“Why?” Austin asked.
“Because she’s probably delusional. They all are.” I tipped up my beer. “Also, there was a breach on her previous security team, so I imagine she doesn’t trust anyone right now. Her brother told me she flat out refused to have some goon up in her business while she’s on vacation . . . right before he made me promise not to let her out of my sight.”
“Oh dear,” said Veronica.
Austin laughed. “Good luck with that.”
“You know what? I won’t need luck,” I said, pushing my shoulders back. “I’ve got charm. I’ve got magnetism. She’s gonna adore me.”
“Oh dear,” Veronica said again.
My brother shook his head. “What happens if she doesn’t?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged. “She’s stuck with me.”
After I packed a bag, I decided to do a little internet research on Pixie Hart. I Googled her name and clicked on some images that popped up in the search results.
Damn.
No denying it, Sully’s sister was a bombshell.
Not my type—I wasn’t into all the glitzy makeup and fancy clothes—but objectively, Pixie Hart was hot.
Tons of fiery red hair that fell halfway down her back, skin that looked like it might glow in the dark, giant green eyes flecked with gold, a megawatt smile with blindingly white teeth. She was short, like Sully had said, and she wore a lot of high heels, at least in these red carpet photos. She also wore a lot of glittery dresses, bright lipstick, and thick eye makeup. Her nails were long, pointy, and painted to match her outfits.
In some of the photos, that overrated dipshit Duke Pruitt stood next to her. He was a big name in country music, but he’d also acted in some movies. He was older, forty or so, and had a reputation for collecting vintage muscle cars and starry-eyed young singers. I was pretty sure he had at least three ex-wives.
Digging a little deeper, I discovered they’d had an on-and-off relationship for about three years. But the photos of the two of them were all at least six months old, and she had wiped her Instagram account clean of his existence.
Scrolling through her feed, I found some more casual photos of her. Boots instead of heels, jeans instead of dresses, cowboy hat and ponytail instead of all that big hair. There were also some pictures from photo shoots that showed her all dressed up in a fancy gown and running through wheat fields in bare feet (ridiculous), seated alone at a diner booth sipping a milkshake (she probably didn’t even eat dairy), or splashing in a creek wearing very short denim cutoffs and a white bikini top. Her nipples were clearly visible in that shot, so I clicked away from it immediately. (And by that I mean immediately after I zoomed in to make sure I saw what I thought I saw).
But this was Sully’s sister. And now she was my client. Everything, including my thoughts, had to stay completely professional.
Returning to my Pixie Hart search results, I clicked on news and checked out a few headlines. Beyond lots of gossip about her relationship with Duke Pruitt (consensus seemed to be that their troubles were due to his cheating), there were stories about her powering through a concert in Greenville despite having food poisoning, a piece about her visiting a children’s hospital in Philadelphia, and something about her returning to her high school to sing the National Anthem for homecoming in order to raise money for the marching band’s new uniforms. She was often referred to as “country music’s sweetheart.”
I read all the way through one article that described her humble beginnings—the county fair circuit, wedding bands—until she won a reality show called Nashville Next at age twenty-two, which launched her career. After that, she spent a few years opening for other acts, and then finally began headlining her own tours.
I peeked at a few reviews of her music, mostly positive despite some grumbling about her being a plastic doll propped up by the record label—all hat, no cattle—and how reality TV acts like her were ruining country music. But I saw plenty of praise for her “honeyed vocals with just the right amount of grit,” her “winsome pop-country appeal,” and her “balance of sparkling production and hell-raising fun.” According to one critic, her guitar playing was only “passable” and she had a “limited range,” but on the whole, most of the press was positive. Lots of writers mentioned her possession of that “it factor,” whatever intangible star quality it was that made some people light up the stage and connect with an audience.
After about ninety minutes, I yawned, shut down my laptop, and went to the basement to retrieve my laundry. While I was tossing my clean clothes into a bag, a call came in from a number I didn’t recognize. I didn’t pick up, and a moment later, I saw that I had a new voicemail.
“Hi, this message is for Xander Buckley.”
The voice was feminine but feisty, with only the barest hint of a twang. Honey and grit.
“This is Kelly Jo Sullivan. I’m Kevin’s sister? I just wanted to let you know that while I appreciate your offer to provide security for me on my vacation, it’s not necessary. In fact, I’d prefer to be left alone. No offense or anything, but the place I’ve rented is tiny, and there really isn’t room for two. Thanks anyway, and I hope you have a great night.”
Right away, I called Sully, but he didn’t pick up. Maybe he was off the grid already.
Oh well. I’d given my word to keep watch over her for those two weeks, day and night, whether she wanted it or not.
(And clearly, the answer was not.)
I wondered what would happen when I showed up. Would she accept the situation or would she insist on putting up a fight?
I remembered all that red hair and those loud ruby lips, and I had a feeling I knew what the answer was.
Fine by me.
I liked a good scrap.
TWO
kelly
Two weeks to myself.
Two weeks of peace and freedom and reflection.
Two weeks of being plain old Kelly Jo Sullivan, rather than country music sensation Pixie Hart.
I could get up early or sleep ’til noon. I could spend my days hiking in the sun or reading in the shade. I could sip wine as I watched the moon rise and play my guitar beneath the stars.
I could listen to music or enjoy the silence. I could meditate or masturbate. I could ponder and plan what should come next for me without any other voices in my head.
I wouldn’t have to wear sequins, put rollers in my hair, or sit through two hours of makeup. I wouldn’t have to attend meetings with the suits at PMG Records who didn’t like the lyrics I’d written, the haircut I’d gotten, or the five pounds I’d gained. I wouldn’t have to tell anyone my plans.
If I wanted to go get a cup of coffee, I’d drive myself. If I felt like cupcakes, I’d make them. If I wanted to leave my hair unwashed for a week, no paparazzi was going to catch it on camera.
Don’t get me wrong—I thanked my lucky stars every single day for Pixie Hart’s career, but after the last few months, I needed a little break from her. From everybody.
That’s why I’d fired the security guard my brother had hired. I just wanted to feel normal for two weeks, and normal did not include an ex-Navy SEAL lummox following me around, watching every move I made.