CHANCE BLACKWELL MISSED a lot about performing.
He missed the way the room went silent as he sang words he’d painstakingly chosen. He missed the oddly intoxicating smell of beer, perfume and rejection. He missed the way the lights were dim enough for him to pretend he was alone, that it was just him and his guitar.
What he didn’t miss was walking off stage to find his long-time, long-suffering agent ready to pounce. Given the sour expression on Felix Fuller’s face, there wasn’t an “atta boy” in Chance’s future.
“I thought you had new material.” Felix’s disappointment was clear and cut almost as deep as Chance expected. Only five years older than Chance, who’d just turned thirty, Felix was as short as Chance was tall, pudgy where Chance was toned and was determined while Chance was...
Well, Chance didn’t know exactly what he was anymore.
Chance sighed and gripped the guitar he’d received as a gift his first Christmas after leaving the Blackwell Family Ranch ten years before. His wife, Maura, had worked a second waitressing job on the sly to buy it from a local pawnshop that Christmas they spent in Nashville. He could still remember her sitting on the floor next to the scraggly tree he’d dragged out of the back of a tree lot, her freckled face alight with excitement as he unwrapped it. The instrument had been the greatest gift he’d ever received. Until Rosie was born, at least.
“The new songs aren’t ready,” Chance lied. “And the crowd seems happy enough.” Applause was applause, right?
“The crowd was being polite.” Felix followed Chance down the narrow hallway. “You can’t launch a comeback on old songs, Chance. Sentimentality will only get you so far. We need something new, something fresh. Something from the heart.”
From the heart? Chance swallowed against the wave of grief-tinged nausea. If that’s what was needed, no wonder his creative spark had been doused. “I need more time.”
“You don’t have more time.” Felix nipped at his heels like an overanxious puppy. “Unless you don’t have any interest in keeping a roof over Rosie’s head. Or yours, for that matter.”
Chance’s gut knotted. He could live in his car and be fine with it, but no way did he want anything less than complete stability for his daughter. “I can’t write from a dry well, Felix.” And that’s exactly what he had. A dry, dusty well of inspiration. Ashes to ashes...
“Okay, okay, so let’s look at the bright side.” Felix’s voice dropped as he gestured toward the frayed, dark green curtains. “They’ve missed you, Chance. Your fans, your audience, they want you back. Which means we’ve got to strike—”
“I told you before this gig, I’m only dipping my toe.” Chance accepted the congratulatory slaps on the back and positive comments from patrons as he made his way to the makeshift dressing room, which, over the years, had been occupied by far more talented and popular musicians than himself. Apparently they didn’t care that he was singing songs from five years ago. “I’m not diving in all the way again. I’m not ready.”
He knew what he should be drawing on, but the idea of writing about Maura, about her illness, her death, scraped his heart raw whenever he plucked the first notes. The paralyzing grief over losing his wife had faded—for the most part. He’d come to terms with her being gone, but only because he didn’t have a choice.
Rosie needed him. And when it came to his daughter, nothing else mattered.
Sadly, that meant going back to the only thing he’d ever been any good at: songwriting and performing.
“What do you mean you’re not ready?” Felix moved around the band as they dodged around him, instruments in hand, semipanicked expressions on their far too young faces. “All evidence to the contrary, man. You belong on that stage. Look, Chance, I get it. This is tough, and it’s a big change for you, but you and I agreed you weren’t done. You promised after enough time passed—”
“You don’t get to decide when I’ve had enough time.” Chance stopped with his hand on the tarnished doorknob and looked over his shoulder. “What’s this really about, Felix? You threatening to jump ship if I don’t get on board? Have another hot new act waiting in the wings for your full attention?”
Felix shook his head, a bit too enthusiastically for Chance’s taste, as a strand of slicked-black hair fell over one suddenly anxious eye. “Not full attention, exactly.”
“Felix?” Chance urged. “We’ve been together long enough for you to be honest with me.” Lord knew Chance had certainly been honest with him. “I know it’s been tight for you with me taking this much time off right when things were getting good for us. But you knew when you signed me Maura was my top priority.” And she had been, right up until the end. Only now that the haze around his heart had cleared did Chance have the slightest inclination to perform again. Writing was a different story. “You have somewhere else you need to be, just say the word.”
“I’ve come across a couple of acts I’d like to sign, sure.” Felix shrugged as if they didn’t matter much. “One’s singing in a club in New York, another group out of Orlando. There’re...possibilities.”
And Felix was all about possibilities. “I’m not going to begrudge you needing to move on,” Chance said. “I’d never want to stand in your way.”
Losing his agent certainly didn’t hold much appeal, especially without another one showing any interest. And no one would as long as he didn’t have anything new to offer. Felix had been his only agent, and traversing this crazy music business had never been on the top of Chance’s to-do list. Then again, anything was better than being stuck back on the family ranch, saddling horses, baling hay and mucking out stalls while his dreams died a silent death. Maura had always been the one to believe in him, encourage him. Understand him.
Other than his grandmother Dorothy, Big E’s first wife, who had bought him his first guitar—a guitar his grandfather had ripped out of Chance’s hands after Dorothy left and Chance declared his intention of leaving ranch life behind. How Big E thought taking away the one thing that brought Chance any happiness would punish anyone other than Chance was beyond him. Then again, Big E had considered Chance’s dreams a phase he’d outgrow. Without his brothers’ support, the wedge between Chance and his family had grown too big to overcome. Which was why ten years away didn’t feel nearly long enough.
“Maybe we should talk about this inside,” Felix said with a bit of a cringe on his face as he gestured to the dressing-room door.
“Oh, hey, Chance! Great show!” Greg Kennedy, owner of Tuned Up, one of the lesser known but better respected dive bars in downtown Los Angeles, darted down the stage stairs and headed for him. His compliment sounded forced, even to Chance’s tone-deaf ears. “Did your brother find you? I told him he could wait backstage for you.”
Chance froze. “My brother?” Every teenage insecurity slammed back at him like a slingshot. “Which brother?” Please don’t let it be Ty. Please don’t let it be...
“Which one?” Greg chuckled. “That’s right, I forgot you have four. I think his