“You know this guy?” Katie hits play on the song again, the damn song that is so full of shit it makes me want to chuck my computer out the window. “Better to Burn,” it’s called and it’s about risking it all for love, which I’m not sure Dallas Walker would ever actually do.

I struggle to find my voice and the words to accurately describe how I know this man, this man I haven’t spoken more than a few words to in years, the man who at a funeral not that long ago basically told me he couldn’t care less if he ever saw me again.

“I do. I do know him.”

She whistles again. “Lucky you.” When I don’t say anything else, she reaches out and touches me on the arm. “Robyn? You mean you like know him know him? Oh God. Oh no. He’s the one, isn’t he?”

Oxygen is suddenly a scarce commodity.

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “He’s the one.”

5 | Dallas

DENVER IS SLIGHTLY COLDER THAN I EXPECTED AND MORE MOUNTAINOUS than anywhere I’ve ever been.

Mandy and I arrive at the amphitheater for sound check just as the sun slips below the giant peaks. I slide off my sunglasses and out of the backseat.

Holy fuck. The entire amphitheater has just been carved out of the red rock and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

My manager seems amused at my wide-eyed gaping as I stand there awestruck by the sight of it.

“See what I mean? This is where you belong. Not in those Podunk back-alley bars.” Mandy presses her full lips together in a self-congratulatory smirk. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to a few people. The reviewer for Country Music Weekly is here and some local radio people are, too. Oh and the tour sponsor is here. They’ve set up a meet-and-greet for you tonight.”

I’m still processing the fact that I’m about to play in front of at least ten thousand people when she links her arm with mine and tugs me toward the stage.

Half a dozen eighteen-wheelers are parked beside where we pulled in. A giant Jase Wade is giving everyone “come suck my cock” face from beneath his cowboy hat. Neon blue letters scream about Midnight Bay Bourbon sponsoring the Kickin’ Up Crazy tour.

About a million shirts and hats and can coozies with the sponsor’s name were delivered to me via Mandy this morning.

“That’ll be your face on those trailers one day,” Mandy says, noticing where my attention has drifted.

“Remind me not to make some stupid-ass pouty face when it is.”

She laughs but her grip on me tightens. “Behave, Dallas. He’s the headliner this time so be humble. Even if you have to fake it.”

“Fake it till I make it. Got it.” I nod as we make our way up the metal stairs, and try not to acknowledge just how true that statement currently is.

A roar of laughter goes up from where a group of guys are gathered.

“So I told her, darlin’, I’ll give you a ride wherever you want to go. Just let me get my pants on first.” More laughter rolls outward. The guy in the center pulls his hat off when he sees us approaching. “My bad, Miss Lantram. Didn’t know there was a lady present.”

“There isn’t,” she says evenly. “Jase, this is Dallas Walker. He’s Capitol’s newest artist and your new opening act.”

She’s already filled me in on how this spot came open at the last minute. Some other new guy rightfully had it. But he snaked one of Wade’s groupies and Wade had him kicked off.

Wade eyes me up and down before giving that same expression that irked me on the tour trailers. “Nice to meet you, Dallas.”

He extends his hand and so do I. We shake hands briefly and I can feel the entire group sizing me up.

“Same here.” I keep my shoulders straight and maintain eye contact. Not because I have something to prove but because I want him to know I belong here. And that the last thing I care about is competing with him when it comes to women. He can have all the groupies to himself.

Wade smirks. “Guess we’ll have to watch our language around here, fellas. Seein’ as Dallas here is going to have his babysitter with him.”

The urge rises in my throat to laugh—and not with him. At his juvenile bullshit. Wade has some chart-topping hits. Several successful albums.

Guess how many of the songs he wrote himself?

Zero. None. Zip. Zilch. Not a single fucking lyric.

Not that I have much room to talk at the moment, but typically I do write my own music.

Dude probably knows all of three chords. I may not have his sales numbers, but at the end of the day, I can look myself in the mirror and be proud of working my ass off for music I believe in instead of shit that was forced on me by someone else.

So if he wants to put me down to establish his alpha male dominance? No sweat off my balls. I’m just here to play my music.

“She spank you if you act up?” Wade nods to Mandy, who stiffens beside me.

“Only if he asks real nice,” she snaps back.

I toss both of my hands up in a gesture to let them know I’m bowing out of this little scuffle. I didn’t know they had history but it’s clear now that they do. Even some of the members of Wade’s crew are backing away.

“You two enjoy your foreplay. I’m going to go introduce myself to the tour sponsor.”

“Tell Red hi for me,” Wade says without taking his eyes off Mandy.

“I’ll do that,” I say, even though I have no idea who Red is. Don’t know, don’t care.

It’s the number-one rule Mandy has reiterated since the moment we found out I was being added to this tour. Hands off Wade’s women. I highly doubt he and I have the same taste anyway. Wade likes the drunk ones with the biggest tits from the front rows, from what I hear. I’ll pass on those walking sex tapes and TMZ exposés waiting to happen, thank you very fucking much.

Stepping offstage, I glance at the empty seats once more.

According to the sign posted by the stage, maximum capacity is 9,450 people. The largest audience I played for on the unsigned artists tour was a little under five thousand folks.

This is it. I made it.

There’s a lyric here somewhere. The quiet before the storm. I know it’s in there somewhere, but I can’t find it with both hands.

Despite my writer’s block, I can feel the enormity of this moment in my bones. The building buzz in my veins. Adrenaline and anticipation fortifying me in their purest forms.

This is only the beginning.

And no amount of adolescent fuckery from Wade or Mandy or anyone else is going to get in my way.

6 | Robyn

“HEY, DIXIE. THANKS FOR GETTING BACK TO ME.”

I’m half out of breath from running across the amphitheater. I’ve left half a dozen voice mails for her but I didn’t know how to ask what I needed to on a recording.

“Sure. Sorry I crashed early last night. But I got your messages. What’s up?”

I move behind a concession booth for a modicum of privacy. The VIP fans are already in line and Dallas and Jase will be down here any minute for the meet-and-greet.

“It’s about Dallas. Well, me and Dallas. We’re on the same tour.”

“Oh God, Robyn. I meant to call you. I completely forgot you told me you were heading up the promo for Wade’s tour. Dallas was so excited about getting added to it and I was on the road when he called me. The pieces didn’t snap together until last weekend and I—”

“It’s fine. Really. I just, um, I just wanted to know . . . Does he know? That he’ll be working with me?”

The other end of the line is quiet. Then I hear her exhale audibly.

“No. I was trying to recall if I’d mentioned your job to him. But I haven’t. Our conversations have been pretty short, actually. I think he’s keeping something from me, something about Gavin, which I can’t really complain about because I’m keeping some information on our favorite broody drummer from him, too. But I know for a fact I haven’t said anything about your job or you working on Wade’s tour.”