The Complete Groupie Trilogy (112 page)

When Vanni and Andy hit the stage for their first dance, a guest singer stood in with the band. It was the first time they’d ever had a girl sing lead, but this wasn’t just any girl. This girl was fierce. Jordi Hemphill sang a special song written by Vanni for the moment.

As talented as their guest was, Andy only had ears for the hot rocker who still sang softly into her ear, but this time he wasn’t just promising a sexy one-night-stand. He was promising her much, much more than she could have
ever imagined way back in 2007.

It was her happily ever after at last.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against his strong shoulder as he sang, “
I never believed in forever, till I fell in love with you. Now that we’re together, babe, only forever will do
.”

To read more about Shannon McKenna and her fairy godfather, Jorge, check out “Love Plus One,” to see how she was thrust from the shadows and into the spotlight to find love where she least expects it.

Meet Jolene Anderson as the bubbly best friend to Jessica Austin in the cowboy romance, “Under Texas Skies.”

And to learn more about Jordi Hemphill and how the characters you love from the “Groupie” saga help her reach for her dreams, watch for “Fierce,” the new title coming from Ginger Voight in 2013. Live large – be FIERCE!

Read the first chapter now!

FIERCE

By

Ginger Voight

©2013

CHAPTER ONE

I stepped onto the cool glass, first one foot and then the other. While digital numbers scrambled to decide my fate, I couldn’t help but notice how the glittery blue polish was chipping off of my toenails. I’d have to fix that for my big day. It was a much easier fix than the 262.4 that blinked at me from the LED display on my Great Nemesis: The Bathroom Scale.

I sighed. Despite the all-carrot-and-celery diet I’d gritted through for the last four days, I still couldn’t break that damnable barrier of 260 pounds. I had so hoped to conquer that by the time I turned 18, but apparently it was not to be.

Oh well. Tonight meant birthday cake, and now I could eat a slice. A really big one.

I turned on the shower and allowed steam to rise up in the tiny bathroom where I stood, a bathroom I had groomed and preened for almost all of my adolescence. The sink, toilet and the tub were all a dull salmon pink that even the cheerful powder blue and white wallpaper couldn’t improve. Despite my mother’s best efforts, it was a room straight out of the 1960s. Everyone in my family seemed resolved to the idea, but that was true for most people in Oswen, Iowa.

My little town had topped out at around 1200 citizens. It never grew. It never shrank. It had stalled somewhere in the 1950s after all the factories that had equipped World War 2 closed shop and moved elsewhere. Those who stayed thought Oswen was just about the best little piece of Americana in the whole U.S. of A, and were fiercely devoted to maintaining the status quo. Everyone else just bided their time until they could shake the dust of this small town from their feet in search for an adventure a bit grander than breeding the next crop of Oswenians. Somehow, those two factions always seemed to balance each other out. For everyone who managed to escape the main street drag and the city square, there was another baby born to take his or her place, raised to believe this was a little piece of heaven on earth.

I belonged to the group that couldn’t wait for the day I would buy a one-way ticket to somewhere, anywhere, else.

I uncapped the bright red shampoo that smelled strongly of apples, applying a dab to my long, brown hair. I had the same haircut since I was ten. It hung, long, heavy and straight, right down my back, with bangs covering my forehead. It never kept a curl. The most I could ever do with it was put it in an equally boring braid. But my mother always cautioned me against taking a risk with it. “It flatters your full face,” she’d say. “Like a mousy, brown mask,” I’d always think to myself.

As I lathered up, I hummed one of my favorite songs to myself, which immediately improved my mood. My surroundings may have been ugly, drab and as pink as flamingo poop, but my bathroom had great acoustics. The sound of my voice bounced off the walls and surrounded me like a warm, familiar embrace.

If anyone had ever bothered to ask, I was always happiest when I was singing. I could forget the disappointing number of a scale, or the limitations of my small town, or even the ugly décor of my bathroom.

When I sang I was able to lift above any mortal plane and soar among the angels.

It just made everything better, you know?

Pretty soon my humming turned into singing as I launched into the powerful chorus that spoke about never giving up on my dreams. This seemed a very fitting theme for the beginning of my adulthood.

Thank you, Steve Perry.

My impromptu concert was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

“Jordi!” my mother called through the door. “Hurry up. We’re needed at the church.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. If there was anything more confining than Oswen, Iowa, it was the First Baptist Church of Oswen, located at First and Maple since 1914. You want to talk frozen in time… I almost needed a time machine to go from my 1960s bathroom to the simple frame building that housed Oswen’s most devout each and every Sunday. I had spent nearly two decades staring at the hard wood floor as I fidgeted on the hard wooden pew two rows from the front, listening to a pastor drone about the wages of sin. This message would go in one ear and out the other as I’d fan myself with a church program, waiting till the clock struck noon and we all shuffled out the door in a single, hungry line to the nearest all-you-could-eat cafeteria.

It was a stifling, oppressive tomb of obligation. And now I’d have to spend one of the most important birthdays I’d ever have there. All damned day.

If there were wages of sin, I kind of felt this was paying more than my fair share, along with a very generous tip.

With a sigh I rinsed my hair and shut off the hot water. I rushed through the rest of my grooming, glancing up into the mirror only when it was truly necessary to rinse my face or brush my teeth. My round face was as boring as the hair that framed it. It would have blended along with the crowd, if you didn’t count the chipmunk cheeks and the extra chin. At least the acne had finally abated. I could count my blessings for that. I picked up my hairbrush as I stared at my blurry image in the foggy mirror. On impulse I also picked up the song that had been so rudely interrupted. I kept the volume down, so my mom wouldn’t think I was dragging my feet or stalling to get to the church (I was,) but it was no use. Within a few minutes she was pounding on the door again, effectively popping the bubble on my singing euphoria to remind me of our pressing schedule.

For Marianne Hemphill, schedules were as binding as oaths. If she told you she was going to be there at 8:00 a.m., you could bet your boots she’d be there at 7:45 a.m. with a thermos of coffee and a dozen donuts she made from scratch.

My whole life had been on a schedule. My mother simply didn’t abide those things that didn’t go according to her plan. Life was very black and white. You went to school, you got good grades; you went to church and tithed every Sunday. You graduated high school, married your sweetheart and produced God-fearing, schedule-abiding offspring.

Day was for working. Night was for sleeping. TV was for those who didn’t have a book to read, and we always had books to read – several versions of the Bible in particular. You got a job straight out of high school and, if you were lucky, you stayed there till retirement. Life was about living according to plan. Why take any risks when you could keep it quiet and safe and predictable?

I personally couldn’t imagine a more boring prison.

Much to my mother’s annoyance, I didn’t see life in the straight and narrow way that she did. I didn’t like school and I hated church, and couldn’t wait to “graduate” from both. I wasn’t interested in finding some dead-end, mundane job to pass the time between popping out baby after baby, provided I even found a husband in the first place. It wasn’t like I had a string of suitors waiting for me at the door.

I certainly didn’t want to date the kids from my church, who thought along the same limited lines as my mother. I didn’t see any point in settling on a safe life with a safe spouse, working a safe job that had little more benefit than paying some bills and building a modest nest for a conservative retirement. I always found myself wondering if everyone who lived such a life was truly happy there or just settling there, because I certainly didn’t understand the appeal.

I bitched if I had to get up before noon. Instead I found any excuse to burn the midnight oil. I watched reality TV on the sly and the only books I cared to read were whimsical stories of fantasy and romance that my mother warned were nothing more than fairy tales. A successful life in the city romanced by a billionaire? That didn’t happen to simple, plain girls from Iowa – or so my mother so firmly asserted.

But I didn’t care because unlike my mother, who relished limitations and structure, I wanted to spread my wings and soar off the biggest cliff I could find. I wanted to believe that if I could have a dream, I could find a way to make it come true. And I was willing to sink my teeth into anything and everything that encouraged me to do just that.

That didn’t include a church hymnal or boring, dusty textbooks.

Instead I crafted Vision Boards with pictures cut carefully out of magazines to piece together the life of my dreams.

And it was a life that was so big it didn’t fit in Oswen, Iowa.

Because frankly… neither did I.

I closed the bedroom door behind me as I made my way to my closet to get dressed. There, tucked behind the boring, shapeless clothes in size 3X, was that carefully crafted Vision Board. Despite my mother’s White Rabbit urgency, I pulled out said Vision Board to remind myself exactly what kinds of dreams I thought were worth believing in.

My fingertip danced over the glossy photos that were framed with glitter and cheerful, positive affirmations. On one side was a big house facing the Pacific Ocean, pictures of CDs and gold albums – and a Grammy award. On the other side were pictures of a penthouse with a view, Times Square and the Great White Way, along with a Broadway playbill my Aunt Jackie had brought back from New York.

These were the secret dreams I harbored as I daydreamed my way through high school, and most certainly nothing my mother would have ever encouraged me to pursue. She thought the best my passion for singing could amount to was a position as choir director or music teacher. But she often cautioned me that even those dreams were far too lofty. She reminded me that skill was far more marketable than talent. Skill was what you had for yourself, she’d say. Talent was what other people decided for you.

If she knew I daydreamed about being a platinum-selling singer, she’d furrow her brow and stare down her straight nose at me like I was some delusional idiot. In her mind, living off one’s talent was like living off one’s beauty. It was far too subjective to bank on for the long term.

And she’d waste no time telling me that to make it as a pop singer, I’d need both talent and beauty to sell even one album, much less a million.

I couldn’t even get a date to my prom.

With a sigh my eyes traveled to the class photo tucked between all my dreams of grandeur. Eddie Nix was the most popular boy in high school, and every girl (and probably a few guys) wanted to be on his arm. He was a star quarterback of the Fighting Otters, with a scholarship to take him to Des Moines in the fall. He had wavy blond hair and crystal blue eyes, and a smile that could make any dentist proud.

I’d been in love with him since third grade, when he told me how much he enjoyed my performance as the Cowardly Lion in the school’s production of
The Wizard of Oz
. We remained fast friends up until puberty, when girls and boys finally discovered each other. He turned into a teen dream and I turned into a pudgy, acne-ridden butterball with greasy hair and a mouthful of metal to straighten my unfortunate overbite.