Our Kind of Love

Chapter 1 Kyle Keenan was an ungrateful bastard. He didn’t care about the arena of screaming fans begging for another encore, as he took his last bow of the night and faked a smile and affection for his tourmate, Mercy Lee Bradshaw. He didn’t care that this tour had shot his current album up the charts. He didn’t care that he was becoming a household name or that the True Country Network was calling him one of country music’s shooting stars and had given him the award to prove it. In this moment, all he gave a damn about was that this was the last stop on the tour. One more TV interview, then he was free. Free to go home. Free to rest and to breathe. Free to be a normal guy for a while and visit his little brother Caleb and his new wife. Free to closet himself in the studio to produce the next album. Not that he’d written a note of it yet. The realities of life on tour had scared away the inspiration that used to tear through him with the bold, brash wildness of an untamed stallion. He’d need to coax it back like some shy forest creature, with time and patience—commodities that had been in increasingly dwindling supply over the past couple years. The music would come when his world wasn’t full of so much other noise. And when it did, he’d find the love of it that had sent him out on the road at eighteen, determined to make something of himself. He just needed to get the hell off this stage and through the gauntlet to his tour bus. As soon as the lights dimmed, he dropped Mercy Lee’s hand, already jogging offstage and into the labyrinth of halls the public never saw. A familiar, hulking shape separated itself from the shadows and fell into step beside him. “You look like you’re ready to spit nails.” Griffin Powell never minced words. It was a trait Kyle had always appreciated about his foster brother. The shorthand they’d developed years ago was the sort that only arose between people who’d chosen to be family. That was what all the kids who’d gone through Joan Reynolds’ home had become, regardless of how they’d ended up there. And thank God for it. Vibrating with a restless, reckless energy, Kyle didn’t spare him a glance. “I need to get out of here. My give a damn busted about five cities ago.” “On it.” Griff shifted into what Kyle thought of as Tank Mode, clearing the path with nothing more than the breadth of his muscular shoulders and a back-the-hell-off attitude. That skill alone made hiring him for these last few months of the tour well worth it. Because they expected it and because he understood the need to protect his image, Kyle dug deep to find a shred of the Nice Guy he tried so hard to be for the crew members and event staff who called out “Good show!” and “Congrats, man!” as he strode past. He mustered a semblance of a smile, accepting the back slaps and the fist bumps, but he let nothing deter him from his goal. He didn’t even detour to his dressing room. The crew would finish packing his stuff, and he had a change of clothes on the bus. His manager, Davis Lipscomb, appeared at his side. “You need to talk to the press.” “Nope. I talked to them before I performed. I already signed autographs and did my fan service. It’s the last night, and I’m done with this dog and pony show.” He’d spent the past six-plus months doing everything asked of him in the name of keeping his label happy. And that was fine. His memories of the lean years, when he’d played any gig that materialized and had lived out of his ancient Tahoe, grabbing showers at truck stops because he couldn’t scrape together enough for a hotel, were still fresh enough in his mind that he was beyond grateful to have a label to please. But enough was enough. Davis’s mouth pressed into a thin line that telegraphed his displeasure. Kyle didn’t give a s**t about that, either. “You’ve still got the interview with The Breakfast Club tomorrow morning.” “I am aware. Why the hell do you think I’m so eager to get to the bus? I’d like at least a few hours of shuteye before I get back to Nashville.” That was only part of the reason. He was so over every-damn-body wanting something from him, and he’d reached a level of fame where, once in a while, he could put himself first without fear he’d get dropped. With the numbers being reported for this latest album, the label damned well better recognize he deserved a vacation. God knew he needed one. Dialing up his trademark Nice Guy smile one more time for the night, Kyle shoved out the back door, preceded by Griff, and flanked by a couple of guys from venue security. The crowd was already three- and four-deep along the roped-off path leading to the buses. How the hell did they get around here so fast? As always, his first instinct was to flinch at the attention and find somewhere to hide. But these were fans, not press, and he’d come a long way from that teenaged boy. Determined, Kyle made his way down the line, nodding and waving, aware of the cameras and video he never escaped. His gaze passed right over the woman at first. But it came back for a fraction of a second, tugged by something in her eyes. The same bold blue as his own, though age and experience had hardened them. The punch of shock made his steps falter. It was enough. She called his name. Not the one he’d adopted when he’d left his past behind, but the one he’d been given at birth. The sound of it should’ve gotten lost. Everyone around him was chanting his chosen name and cheering. But he heard the rasp of her voice—familiar, despite the distance of years. The sound of it pulled him back to that teenage boy again. To the stand he’d made that changed everything. How had he not known she was out of prison? Griff’s hand nudged him forward. “Keep moving.” The touch grounded Kyle. He didn’t acknowledge her, just fell back into motion with his brother. Was she alone? He didn’t dare look, didn’t dare react and risk giving the public or whatever paparazzi lurked among them something to latch onto. They were always circling, like carrion birds, in search of the next salacious meal of gossip. He’d worked way too damned hard and long at keeping this part of his past under wraps to slip up now. At the door of his tour bus, he paused, sensing Davis at his shoulder. “Did you see her?” “Yeah.” “Take care of it.” Without waiting for confirmation from his manager, he stepped onto the bus behind Griff, not quite breathing until the driver shut the door. Pete beamed at him. “Last night, Mr. Keenan.” “Thank God.” The driver laughed. “Ready to get home?” “You know it.” “We’ll probably be another forty-five minutes to an hour before getting on the road.” Kyle offered a more genuine smile to the older man, who’d seen that he and his band got from place to place for the last several months. “Not a problem. I’m gonna head on back, try to catch some Z’s.” Pete saluted. The drawn blinds gave an illusion of privacy from the hordes. Resisting the urge to lift them and press his face to the glass to scan the crowd for another glimpse of that face, Kyle passed his brother and strode to the back, grateful he’d graduated to a bus where he got an actual full-size bed instead of the narrow bunks that lined the hall, three-high on each side, where his backup band—and now Griff—slept when they were on the road. The sliding door gave him a little more of that illusory privacy, enough that he let the mask drop, let his hands shake. Without a word, Griff opened a cabinet in the wall and pulled out the bottle of rye whiskey, pouring a generous glass and handing it over. Ghosts certainly called for it. Kyle tossed back a healthy swallow, waiting as the alcohol burned through the initial shock, leaving him a little steadier. “What the actual hell is she doing here?” Griff’s military training showed as he ranged himself in front of the door. “Don’t know. Could make a few educated guesses. You aren’t gonna like any of them.” Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose and sank into the chair. “Hasn’t she f****d up my life enough? Haven’t they both?” “Reckon they feel the same way about you.” At his sharp look, Griff lifted his hands for peace. “I’m just sayin’. It’s not surprising she sought you out.” Maybe this was just another sign that he couldn’t escape from his past. Their mistakes weren’t his, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying to atone for them. He’d made plenty of his own along the way. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out the talisman he kept to remind him of that fact. The plastic ring was faded with age, the faux diamond scratched and the gold paint of the band flaked off in places from years riding in his pocket with loose change and a Swiss Army knife he’d carried even longer. Griff said nothing as Kyle ran his finger over the band, grounded by the slightly rough edges of plastic where it hadn’t been properly trimmed from the mold. A long, long time ago, he’d given this ring and his heart to his best friend in the world, the woman he’d known he wanted to marry, even at the tender age of six. Twenty-five years of life experience hadn’t changed his mind, but he’d unforgivably screwed that up. Abbey had sent the ring back, and he’d kept it ever since as a reminder that there were more important things than fame. He might not be able to make up for his mistakes with her, but he spent his time not on the road or in the studio working on balancing the karmic scales for the rest of his past. The door slid open, and Kyle closed his fist around the ring. Griff stepped aside so Davis could enter. “The… situation… has been handled.” Kyle didn’t want the details about how. “Just tell me one thing. Is he out?” No need to specify who. Davis was the one who’d helped bury the connection all these years. “He is not.” “Alright then.” He drained the last of his glass. “I’m going to bed.” “Fine. But before we get to Nashville for tomorrow’s interview, I wanted to talk to you.” Griff’s gaze flicked toward Davis and back in silent question. Grateful beyond measure that someone he trusted had his back, Kyle nodded. He could handle his manager. With a faint jerk of his head in acknowledgment, Griff slipped out the door, leaving them alone. “Alright. Talk fast. I’m tired.” “You should reconsider a relationship with Mercy Lee. She’s country music’s greatest darling right now. Being linked to her beyond the tour would really raise your profile, and tomorrow’s a great opportunity to do that.” Kyle scowled and cut him off. “The answer is no. I’m not interested in fake or real dating that woman for any amount of exposure. We talked about this after that publicity stunt last fall.” The lip-lock she’d sprung on him had been in the tabloids for months. “Have I ever steered you wrong?” The ring in his hand felt hot. But that was old ground and not something Kyle wanted to get into tonight. He uncoiled from his chair and advanced on the manager who’d been pushing and shoving him in directions he hadn’t wanted for a while now. It stopped tonight. “What you’re suggesting isn’t a career move. It’s my life. So, no. Final answer, and I won’t discuss this again.” Something flashed in Davis’ eyes—more disapproval, probably—but he didn’t challenge Kyle again. “Get some sleep and try to remember the hosts are expecting country music’s Captain America tomorrow.” That silly moniker they’d saddled him with because of his all-American good looks and Nice Guy charm. If only they knew where he came from. “I’m aware of my role here.” He’d been playing it for a lot of years now. Davis flashed the genial shark’s grin that he took into contract negotiations. “See you in the morning.” As soon as he stepped into the hall, Kyle shut and locked the sliding door and wondered when he’d stopped trusting the man whose job was to look out for his best interests. He opened his fist and stared at the ring again for a long moment. Then, instead of falling into bed as he’d intended, he reached for his guitar.