Chapter Two

 

Brent

 

I lied because it’s easier than explaining who I really am. But lying to Caleigh felt like it physically hurt me. I wanted her to like me for me, not for the fame and fortune. But thinking back on it, she didn’t really strike me as the materialistic type. I probably could have told her who I am, and she wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. But I didn’t, and now, if I bump into her—which there’s rather a large chance in a town as small as this—I’ll have to keep up the pretence. Rhett Butler. How fucking stupid am I? Of course she’s seen Gone with The Wind, and when I introduced myself as Rhett, she asked if my mum had been a fan of the film. Which, of course, she really is. But then I ended up adding to the lie that our surname was Butler and that’s why Mum had chosen my name.

Realistically, it was the only name I could think of when Caleigh had asked. Now it’ll have to be my name for as long as I’m here—however long that may be.

I mean, I needed to use a pseudonym anyway, but why one so clichéd? Damn Brent, you’re an idiot of the highest order, I think to myself as I scrub a hand over my face.

I feel the stupid beard that I hate so much and wish I didn’t have to be in disguise. But I can’t have anyone finding out I’m here. All it would take is one teenager to ask for a selfie and post it online, then all and sundry could find out exactly where I am and descend like the vultures they are.

I don’t mean that our fans are vultures. I mean the paparazzi. They’d give their right arm to get a picture of me to sell to the tabloids. And that is the last thing I want right now. I came here for peace and quiet.

My head spins with an oncoming migraine as I check into the bed and breakfast. Audrey, the proprietor, leads me to my room and tells me just to pick up the phone if I need anything. I won’t, not for a while anyway. I intend to take a nap to try and stave off the incoming migraine.

“Dinner will be served at five-thirty, Mr. Butler. But don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything you need before then,” she says with a smile.

“Thank you, Audrey. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Me too, I think as she closes the door behind her.

I strip to my boxers and slide underneath the duvet. The warm material cocoons me and lulls me to sleep.

***

I wake and look at the clock on the bedside table. It’s five o’clock. How on earth did I sleep so late? I lie still and close my eyes for a second, feeling no sign of the migraine from earlier. Thank goodness for that.

I get up, pull fresh clothing from my suitcase and head for a quick shower in the en suite before heading down to dinner. There’s a towel hanging on the radiator, so I grab it and throw it over the glass door of the shower.

Standing under the hot jets, I allow the water to soothe my aching muscles, relieving all the tension in my shoulders. As I begin to relax, I grab the little bottle of shower gel from the shelf and chastise myself for not grabbing my own from my case. This will have to do for one shower.

Closing my eyes, I lather up the soap in my hair—having also forgotten to grab my shampoo—and let the water wash it away. Behind my eyelids, I picture a beautiful pink-haired woman with stunning green eyes. She’s the epitome of sassy, spunky, feisty and fun. All the things I need to stay away from, but am drawn to, nonetheless.

On the plane, we’d been in such close proximity that I could smell her perfume, see the ink adorning her arms in all its resplendent glory …

I can just picture those soft, full pink lips. Especially the bottom one with the way it was pierced in the centre. I wonder what it would be like to kiss someone with that kind of piercing. But such temptations lead me to a place I cannot go. I’d only end up hurting her, and that’s the last thing I want to do.

I didn’t come here to get tangled up in something romantic. Nothing good could ever come of it. Nobody ever realises what they’re letting themselves in for when they open up their world the way I have mine. Even I didn’t realise at first. That’s one of the reasons for my hiatus from the band.

Tired of fame, fortune, and women throwing themselves at my feet. Tired of being in the press for my “assignations” as my mum calls them. Tired of them printing lie after lie about me. I’m just so bone tired of it all.

The boys didn’t understand when I said I needed a break from the headlines. Ash said there’s no such thing as bad publicity, but that’s bullshit.

There was never going to be a good time for me to take a break, but right in the middle of the tour might just have been the worst. Our manager, Gordon, was outraged when he heard I was gone. He insisted—to my voicemail because I refused to answer the phone—that I “get my ass back right now or find myself in breach of contract and at risk of being forced out of the band”.

It’s not that I don’t care. I do. It’s just that nobody understands how much I need to get away. For my sanity as much as anything.

I shake those thoughts from my mind and step out of the shower. I wrap the towel around me and wipe the condensation from the mirrored cabinet over the sink. As I look at my reflection, I don’t recognise the man I see. His hair is grown out to almost shoulder length and his beard is shaggy. The chestnut colour of it is the polar opposite of the blond it used to be, until a few days ago.

I walk back into the bedroom to grab my toothbrush and toothpaste, then head back to the sink to brush my teeth. I mull over what I’m really doing before returning to the room to get dressed.

I make it downstairs at five-thirty on the dot, and Audrey compliments me on being punctual, which makes me smile. I always pride myself on being on time.

She shows me to a table by the window and I look out to see the river. It’s beautiful as the evening light reflects off the water. Maybe I’ll take a walk after eating. I literally don’t have much else to do.

After eating a delicious medium well steak with homemade chips, I am full to bursting. Hats off to the chef; it was the best home-cooked meal I’ve had in what feels like forever. I miss my mum’s cooking. But if I’d gone back to hers to get some rest, the paparazzi would have caught wind and I didn’t want to bring a media storm to my mum and dad’s door. My brothers and sister have all grown up and moved out, but they still don’t need that shit on their doorstep. The thing is, as private as you wish things were, people always have a way of finding out where you live and setting up camp. So it’s not like I could go off-grid if I went home or to stay with any of my family.

The wind whips up around me as I walk along the edge of the river. I find a stone and skim it across the water, something I always did with my siblings at the beach. It sinks and I carry on, moving wherever my feet take me.

Audrey suggested going to The Lock to grab a drink and relax. She said I’d find it if I followed the river. So I guess that’s what I’m doing, stopping every now and then to gaze out across the water and wonder what my family and friends are up to right now. What would they think if they could see me now?

I wonder if they’ve heard about me going MIA. Nobody has called me, so I’m guessing that Gordon hasn’t called them raging about their asshole son.

I can see a building at the bottom of the hill, which I assume is The Lock. I guess a whiskey couldn’t hurt. It would sure warm me up from this biting wind. Audrey warned me that the evenings get pretty chilly around here. I should have listened and gone to my room to retrieve a warmer jacket, but I’m a stubborn mule, so I just left in my turtleneck jumper, jeans and all-important cowboy boots. It seems no matter what else I wear—unless it’s a suit—I’m always in my favourite black leather boots.

I find myself humming as I stroll down the hill. I always looked up to the singer as the god of the genre as I was growing up. Pop music never really appealed to me. I can appreciate a good song, no matter the singer or the genre, but country is the music of my soul, and Garth Brooks writes songs that speak to my heart.

I sing along to the all-too-familiar melody, but quietly so as not to draw attention to myself. I don’t want locals thinking I’m some kind of weirdo.

At the front door of the pub, I quit my singing and walk into a warm and seemingly friendly atmosphere. The bartender serves me a whiskey, neat. No sane person dilutes it, not in my book.

I find a table in the corner; it suits me because it’s a little darker back here. I always fear recognition everywhere I go these days. I used to live for the fame, the fortune, the women who threw themselves at us everywhere we went. I used to love the limelight and to sign autographs for fans. Nowadays, I pull on a baseball cap and sunglasses, pull my coat up around me and walk as fast as I can, trying to outrun everything that comes with being a member of Whiskey Lullaby.

I slip my phone out of my pocket and do a quick Google search for the band. Articles pop up with headlines such as “Where’s Brent Gone and When Will He Return?”, “Brent Flakes on Band Members Mid-Tour”, “Ryder Leaves Whiskey Lullaby: Is It Permanent?” and “Brent Ryder: Is He Sick or Sick of The Band?”

The one that makes me click it though is titled “Fans Are Furious at Brent Ryder for His Wanderlust.”

I knew I’d hurt people—family, friends, fans—but the article says that fans are outraged that they paid to see the band and only got to see the other three. They’re furious at me, as lead singer, for leaving without warning. Gordon is going to be batshit crazy when I finally stop ignoring his calls, sending him to voicemail without hesitation.

I never meant to piss off so many people. I never intended to hurt the fans. We’ve worked too long and too hard to get to where we are for fans to start dropping.

“Can I get you another?” a familiar voice asks, startling me so much I drop my phone.

I look up and see a flash of pink hair paired with emerald colour eyes. Oh boy. My cock twitches and I’m suddenly very grateful I chose to sit in a dark corner.

“Umm, that would be great, thanks.”

Handing her my glass, I feel a tingling sensation as her warm hand brushes against mine.

“Jameson neat, right?” Caleigh asks with a smile.

“Right.”

Great, so she’s reduced me to being a man of very few words.

“I’ll be right back.”

I watch her denim-clad ass as she walks back to the bar. She’s perky and upbeat, one of the things I like most about what I know of her so far.

Picking up my phone, I close the browser and slip it back into my pocket. I don’t need to be reading all the articles slamming me for my sudden disappearance from planet earth.

Caleigh heads back in my direction and I watch as her perky breasts bounce softly with her stride. She’s dressed in skin-tight jeans with a purple tank top, and I can see the ink adorning her arms. Remembering admiring the patterns on the plane, I inhale as she gets closer, committing the scent of her to memory. What I wouldn’t give to trace the patterns on her arms with my fingers … or my tongue …

“There you go,” she says with a megawatt grin as she hands me my glass.

“Thanks.”

I set it down on a napkin and smile at her. I pull my wallet from my pocket and pay her for the drink, telling her to keep the change. She beams at me in appreciation before setting off, and I watch as she changes a bottle out on the optics before wiping down the bar.

She really is beautiful. But I’m not here for that. And if I really need to satiate my needs, that’s what I use Tinder for. Although I’m sure in a town this small, they probably don’t have many women on there for me to choose from.