Authors: Alicia Hunter Pace
He nodded. “She handled all that. I just paid the bills.” He looked around and a devilish little smile played with his mouth. It wasn’t a bad look. Maybe they could be friends for the time he would be here, though she suspected it would be closer to three days than three months. “Here we are at the famous rose arbor.”
She laughed. “The graveyard for all the hearts broken by Jackson Beauford.”
And then suddenly, so suddenly she didn’t see it coming, he placed his hand on her wrist and swung her into his arms. “I think I’ll collect on what I’ve been accused of.”
And his mouth was on hers, soft, sweet, with just the bare tip of his tongue circling the inside of her lips. He tasted like coffee, vanilla, and lemon.
It caught her so off guard that she forgot she hadn’t been kissed in over two years, forgot to be scared, forgot that she was incapable of liking the feel of a tongue tangling with hers and strong arms around her.
But then the strong arms tightened, his penis rose against her, and she remembered. He was twice her size. She’d seen his muscles ripple up and down his arms and in his neck. He could break her in half if he wanted. He could definitely pin her to the ground and—
Except for security, there was no one here. Would they hear her if she screamed? Would they do anything if they did? After all, they worked for him.
The steel started in her feet and worked its way up until she wasn’t a woman enjoying a kiss anymore but a statue, hard and cold—and terrified.
He felt it too and went still. This would be the part where he got mad. He lifted his mouth from hers and she used the only thing she had—her tiny, tiny voice.
“Please let go of me.” Even she could hear the trembling terror in her words. How had she ever thought she had any power? And this was all her fault. She’d teased and flirted. She’d even put her hand on his wrist. She hadn’t pulled away when he’d placed a finger on her lips. She had forgotten that even Beauford Bend wasn’t safe.
He immediately dropped his arms and stepped away.
He looked confused.
“I really need to get my work done.” And she ran toward the house.
• • •
It was well after dark when, walking back to her house, Emory heard guitar music coming from the side porch. No question that it was Jackson. She had little musical ability, but even she understood what the critics said about Jackson’s guitar playing. He played with such emotion that it evoked exactly the right feelings in the listener before he even sung a word. This was a love song, no doubt. And it was new. She would have recognized anything that had been previously recorded, even the ones that hadn’t been hits. She leaned against the wall to listen. After all, she might be witnessing history in the making. As the music washed over her, she relaxed and gave in to the amazing sensation coursing through her. A critic had once said that listening to Jackson perform was like art taking hold of the soul. It was true. Then he began to sing.
Caught somewhere between
A fairy tale and a dream
She trampled through my house and made me want to scream.
But she’ll be gone tomorrow
At least that’s what I pray.
God in heaven knows
I can’t take this another day.
Then he slid into one of those soulful guitar solos that let the world know just how much he meant those words.
Emory angrily stomped all the way back to her house—taking the long way around. And somewhere along the way, she replayed the lyrics in her head—and started to laugh.
She didn’t see him again for a week.
Emory sat at the desk that had been Amelia’s, staring at the Around the Bend calendar for September through December. Though she hadn’t seen him, Jackson had been at Beauford Bend for over a week now and it was time to face that he might be staying. She wasn’t ready to admit that things had to change but she needed to be prepared and the first step to being prepared was making a spreadsheet of what could possibly be held at Firefly Hall—if Christian was willing and if the clients were willing—and what could not. She made a note of the events that already had signed contracts and the ones that didn’t. The ones with contracts were lawsuits waiting to happen, but that was going to have to be Jackson’s problem. She’d placate where she could; she’d have to if she wanted to save the business.
But did she? If she couldn’t live at Beauford Bend?
Could
she live in town? Or maybe somewhere on the premises of Firefly Hall? Her stomach turned sick with fear at the very thought. Sure, she could run errands in town and visit Christian but when the lights went out and it was time to go to bed, being anywhere except her safe little house on the safe grounds of Beauford Bend was unthinkable. Maybe Jackson would let her rent the house.
Don’t borrow trouble,
she told herself.
It hasn’t happened yet.
She leafed through the large stack of mail. Bills, product catalogs, a thank you note from a recent client, junk, more bills, and the latest copy of
Twang.
Amelia had read the magazine because there was usually something in it about Jackson. Emory had renewed the subscription when it ran out a few months ago, telling herself she needed to keep up with the Nashville scene.
Amelia would have been happy with this issue. The cover was a huge close-up of Jackson’s face and a single phrase—
Ashes and Tears.
The photo was fairly recent but pre-haircut. She’d seen that look a thousand times in a thousand videos and concert DVDs. She’d seen it one time in person at Madison Square Garden.
Head thrown back, eyes closed, jaw clenched. A drop of sweat that might be construed as a tear—if a tear was what you were looking for—hung onto his impossibly high cheekbone. His intense expression spoke of pain—but it wasn’t pain. That was how he always looked when he was deep into a guitar solo. When he finished, he would back up a step, open his eyes, and flash a smile as he tossed the hair out of his eyes. Then he would bite his lower lip, looking a little shy and humbled at the crowd’s reaction. And his smooth bourbon voice with its little jagged edge of rotgut rye whiskey would belt out the next line of the song.
Slowly, Emory opened the magazine, scanned the table of contents, and turned to the article, “Man Without a Trademark” by Carson Hamilton-Knox.
If he’s got a favorite guitar, nobody knows. He’s as likely to wear Nikes on stage as boots.
There’s a whisper of a tattoo on his bicep, but there’s no photographic evidence that he’s ever shown it to the world; if it has any significance no one’s telling—least of all him.
He doesn’t wear a cowboy hat. “I’m not a cowboy,” he said simply.
Johnny Cash had his black attire. Willie Nelson has his bandana; George Strait, his hat and starched shirts; Keith Urban, his down-under accent; and Brad Paisley, his humor.
But Jack Beauford is a man without a trademark.
He has worn a leather band that resembles a child’s friendship bracelet for years and devotees have written reams on fan sites, speculating about the significance—he wears it for his brother in the military; a child he met through the Make a Wish Foundation gave it to him; it was a gift from the only girl he ever loved. Turns out, that’s no trademark either. When asked about the bracelet, he glanced at his wrist and said, “This? Totally utilitarian. It’s been replaced a hundred times. I don’t like putting my pick in my mouth when I change guitars so I slip it there.”
Legendary songwriter and top-tier member of the Country Music Royal family Charlie Evans had this to say, “He’s only the most extraordinary combination of raw talent and hard work that this business has seen in a long time—maybe ever.”
Is it really that simple? Not that there’s anything simple about raw talent and hard work. But would he be the phenomenon that is Jack Beauford without his good looks, land-rich/money-poor background, and tragic personal history?
Everyone knows his parents and little sister died in a fire while twelve-year-old Jack and his three younger brothers looked on. Everyone knows he raises millions of dollars for burn victims every year. But he doesn’t talk about it. “It was a long time ago.” Not a lie, but not quite the truth either.
If these are the things that made the man, the man has been made again.
Jack Beauford knows—as we all do, by now—what happened in Los Angles on May 14 during his “Habit Not Worth Breaking” tour.
“A deranged man threw a firebomb onstage and another into the audience. Forty-three people were killed, including my rhythm guitarist, my drummer, three of my road crew, and my manager.”
He is able to recite the names of all forty-three victims and he knows the particulars of how Mason Patrick, after setting the fires, committed suicide by throwing himself off the roof of the Los Angeles Staples Center.
But this is what he is not talking about: How he tried to save band member Trace Crawford and was stopped by his longtime personal assistant, Ginger Marsden. Or his failure to attend the funerals of his late entourage members. How this recent tragedy took him back to another fire and other losses.
After canceling the “Habit Not Worth Breaking” tour, Beauford returned to his home in Beauford, Tennessee. Unconfirmed rumors purport that he has released the members of his band, the Barroom Brawlers, and crew.
What can all this mean? Some say he’s done. Others say he’s giving himself and his crew time to heal before reorganizing. Either way, he’s not talking and neither is anyone who ever worked for him.
As fire tempers steel and the Phoenix rises from ashes, it’s a safe bet that Jack Beauford will be back, sooner rather than later and stronger than ever. He’s done it before.
But he probably still won’t have a trademark.
When asked about that—and only then—a little self-assurance (some would call it arrogance) surfaced around the edges of his ever-present gentlemanly demeanor.
“I can play the hell out of a guitar—any guitar. What else do I need?”
Indeed.
Emory closed the magazine. Not much there and nothing she didn’t already know. The piece was rounded out by a list of all Jackson’s awards and accolades, a sidebar with short profiles of Jackson’s late band and crew members, and lots of pictures—pictures of Jackson as a baby, with his family, as a teen, being inducted into the Grand Ole Opry, on stages, and on red carpets with various beautiful women.
She read through the article again and then let her eyes settle on what had to be one of the last pictures taken of the Beauford family before the fire. They were a handsome lot. Jackson’s mother had been a dark-haired beauty while his father was blond with fine, aristocratic features. Jackson and Beau took after their mother while the twins and the baby were blond.
Amelia had told Emory that Jackson’s mother had been all set to name the twins family names but when they were born with abundant blond curls and huge, deep-sea-blue eyes, she’d pronounced them angels and named them Gabriel Sebastian and Raphael Tristan. In the picture, the baby, sitting on her mother’s lap, had a hand on one of the twin’s cheeks, and Jackson had his hands on Beau’s shoulders and was speaking into his ear. They both were laughing. Such a happy family—unlike her own.
She wondered how many times Jackson had been truly happy since that picture had been taken—or if he ever had been at all.
Suddenly and without warning, she began to cry. How much could one man take? Ever since he’d arrived at Beauford Bend, she’d been so busy fighting him—fighting him for Around the Bend, for the town, and for her own safe place—that she hadn’t hurt for him at all.
The question was, why was she doing it now?
But she cried on.
• • •
Jackson set the treadmill for a cardio workout and stepped on. It had been a week since he’d had any exercise beyond walking from the bed to the sofa. He preferred running outside but had gotten used to the treadmill when his face had gotten too famous for him to step out the door and let his feet take him where they wanted to go. Running outside was one of the things he’d looked forward to being able to do at Beauford Bend, but he’d slept late again and it was already too hot. In spite of the days that had passed, he still didn’t want to cross paths with Emory. What had possessed him to kiss her? Stupid move—though he had to admit it had been a fine kiss until she got spooked.
If
she had gotten spooked. Maybe she’d just gotten disinterested. Hadn’t felt like it though. Oh, well. Who the hell cared?
His cell phone rang and, like always, in case it was Beau, he looked at the caller ID. It was his cousin, Missy Bragg. He hadn’t answered his phone in weeks but Missy was the only person he knew who was entirely willing to and capable of tracking him like bloodhound. She was also one of the people who might have heard from Beau.
He steeled himself for what was bound to be on the other end of the phone.
“Hello.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you seem to be alive. You haven’t been picking up the phone for me. Or Rafe and Gabe. They’re worried about you. So am I. So I’m coming to Beauford Bend.”
“No! No, Missy. Do not come up here. Don’t worry about me. I mean it. I’m tired and you make me more tired.” Then it hit him. “Wait a minute! How do you know where I am?”
“Says so right here in
Twang
.”
Oh, fuck. “How did that reporter know where I am? Did you tell her?”
“Jacky! Listen to yourself. I don’t know how she knows. I suppose because she’s a reporter and reporters find stuff out. And do you think if I had known, I wouldn’t have been there already?”
Good point.
“And you can tell Dirk I’m mad at him,” Missy went on. “I’ve been calling him for two weeks. Every time, he tells me he hasn’t seen you.”
Points for Dirk.
“I haven’t been here long. I’m fine. I have a few stitches in my arm but it’s nearly well.”
“I doubt that. And I wasn’t talking about your arm. But you need to call the twins. If you don’t, I
am
coming up there. I might bring the kids and stay a week.”
“Do not come here. I’m not ready for you.” He swallowed. “Has anybody heard from Beau?”