Page 6 of Tracking Wolfe

I’d been down that path before. So I kept the truth to myself, even if it sometimes felt like a hot coal burning me from the inside.

I opened my eyes again and pulled out my phone, scrolling to my social media feed to see the reactions online to the announcement.

At least, that was what I told myself I was opening the app for. The truth was something far needier than online praise from random strangers.

When I clicked on my profile, I couldn’t help noticing my follower count had gone up.

Normally, I avoided noticing. I’d even hired a business manager, just so I could stay off social media. The number was too big, too intimidating, whenever I caught sight of it. A warning that almost no one in human history had managed to stay anonymous once their work had reached critical mass.

I quickly clicked into my follower list and searched until I found the particular name I was looking for. It was already captured in a screenshot in my password-protected photo app, but the screenshot didn’t feel as real as seeing it live did.

Trace Bishop.

The name had finally appeared in Fletcher Coe’s followers list six months ago. Five full years after I’d started the account. And knowing the man I’d written so many songs for was finally hearing them had been better than winning any award.

I ran my fingertip over his name before clicking it.

The only new picture in his feed tonight was a sunrise view of Slingshot Mountain in Legacy, Montana, posted this morning. As usual, there was no caption, only the shot. The snow on the mountain glowed a warm, golden pink, and a single set of footsteps imprinted in the snow led toward the lens from over the distant rise, as if he’d climbed up first thing this morning to capture the shot.

Papa’s voice broke through my drifting thoughts. “Wolfe, are you okay?”

I glanced up. “Yeah. Fine. Why?”

Dad’s forehead crinkled in concern. “Jude was talking to you, and you were a million miles away.”

I tried for an easy smile, but I felt a million miles away. I had the biggest, most supportive family in the world. Money in the bank. A fucking Grammy, for god’s sake. But I felt so fucking alone.

“Just thinking. I’m good,” I assured them.

Dad frowned for another beat, then nodded. “He asked if you’d go to Majestic with him to meet with Zane and his friends about sponsoring a youth program at their spring festival.”

Papa added, “They’ve already committed to a sponsorship for the festival, but they’d like to discuss some of the projects the foundation is working on to see how they can best help. Their group represents a seven-figure charity contribution last year alone. Since the foundation is your baby, I thought you could help answer any questions they have.”

The Bluebell Foundation was his baby, not mine. But my day job—the only job my family knew about—was running it. And I did love it. I loved how much good we were able to do with the money and connections the foundation had. My father had been friends with Zane—aka, singer Zee Barlo—for years. I’d been to his home in the mountains of Wyoming several times, and I liked his friend group a lot. They reminded me of my family.

I nodded. “Of course. Yeah.”

Papa turned to Dad with an apologetic expression. “There’s a catch. The only time they’ll all be there together is the day after tomorrow.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. He sat up and gently tugged a hank of Papa’s hair. “Bluebell, I have that meeting with Joel and JJ about On Your Six.”

My dad had been a bodyguard for decades. It was, pretty famously, how my parents had met. These days, Dad consulted with my uncle Joel and my cousin JJ, who ran On Your Six Security. Dad joked that endless boring meetings were more dangerous to his health than any guy with a gun ever had been.

Papa leaned forward and kissed Dad sweetly on the jaw. “I know. And I’m sorry. But you know I can’t miss an opportunity to secure this level of funding for the foundation.”

I could tell Dad was trying to keep his cool. He hated when Papa went somewhere without him. It made him semi-feral and moody as hell.

“You’ll take Fowler and Perriot,” Dad said firmly. “And maybe Shi, too.”

Papa rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You get one, babe. That’s it.”

This was an old argument. Papa had been the target of more than one stalker over the years, and Dad took his safety seriously. Even though people weren’t nearly as hot for the lead singer of Jude and the Saints anymore, Dad still acted like Papa was Lyra Vale or something.

Dad closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, and I didn’t miss the sneaky sniff he took of Papa’s hair in the meantime. The two of them were disgusting.

I envied them.

I couldn’t imagine what it was like to be that close to another person. To have someone know all my terrified longings, half-articulated dreams, and foolish inconsistencies, the secrets I’d locked away. To know they thought the sun rose and set on me, and I’d never be lonely again.