WHISPER ME HOME
By Annabelle Anders
CHAPTER ONE
Colt
Women have spoiledme. I’m not gonna lie. I smile, I get my way. It’s been that way since I turned thirteen and it’s only gotten better– or worse, depending on how you wanna look at it– since I rocketed up the country music charts about ten years ago.
And I’ve taken advantage. Some would say I’ve taken advantage of them. This life. This world. It’s crazy.
Except that for me, it’s become the norm.
Crazy is my normal.
And I’ve rolled with it.
When you’re twenty-one and women are grabbing you, rubbing their tits on you, and putting your hand on their pussy, well… you don’t exactly fight them off. You go through lots of condoms and don’t look back.
Because there’s always another one, another hot groupie. I’m constantly in motion… to the next town, the next venue, play, drink, all sorts of shit. At least I’m smart enough to stay away from drugs. I’ve seen too many fuck themselves up. Burned out. Burned up.
Dead.
Nah, I stay away from that.
Unfortunately, not everyone feels this way. I ought to have more control over it, over them, and it’s messing with my head.
After being on the road for eighteen months straight, I’m taking a hiatus. At the recommendation of my manager, Lex Maddox and the bigwigs at Sun Recording.
They’ve decided I need to clear my head.
They didn’t like it when I attacked the junkie who’d scored a backstage pass to peddle his wares to my team. I beat the crap out of the little bastard.
Don’t bring that shit around me. Around my guys.
I lost it.
Thing was, this wasn’t the first time. Ever since Randy overdosed. What do they expect? I’m no tolerance. Zero.
So, they’ve signed me up for a two-week retreat at the Whiskey Creek Ranch and Spa. “Relax,” they told me. “Hike, swim. Take a yoga class.” I’d rather they sent me to Timbuctoo.
I have no choice. This sort of crap gets slipped into the fine print of some vague clause in your contract and the next thing you know you’re sitting cross legged wearing a toga.
I walk up to a guest service desk where a pretty little thing is sitting behind a desk tapping at a computer. She’s hot. I mean, really hot. Natural hot. No makeup but perfect skin. Plump, perfect lips. Nice rack. I can’t see the rest of her, but I’m willing to bet I’ll like what I see. She’s wearing a short-sleeved lacy blouse, showing off firm, toned arms.
Maybe this won’t be such a trial after all. I hold her gaze and drop into one of the cushioned chairs facing her. Her fingers are long and slim, nails painted with some sparkly silver polish. No ring. I notice this stuff. She’s free game.
She slips on a pair of glasses and flashes me a professional but friendly smile. “Name?”
I chuckle. It’s kind of fun when chicks don’t know who I am. “Colt.” I say. “Forrester.” I’m waiting for the reaction that usually comes now.
Nothing.
She glances up and tilts her head. She’s a hot blond. I freely admit that I’m partial to them. “Welcome to Whiskey Creek, Mr. Forrester.” I’m laughing to myself now. She’s playing with me.
I study her with what is known as my smoldering gaze. Women have dropped their panties when I give them this look. Literally. And then thrown them on the stage at me. She blinks a few times, clears her throat, and then begins tapping away at her computer again. She bites her bottom lip as she seems to scroll through various names. “Ah, yes. I have you down for fourteen nights. Our VIP package.”
I’ll give her a VIP package.
