Nine
“It’s a good crowd tonight,” Kyle Morgan said as he slipped down the narrow hallway that qualified as the backstage of the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville, Tennessee. He winked at Brooke Bonner. “But I don’t think any of them came for me.”
Brooke gave the older man a shaky smile but didn’t stop humming to herself. The Bluebird was usually full—it was a small space where songwriters and singers came to test out new material. She’d been coming here for a decade now—first as a patron, then as a performer. She hadn’t been back in almost a year and a half, though.
She hadn’t been anywhere since she’d had Bean.
This night marked the beginning of her official comeback. After almost seven months of what felt like house arrest, she was walking back into the spotlight.
She was done hiding.
Mostly done, anyway. No one but a few select people knew about James Frasier Bonner—who she still called Bean, even though he definitely had grown. At three months, Bean was already smiling and cooing at her.
He had his father’s smile.
Kyle wasn’t in the know about Bean. Which made Brooke feel bad because Kyle was almost a father figure to her. He’d been at the Bluebird for her very first show and had taught her more about songwriting than anyone else. At every step of Brooke’s journey from “girl with a guitar” to “country music phenomenon,” Kyle had been a cheerleader, giving her advice and gentle pushes forward.
“Missed seeing you around,” Kyle said. “Been quiet without you.”
If she could’ve picked a father, Kyle might’ve done the trick. Sadly, Crissy Bonner would never tell Brooke who’d sired her. And the fact that she was walking in her mother’s footsteps by keeping Bean’s father a secret was a huge problem for Brooke.
But what choice did she have?
She didn’t want to repeat the mistakes her mother had made. She wanted to do better.
But first, she had to get back out into the music scene.
Kyle’s smile crinkled the lines around his mouth. It was a damn shame he refused to even talk to Mom. They could’ve made a good couple, and Kyle was rocking a silver-fox thing. Plus, if Mom had had a boyfriend or a husband, it might’ve taken some of Crissy Bonner’s focus off Brooke. But the few times Brooke had managed to get them in the same room, the barely concealed hatred had been enough to crush any dreams of an instant family.
Of course, if Kyle and Crissy had hooked up, that might’ve meant Brooke wouldn’t have a Grammy and a couple of chart toppers to her name. And it also might’ve meant she’d never have performed at that All-Stars Rodeo where Flash Lawrence had been riding, which would’ve meant no Bean. And she loved her son with her whole heart.
“Does this show mean you’re off hiatus?” Kyle asked as he packed up his guitar.
“Yup. I’d been touring for almost four years straight before I hit big last year. It just wiped me out.”
That was the official position her record label and family had cooked up. Brooke had needed a break to work on her new material. There might have been something in there about resting her vocal cords, she couldn’t remember.
It’d all been a load of crap.
No one rested during the last three months of pregnancy. New mothers with fussy babies didn’t rest.
Not for the first time, Brooke wished they’d just announced she was pregnant and dealt with the issue head-on. Yeah, the press might’ve been brutal—but there was no such thing as bad PR, and she’d argued that her surprise pregnancy might’ve taken her second album, White Trash Wonder, from double to triple platinum. After all, an unexpected pregnancy was on brand.
She’d been overruled because of one fact and one fact alone: she wouldn’t tell anyone who Bean’s father was. Not that it was any of their business, because it wasn’t.
Her mother hadn’t forgiven her yet for sitting on that particular secret, as if Crissy hadn’t done the exact same thing by refusing to acknowledge Brooke’s father.
Which meant Brooke was stuck lying, which she hated.
Kyle stood and wrapped an arm awkwardly around her shoulder. “Welcome back,” he said, giving her a friendly squeeze before he headed out to the front to watch. “You need anything, you just give me a call. I mean it, Brooke—anything at all.”
Brooke’s eyes stung with unexpected emotion at Kyle’s thoughtfulness. She forced her shoulders down and started humming again, keeping her vocal cords warm.
Alex Andrews, her bodyguard and friend, squeezed her big frame into the hallway and handed Brooke a mug of hot tea. “They found some honey,” she practically growled.
Brooke accepted the tea gratefully and took a sip. Ah, the perfect temperature. “Thanks, hon.”
Alex was big and gruff, but underneath her tanklike exterior she was a softie with a heart of solid gold. They’d been friends since junior high, back when Brooke was a band geek just starting to perform and Alex had been the first girl to play offensive lineman on the football team. Long before White Trash Wonder had hit big, Alex had been right beside Brooke in every dive bar and county fair, doing her best to keep away grabby, drunk assholes.
Thirteen
