Page 2 of Worth Your Wild

Deke sits up all the way, sets down the bottle of Jack on the floor and rakes all ten fingers through his wild black hair. “Damn. Sandy’s kid is already giving birth? I swear he just told me she was pregnant.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun, I guess.”

He nudges the liquor bottle with the toe of his boot. “This ain’t fun. It’s survival.”

The smell of whiskey wafts in my direction. “I see.”

Deke pushes to his feet, reaching his full height, and my lips part on a silent intake of breath. God. Even drunk and disheveled, no one could deny the man is magnificent. He’s a bull of a human being. The godlike presence of him is the reason he’s still selling out shows, even though he hasn’t had a major hit in ten years. “What did you say your name was?”

I wet my lips. “June.”

He turns to the dressing table mirror, making eye contact with my reflection. “Well, like I said before, go the fuck home, June. I don’t need an assistant.”

It costs me an effort not to visibly flinch. My uncle warned me this man was mean as a snake and he didn’t exaggerate. My inner child and her shattered fantasies are begging me to drop the bags in my hands and run straight out of the arena. I’m not a quitter, though, and I don’t want to let Sandy down.

I grew up with a single mother. Never had a father around.

Sandy pitched in constantly to help his sister, my mom, in a tough situation.

He’s a good soul. I’m not going to jeopardize his job because my feelings are hurt.

“I’ve been employed as your assistant for a couple of hours, Mr. Decker, while you were passed out.” I hold up the bag in my right hand. “In that time, I’ve found a local deli that makes a mean Reuben sandwich. Pickles on the side. Is that still your favorite?” I don’t give him time to answer. “I also took a peek at your stage outfit for tonight and made some slight alterations. It should be more comfortable now. Doesn’t anyone around here know your measurements?”

He stares at me. “Bring me my guitar before you leave. I need to tune it.”

I gesture to the guitar case leaning against the wall. “Already done.”

A pop goes off in his jaw. “Nobody tunes my guitar but me.”

“Maybe that’s why it sounded like a strangled goat.”

It’s kind of satisfying, the way he turns, giving me his full—annoyed—attention. “Excuse me?”

I purse my lips. “I’m way overqualified to be an assistant and you only get me for three days, Mr. Decker.” I set the bag of food down inside the door, hanging up the dry-cleaning bag on a nearby rack. “You’ll be begging me to stay by the end of it.”

We’re facing off across the dressing room when a man rushes in wearing a headset. He does a double take when he sees me, adjusting his glasses. This is Whit, Deke’s manager. “Oh, hello again, June. I see you’ve met Deke.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true,” he snarls.

Whit is unfazed by his boss’s gripe. He’s too busy looking down at the clipboard in his hand. “We have a little bit of a problem. Lorna Paul got held up in Mississippi and she won’t be able to make it as the special guest tonight.”

Deke rolls one of his humongous shoulders. “Oh well.”

“Oh well?” Whit sputters. “Her appearance already leaked on social media. You’re supposed to sing that duet. People are clamoring for it.”

I struggle not to make a skeptical face.

“Clamoring” is a strong word.

It’s a decent song, but it only made it halfway up the country charts.

A lot like Deke’s other recent songs.

There’s no…heart in his voice anymore. It’s just gone.

The duet is a perfect example of that.

“Do we have time to find a local musician who can fill in?” I ask.