper, thank you for coming in. I'm Mike Elliott, bank manager." He reached his hand out to shake hands. Trace took it reluctantly.

"Thank you, Mr. Elliott. Now what's going on with my account, and what's this about a mortgage?" Trace knew there hadn't been a lot of money in his account, but there was some, right? But the one thing he knew for sure, there was no way there was a mortgage on his grandparents' farm.

"Let's go to my office, Mr. Harper. It's right down the hall." The short, pudgy bank manager turned and waddled as he walked down the hall. Trace followed him down a carpeted hallway, photos of past presidents and managers lining the walls, and into an office on the right. Mike sat behind the desk, and Trace took a seat in a surprisingly comfortable wing back chair.

"Now, Mr. Harper, we can discuss things in private. I understand you're a musician."

"Yes, I am. I'm a Grammy-winning musician." Trace leaned back in the chair, propping a booted ankle on a jean-clad knee, offering the bank manager his 'I'm a star' smile that reporters and fans ate up.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Harper. I don't really follow current music so please forgive me for not knowing who you are. I'm more of a classical man myself." Mike chuckled at his joke.