Page 10 of Hideaway Heart
I’ll worry anyway, but thanks for letting me know, and keep in touch.
My mother replied with this:
What about wolves? Google says Michigan has wolves. And something called a gray rat snake.
I shuddered. Gray rat snake?
I did not like the sound of that one little bit. Should I Google it just so I’d know what I was up against? I nearly typed the words into my phone, then I decided against it—better not to know.
I pushed open the door and stepped out onto the front porch, gingerly looking this way and that for any sign of slithering, and shrieking when a small brown bird landed in front of me. The bird flew away, and I laughed at myself. Taking a moment to snap a bunch of selfies, I chose the one I liked best and posted it for my nearly four million followers.Grateful for the sun on my face, I wrote.
Hopping off the porch, I spied a trail leading through the trees and followed it at an easy pace. In my ears was my favorite playlist, a mix of current and vintage country music stars, all women, all iconic, all badasses. As I worked up a sweat, I tried to channel some of their confidence and positive energy.
The truth was, the criticism of me and my music bothered me more than I let on. I hated being called a reality show hack, a sellout, pop-country window dressing. I hated that I’d let people tell me my real name was boring. I hated that in order to get ahead in this industry, you had to be a brand, not just a musician. I hated that I was starting to feel entirely manufactured.
I wanted to feel like my younger self again—the girl who stayed up late writing songs with a flashlight under the covers when she was supposed to be asleep. Those songs had meant something to me. Those songs were where I buried my deepest hurt, expressed my greatest joy, and dreamed my wildest dreams.
I wanted that girl’s voice to be heard.
* * *
The trail ended at some kind of river or creek, and even though I was hot and sweaty, the water looked sort of green and scary. With visions of a slimy gray rat snake in my mind, I decided not to risk a swim and turned for home again. It was while I was on my way back that a song idea came to me—not fully formed or anything, just a few scraps of lyrics, a three-quarter time signature, and some chord changes I hadn’t played with before.
I was so excited, I didn’t even stop to wipe off the sweat, I just grabbed my guitar and a piece of paper. After scribbling down some notes, I recorded myself messing around with the chords and rhythm. It wasn’t perfect, but when I played it back for myself I was happy. It was a good start.
My stomach growled as I stripped off my running clothes, and I realized I hadn’t eaten in nearly eight hours. Between what I’d brought from home and my stop at the farm stand, I had enough on hand to make a nice little pasta dinner for myself. I’d even packed a bottle of wine. Tomorrow, I’d drive into town and stock up.
While I was in the shower, I kept trying out different lyrics, and while I was rinsing the conditioner from my hair, the perfect lines came to me. Frantic to write them down, I jumped out of the shower and bolted from the bathroom naked.
That’s when I discovered the bearded lummox in my living room.
THREE
xander
The girl had somepipes.
Her scream was so loud, you’d have thought I came after her with an axe. (Did I mention I know how to throw an axe?)
She also had a smokin’ hot body with plenty of curves, and her long wet hair was clinging to her bare skin like vines. As quickly as I could react, I turned around and held up my hands so she wouldn’t think I was there to harm her.
But the high-pitched shrieking continued as she ran back into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Then silence.
Except that my ears were ringing.
Tentatively, I turned around and called out. “Kelly Jo Sullivan?”
“Go away!”
“My name is Xander Buckley, I’m—”
“I know who you are—the bodyguard! And I already fired you, sogo away!”
I moved closer to the bathroom door, so I wouldn’t have to yell. “I can’t do that.”
Kelly, on the other hand, continued to shout. “Why not?”
