Cowboy's Touch (A Big Sky Short Story) Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Dori Lavelle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Also by Dori Lavelle

  More Big Sky Short Stories

  My heart is pumping, my hands slick with sweat, but there’s no place I would rather be than inside the Dover Ray Theater.

  My dream has come true. I’m about to open the stage for dozens of well-known singers. Among them are singers I have listened to since I was a kid. Now, at thirty-two, I get to perform on the same stage as them.

  A grin spreads across my face as I turn to Ernest Stevens, my manager. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “You better believe it, kiddo. This is it. You worked hard and now you’ll be rewarded. Many singers never achieve what you have achieved in only three years.”

  “Yeah,” I say, tears misting my eyes. “It all feels so unreal.” I’m what many people call an overnight success. The past two years as my songs climbed up the country music charts, I felt as though I was living someone else’s life. But tonight, I want to feel this, to be present, to embrace the moment as mine.

  I worked damn hard to get here. I’ve sacrificed a lot. All the sleepless nights are paying off.

  Ernest lowers both his hands on my shoulders and his deep blue gaze meets my eyes. “If you kill it tonight, there will be no stopping you. You’ll definitely be nominated for the Citrine Female Artist of the Year Award.”

  “That would be amazing.” I can’t even count how many times I’ve visualized receiving a Citrine Award. “Talk about a dream come true.”

  And the female artist of the year award goes to Erin Hall.

  As I imagine hearing the words in my mind, I bring my hands to my warm cheeks and Linda, the makeup artist, comes over immediately to remove them.

  “Keep your hands away from your face.” She wags a finger at me. “You don’t want to ruin your makeup.”

  “Sorry,” I murmur, just as Ernest pulls me into a hug.

  “Congratulations again, Erin. You deserve tonight.”

  “Thank you, Ernest.” I squeeze him back, inhaling his soothing wood and lavender-scented cologne.

  As soon as we pull apart, the rest of the Quicksilver Record Label family appears to congratulate me and wish me luck on stage.

  After all the hugs, I finally hear my name being called out on the other side.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming the talented Erin Hall to the Dover Ray stage.”

  “Go, go,” Jack Sanders, the founder of Quicksilver gives me a small nudge, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles.

  “Okay,” I say, my pulse speeding up. “I’ll see you all later.”

  “We’ll have the champagne cooling in the limousine,” Ernest calls out as I gather the sparkling skirt of my turquoise evening gown and walk out onto the stage.

  The crowd roars as soon as I step into the spotlight, my spotlight.

  I allow myself to be hugged by Madison Washington, the thirty-something-year-old singer, who has been part of the Quicksilver family before I came along. She looks stunning with her hair in a beautiful afro puff on top of her head. But her smile doesn’t seem to reach her eyes. I’m sure she’s exhausted after all the tours she’s had in the past weeks.

  I pull my gaze from Madison and move my attention to the audience, thousands of people who have come to see me perform. Even after becoming a best-selling artist, I have never really felt like a star. Until this moment.

  Excitement trickles through me as I gaze into the bright lights, my skin feeling warm and cold at the same time.

  I draw in a deep breath and smile. They cheer even louder, sending warmth to flood every corner of my heart.

  Before Madison leaves the stage, I accept my guitar from one of the band members and position myself in front of the standing microphone.

  “Thank you everyone for being here,” I say, my voice shaky. “You don’t know how honored I am to be performing on this stage. I feel like I’m inside a dream.”

  My eyes land on Ernest and Jack. They are now among the audience, sitting in the front row. The lights are too bright, but I still make out their faces. Ernest gives me a wink and a nod.

  He’s the man who brought me to Nashville after he saw me perform in the choir at my local church in Paulson, Montana.

  As soon as the service was over, he introduced himself and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He promised he would turn me into a star and make me a household name. He kept his promise and more. During my time in Nashville, he has been like a father to me and the Quicksilver crew is the family I never really had.

  After the audience stops cheering and calling out my name, I tighten my hands on my guitar and give the band behind me a brief nod. Music immediately explodes around me.

  I breathe it in, closing my eyes to become one with it until my heart starts to dance to the tune. Then I open my eyes again, part my lips and allow the words to pour out of me.

  I’m on the floor, drowning in my own tears, shaken by my own fears.

  Only you can hear me breathe this shattered prayer.

  Take this shattered prayer, Lord. Heal my shattered heart.

  I’m about to sing the next words when I sense a shift in the atmosphere around me.

  I gaze into the audience and my heart sinks. No one is listening to the music. Phones are out and heads are bowed, then all at once the attention is returned to me.

  My skin prickles when expressions change from excitement and awe to something close to disappointment or even disgust.

  I try to continue singing, but the words form in my mind and stick to the back of my throat.

  What’s going on?

  Still swaying from side to side, I throw a questioning glance at Ernest and Jack. Their expressions have also changed. The smiles have melted from their faces.

  Ernest glances at his phone again, and drags a hand through his curly salt and pepper hair. Then Jack says something to him moments before both stand up to leave.

  Confusion wraps around my throat like a tight rope.

  One of the band members coughs from behind me, a sign for me to continue the song.

  I swallow hard. “Sorry,” I say as I force my fingers to dance on the guitar strings. Then I finally find my words again, but as soon as they leave my lips, instead of cheering, the crowd starts booing.

  I throw a glance at Tim, the piano guy. He shrugs and shakes his head, but continues to play the piano.

  To my horror, the audience erupts in a rage, throwing objects in my direction. I lower my gaze to the floor in time to see several concert tickets resting at my feet.

  When I raise my gaze again, my first thought is that they don’t like the song, but my heart tells me it’s something else. I haven’t performed a Christian country song since my first album three years ago. They never seemed to mind then. They loved all my music.

  Something else happened. I wish I knew what it is.

  The band finally quits playing as one by one people get up from their seats and leave.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” someone shouts my way.

  Before the words sink in, something else comes flying at me. I
don’t move out of the way in time and it collides with my forehead. Soon after, thick liquid trickles down the middle of my face. My hands touch my skin and come back coated with egg yolk.

  A bolt of pain hits my center and I hurry from the stage with tears in my eyes and egg on my face.

  Backstage, Ernest is waiting for me, his face rumpled by rage.

  “Ernest...what happened out there?” The words tumble from my mouth faster than I can think them. “They threw an egg at me.” I gratefully accept a tissue from Linda and wipe my face.

  “What were you thinking?” Ernest shoots back as more people gather around me—producers, band members, and other people from Quicksilver.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” I glance from one person to the other. “Did I sing off-key or something?”

  “You messed up, Erin, big time. This was your big chance and you screwed it up.” Ernest’s voice is like thunder in my ears. “What were you thinking sleeping with a married man?”

  “A married man?” Blood drains from my face. “What are you talking about?”

  Jack appears and shoves an open tabloid magazine under my nose. “Does this look at all familiar?”

  On a double-page spread are photos of two people having sex. The man’s face is not visible and the woman’s face is familiar...too familiar. She looks just like me.

  “I—what?”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Jack roars and storms out. He takes the magazine with him.

  Confused, I turn to Ernest. “I don’t understand. That’s not—I wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “Maybe this will help you remember.” He holds up his phone. “The sex video is all over the Internet.”

  The same couple I saw in pictures is now having sex on video. The woman is on top, only showing her face occasionally as she turns to glance at the camera. They’re covered with a sheet, but it’s still explicit to the point I have to look away.

  No wonder people were on their phones. They were watching the video.

  “That video is fake. That woman is not me.” I reach for Ernest’s arm, but he shakes me off.

  “I’m sorry, Erin, but she looks just like you.” He sighs. “Look, this scandal is not good for Quicksilver. I have to do some damage control. I suggest you go home. You won’t be performing anymore tonight. We’ll be in touch.”

  He leaves me standing there with my heart in pieces.

  When I wrote “Shattered Prayer”, I never thought I would be writing the song for myself.

  When everyone turns their back on me, I stumble outside the theater and get into the limousine that was hired for me for the evening.

  There’s no champagne chilling in the bucket, no flowers, no phone calls to congratulate me on performing at Dover Ray.

  My body is numb and my mind is blank until I reach my penthouse in one of the most exclusive locations of the city.

  As soon as the door closes behind me, I lean against it and sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around my legs, drawing my knees close to my chest.

  I’m still so in shock and confused that the tears refuse to come.

  I don’t know how long I remain on the floor with the lights off, staring into the darkness, unable to believe that my dream has transformed into a nightmare.

  Finally, life returns to my body and my mind starts to race. Holding my breath, I grab my phone from my purse and search for the video that ruined the most important evening of my career. I need answers.

  On a popular video streaming site, it already got over one million views, and the comments below it are brutal.

  My hands shaking, I give Ernest a call. He doesn’t pick up. I call him several more times until my calls start going straight to voicemail.

  Hurt and angry, I drag myself through the darkness to my bedroom. The view on the other side of the large windows is breathtaking, but I barely notice it as I throw myself onto the large bed, still wearing my evening gown.

  Holding my breath, I reach for the remote and flick through the channels until I find the one dedicated to the scandal.

  Ernest and Jack appear on the screen. The two men who have put my name on the map are standing side by side while reporters swarm around them. From the portraits of famous singers hanging on the wall behind them, I can tell that they’re still at Dover Ray.

  “We’re a clean record label,” Ernest says firmly. “Our artists strive to lead exemplary lives even when the camera is not on them.”

  “Were you aware before tonight that Erin Hall was carrying out an affair with a married man?” the male reporter asks.

  “Not at all,” Jack replies, glancing at Ernest. “We’re just as shocked as everyone else.”

  The reporter shakes his head. “It’s such a shame to see her in a negative light. So many young teenagers look up to her.” He inhales sharply. “What does that mean for Erin’s career at Quicksilver? Will she continue on as one of your artists?”

  “No,” Jack says. “We can confirm that Erin is no longer one of our artists. Like Ernest said, we are a family-friendly label.”

  My stomach twists as I switch off the TV and stare at the dark ceiling, my head spinning.

  This time, the tears come. I bury my face into the pillows and give myself permission to weep.

  About an hour later, Ernest finally calls to give me the bad news.

  “I’m sorry, Erin,” he says. “Since the beginning, we have marketed you as one of the untainted artists out there. But after this scandal, there’s no going back.” He pauses. “You have not only damaged your image, but also that of Quicksilver.”

  “You have to believe me, Ernest. The woman on that video is not me.” I sit up in bed and pinch the bridge of my stuffy nose. “You know me. You know I haven’t even been in a relationship for two years.”

  “I want to believe you, kiddo, but there’s no doubt that the person on that video is you.” He sighs. “I tried to defend you, but the damage is done. There’s nothing I can do to save your career or repair your image. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” I hang up the phone. There’s nothing more I want to say to him. He’s the one person I thought would have my back. I guess I was wrong about him.

  Not long after my call with Ernest, my phone starts ringing off the hook, even though it’s after 10:00 p.m. At first, I pick up the calls, hoping it’s someone from Quicksilver, but it’s reporters.

  After the fifteenth call, I switch off the phone, curl myself into a ball and force myself to sleep.

  In the morning, I’m returning home to Paulson because Nashville has let me down.

  In the morning, I splash my face with cold water, pack a bag, and take the elevator to the underground garage, where my Volvo is waiting to drive me to the airport.

  I bought the car last year, when one of my songs became a number one hit on the country music charts. But now as I slide behind the wheel, I feel nothing but emptiness.

  Before starting the car, I turn on the radio in hopes that music will cheer me up, but the moment I hear my name being mentioned with the word scandal attached to it, I switch off the radio and turn the key in the ignition.

  Before I can fully emerge from the garage, I notice a number of reporters running around with microphones and cameras.

  For the first time, I understand what it means to be on the wrong side of the limelight.

  The reporters instantly surround my car and to my horror, one of them pulls open the passenger’s door and shoves her microphone inside.

  “Erin, how does it feel to be a homewrecker? Do you know that the man you had sex with is a pastor with five children?”

  “Leave me alone,” I shout, swatting the microphone with the back of my hand and trying to reach for the door, to shut them out. The door is open too wide for me to reach the handle.

  I slow down because there are so many people around. I wouldn’t want to run anyone over. Giving the press something more to latch on to would be a mistake I don’t want to make.

&nbs
p; “How does it feel to be dropped by Quicksilver?” someone shouts from the crowd.

  Many more questions follow until they all merge into noise that makes my head want to explode.

  “No comment.” I grip the steering wheel tighter, sweat trickling down the back of my neck.

  As panic grabs me by the throat, the reporter who opened my door is yanked back into the crowd, then someone slides into the passenger’s seat, slamming the door shut.

  My heart jumps to my throat until I see who it is.

  “Spencer?” A wave of relief mixed with surprise floods through me. “How—”

  “Lock the doors,” he says in the deep, dusty voice I remember so well. “And let me drive.”

  “Oh, okay.” I do as I’m told.

  First, I press the button to lock all the doors, then I climb out of my seat. Once Spencer is settled behind the wheel, I move to the passenger’s seat and fasten my seatbelt.

  I turn to him, my heart racing. “What are you doing here?”

  “Let’s talk later.” He blares the horn to warn the reporters outside only seconds before the car lurches forward and the reporters jump out of the way.

  We don’t speak until we’re a safe distance away from my building.

  Even though the reporters are far behind, he speeds up, throwing a glance at me. “You okay, Peacock?”

  I swallow hard. It’s been a long time since I heard him call me that. He came up with the nickname the first time he told me I was too talented for a small town like Paulson.

  “Yes,” I say first, then I change my mind. “No, I’m not okay.” Tears burn my eyes. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Home. I’m taking you home.”

  Spencer pulls the car to a stop in front of a white private jet.

  While confusion draws my brows together, he gets out and comes to open my door.

  “I thought we were going to the airport,” I say as I climb out. The morning heat kisses my skin while the sun blinds my eyes, which are still sore from crying.