Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) (6 page)

“You help him keep it in his pants?”

Jesse and I burst out laughing.

“Yes, that’s exactly what she does,” Jesse says.

The man’s face shines redder than the gleaming GranTurismo. “What, may I ask, do you know about cars?”

During my downtime at Caldwell’s, I read all the car magazines, and I pay particular attention to the fancy ones that I will never be able to afford. “The 2016 GT goes from zero to sixty in five seconds, right?”

“Right…”

“Right,” Jesse says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “We’d like to test-drive it.”

The man narrows his eyes but takes my license and steps into an office. The saleswomen lurk about, straightening their blouses while staring at Jesse, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

My fingers caress a silver MC Sport as Jesse says, “You sure showed that jerk. Sometimes it’s so great to stick it to people, you know?”

I shrug.

“What’s wrong?” Jesse asks.

“Do you immediately think the worst of everybody you meet?” I feel bad for asking that, but it seems to be a Jesse Scott trend.

He goes silent for a long moment—so long I start to get nervous that I really offended him and he’s going to abandon me here—but then he speaks. “When I got my first record deal, most of the guys at school teased me. Said I sang like a girl and stuff.”

“They were jealous.”

“Yeah…but it still hurt. And as I got more and more famous, people were around all the time. Girls wanted to date me, use me, screw me, whatever. And don’t even ask about all the people who called asking for money or for help getting a record deal. The same people who had made fun of me.”

“That sucks.”

“Everyone always wants something.”

“C’mon.
Everyone
?”

“It’s more likely than not. Lately, I just like being alone.”

“And you’re happy with that?” I ask quietly, not accusing him or anything.

“I’ve got Casper.”

“Oh God. You’re like one of those old cat ladies!”

He laughs softly, then grows pensive again.

“What about your parents?” I ask, but he shakes his head. “You can talk to me. I mean, if you want to. You can trust me.”

He rubs his eyes. “My parents don’t—we haven’t really been speaking to each other lately, okay?”

“What?” I blurt.

And that’s when his phone rings.

He looks at the screen and starts pacing back and forth in front of the silver MC Sport. “Hi, Mark. No, we’re done with lunch… I’m at the Maserati dealership… I forgot to call… Test-driving a red car… I dunno, I might buy it… We don’t want to go on the tours… Please? No, do not send Tracy and Gina over here!… No, I don’t need a stylist! I look fine,” Jesse grumbles, and on that note, he hangs up.

“What’d he say?” I ask.

“He told us to have fun, go hog wild, and he’d check in later.”

“Really?”

“No, he said he’s on his way here now. He’ll be here in five minutes. Which means we need to get out of here in the next hour or so if we want to miss him.”

I grin. “How long has he been your manager?”

“I signed with him right after I won
Wannabe
Rocker
…so eight years? He gets me. Lets me do my own thing.”

The sales guy comes back and leads us outside to the shiniest, most beautiful piece of machinery ever built. “Holy shit,” I whisper, dragging the tips of my fingers across the GT’s hood.

The man hands me the keys. “Mr. Scott, I trust you’ll have this car back in mint condition in twenty minutes, correct?”

Jesse claps the man’s back. “You got it, Bill.”

We slip inside the car. The leather seat is so soft it’s like lying in sheets made of clouds. I groan.

“All my years of being a country stud and I’ve never made a girl make that sound,” Jesse says with a laugh.

I smack him on the shoulder. “Would you behave?” I insert the keys in the ignition and test the clutch. “Any objection to me driving stick, or do you want to go automatic?”

“Whatever suits you.”

“I like manual, ’cause then I’m in control.”

“Figures.”

I stomp on the clutch, start the engine, take my foot off the brake, give it some gas, and we shoot out of the parking lot. My head slams back against the seat.

“This thing’s a rocket!” Jesse says as he turns on the radio.

I soar past the entrance to the Grand Ole Opry and sail onto Briley Parkway. I steer the GranTurismo onto I-24, shifting through all six gears, taking it up to ninety miles an hour, zigzagging across four lanes of cars. Eight cylinders roar.

“What do you think of her?” Jesse hollers over the music, drumming the dashboard.

“I’ve always wanted a Lamborghini, but I could get used to a Maserati,” I joke as I near a hundred miles an hour, flying past a semi.

I rest my palm on the stick, and it surprises the hell out of me when Jesse reaches over and places his hand over mine for several seconds, then pulls it away.

Jesse
Scott
just
touched
my
hand!

Trying to focus on the road, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
Don’t freak out, don’t freak out
, I tell myself.

He stares out the window. “Sorry. Just wanted to see what it feels like to have that kind of power and control.”

He thinks I have control? Yeah, right. Remembering the first real smile Jesse gave me makes me wild inside
.
But this isn’t a movie; this is a one-day thing with Jesse Scott, a famous star who’s about to quit the business and give up all of his success.

And I’m gonna go back to my life, where I don’t know what I’m doing anymore because I have no band. Where there is no control.

I hand the Maserati sales guy my phone so he can take pictures of us with the red GT, and then we break it to him: we aren’t buying a car today.

“I’ll come back to check out the red car again real soon,” Jesse announces, which somewhat placates the snobby sales guy. “Now what?” he asks me as we climb on his bike.

“Can we go back to your place and play guitar?” I ask. I’m itching to try that double-neck Fender I saw on his wall this morning.

“You got it. But first I have to pick up something for my concert in Atlanta tomorrow night.”

“Fine,” I say, wrapping my arms around his waist. But just before we take off, Jesse’s phone dings. He swipes the screen to answer it. “Hey, Uncle Bob! No, no, everything’s fine… No, we are not gonna do some stupid tour. I’m teaching Maya all about the business. We spent a whole hour talking about contract law. I even did a PowerPoint presentation… You’re gonna give Maya detention unless she ‘adheres to the schedule’?” Jesse rolls his eyes at his phone.

“We’re fine, Dr. Salter,” I yell over Jesse’s shoulder into the cell.

“Maya, I’m going out on a limb here by letting you shadow Jesse,” Dr. Salter warns loudly. “Don’t make me regret it. You need to get back on the schedule.”

“I want to stay with you,” I quietly tell Jesse.

He looks into my eyes, and that’s when he says to his uncle, “We’ll catch you later, Uncle Bob!” and he turns off the phone and stows it in his pocket.

I groan. “What if I get detention? Or suspended?”

“If you want to go back to school, just say the word.” Jesse says it matter-of-factly, but I can hear an edge in his voice. I know he’d be disappointed if I left, and at this point, I’d be disappointed too. Dr. Salter said he thought we could help each other, and I’m not gonna give up on Jesse just because I might get detention. When you think about how big this world is, how big this life is, detention is nothing. In ten years, I won’t look back on this day and be pissed that I got detention.

I’d be pissed that I gave up the day.

“Let’s go.”

He gives me that famous half-cocked Jesse Scott smirk. “All right, put your helmet back on.”

We take off on the Harley, zooming down the back roads surrounding Music Row, passing all the rustic mansions with their iron gates and green ivy.

I burst out laughing when Jesse kills the engine outside the Nashville Spur Emporium. The sign on the window reads,
Your
One-Stop Shop for Your Cowboy’s Needs!

He must be kidding me. I can’t go in here. I’ll lose all my street cred.

Jesse and I climb off the bike, and I gaze through the window at a pair of green cowboy boots. “Oh my God, were those boots made from a snake?”

“Crocodile, I think.” He leads me inside, a little bell dinging, and a small Asian woman comes rushing up.

She takes a deep breath. “Mr. Scott. They are here and they are
gorgeous
.”

“Knew you could get them, Rosie.”

The tiny woman goes to the back of the store, leaving me and Jesse to browse. “Jolene,” that Dolly Parton song I hate, is playing, and there must be thousands of cowboy boots. Horrifying.

I pick up a black leather boot covered by flames. “You need these.”

“You think?”

“Yes. They’ll match your Harley.”

“We could get matching boots.”

“Like those old people who wear matching clothes on vacation?”

“Exactly.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not getting married anytime soon.”

He picks up a hot pink boot and studies the sole. “You got a boyfriend?”

“No boyfriend…I was into this one guy, but it didn’t work out.”

“How come?”

“He liked another girl more.”

Jesse studies my face so hard it makes my cheeks burn. “He sounds like an idiot.”

More like I was the idiot. Back in middle school when I had my first crush, Mom gave me a piece of advice that I listened to but never actually followed. She said that I should never waste my time pining for a boy, because the boy I’m meant to be with will want me so bad, I won’t have to pine at all.

I’ve known Nate since elementary school, but I developed feelings for him after we started The Fringe last year. I’d look for him in the halls between every class, and at night, I’d clutch my phone and wait for his texts. I knew it wasn’t healthy to obsess like I did, but I wanted him. Just being in the same room with him made life seem sharper, more intense, like adding a splash of whiskey to a Coke.

During spring break earlier this year when we were firmly in the just friends zone, we road-tripped to Myrtle Beach with Hannah and her ex-boyfriend. Her ex was older—like, twenty-one—and she’d sworn us to secrecy so her parents wouldn’t find out who she was dating. Anyhow, Nate and I spent a lot of time on the beach while Hannah and her boyfriend mostly stayed in their hotel room, and at night, Nate and I shared a bed.

Lying next to him in the dark, knowing Hannah was next door having sex, drove me wild: I wanted to hook up with Nate. My body felt as if it had been zapped by electricity. I finally got some guts, rolled over, and rested my head on his chest. He sucked in a breath and lay still, and my fingers roamed all over his chest, and when I straddled his waist and pressed my mouth to his, he didn’t stop me. He gripped my hips and flipped me over onto my back, his weight heavy between my legs. Excitement rushed through me. Thanks to my courage, we were finally going to make out.

We did, and the next day, I asked him if we were officially dating.

It must’ve been the beer he’d been drinking on the beach, or maybe it was just Hannah and her animal noises, because he laid it all out for me: “I liked hooking up last night, but we can’t have a relationship because of the band.”

The rejection hurt like nothing I’d ever felt. But over the next few months, we kept fooling around anyway. But I really thought we would become more one day. He said the reason we couldn’t be together was the band; I figured he would eventually want to take the risk. Because I was worth it. I should’ve known better. If he had really wanted me, he wouldn’t have let being in a band together stop him. I hate that I went down on him—slept with him—when he never had any intention of making things serious.

I examine a pair of blue boots. “How about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I don’t date,” Jesse replies. “My last girlfriend? Turned out she was selling secrets about me to the tabloids.”

“I remember hearing about that last year.”

Rumor had it Jesse was dating Stacey Oliver, the daughter of his drummer, and she told a reporter that Jesse was obsessed with doing freaky things in bed. The story was on the cover of every magazine down at the Quick Pick.

When Jesse found out Stacey had betrayed him, he fired his drummer. Walked right into his studio and told him to get the hell out. And then Stacey showed up outside Omni, crying for Jesse to give her dad his job back, and security made her leave. An article detailing the drama filled the front page of the
Tennessean
.

“She sounds like an idiot too,” I say. “Did you get in trouble with Mr. Logan or your record company for all those rumors?”

“Some major stores threatened to drop my records because they didn’t like what Stacey said about me. The stores said I need a clean image, considering my audience is mostly teen girls.”

“Oh, I thought your audience was the old lady convention from lunch.”

Jesse gives me a look. “Mark said any publicity is good publicity, but my parents weren’t happy. The story embarrassed them in front of their church friends…and my dad’s boss at his accounting firm wasn’t happy. They’re all about ‘family values.’” Jesse makes finger quotes. “And honestly, I was pretty embarrassed myself. I’m glad my pa wasn’t around for it…”

“But it wasn’t true, was it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he flirts, and I playfully slap his hand. “Of course it’s not true. I want what every normal guy wants in bed.”

“Oh.” I feel my face burning hot. I can’t help but wonder what normal guys want in bed. I’ve only done it the one time with Nate. And he finished before the song we were listening to was over. He didn’t cuddle with me or tell me how nice I felt; he just put his clothes back on and asked if I wanted a snack.

When he cut things off between us last week, I can only assume it was because I wasn’t what he wanted.

I spend a lot of time thinking about what great sex with a guy must be like. Nate never gave me goose bumps. Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to my body when it was trying to tell me it wasn’t getting what it needed from him. But when all your friends are hooking up, you want to do it too, to be normal, even if it doesn’t feel exactly right.

“So you haven’t dated since then?” I ask.

“I trusted Stacey, and then it turned out I couldn’t. I thought I could trust my parents too.”

“What do you mean?”

He pulls in a deep breath. “They were excited when I first started out in the business. They wanted me to be a Christian singer, but that just wasn’t me. I thought they’d support me no matter what.”

“Go on.”

“Mark said that I’d be a lot more famous and make more money if I went mainstream, and honestly, I wanted to sing about fishing and family, not God. My parents were fine when I was singing about horses and how much I love Tennessee, but they hated when I started writing about girls a couple of years ago. It was like they’d rather I fail than embarrass them in front of my dad’s boss and their church friends. They stopped wanting to spend time with me and started making excuses…” He taps his finger on a pointy spur. It looks painful. “If the music I perform is going to continue to create this rift between me and my parents, then I need to give it up.”

“Is that why you’re retiring?” I ask.

After a long moment, Jesse nods. “Partly. I want a normal life too. I love music more than anything, but not if it costs me everything.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. I can’t imagine giving up music for any reason, but I’ve never had to experience pressure like he has. It sucks that his parents aren’t supportive of his musical choices. It sounds like a complicated situation, and I don’t understand, because my family has always been there for me. Family should support you no matter what, but I guess sometimes that doesn’t happen.

Jesse points at some fire-red boots. “I think you need a pair of those.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t color-coordinate my boots with my corset lace.”

Jesse considers this, then points across the room. “You’re right. You’re getting those purple python boots instead.”

“Oh, hell no.”

The woman comes out of the storeroom carrying a box, which she hands to Jesse. He pulls out a spur covered with skulls and diamonds.

I crack up. “Why do you need those?”

“Why
don’t
I need them is the question. They match my belt buckle.” He lifts up his T-shirt, revealing the skull he wore at his concert.

“My fault,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I was unaware the belt buckle had diamonds on it. The spurs make perfect sense now.”

Jesse sits down, rolls up his jeans, and slips the spurs over his red boots. “Big-time.”

Smiling, Rosie folds her hands together, lifting them to her chin.

He adds, “Rosie—can you grab me a pair of those Laredo boots with the flames? I’d like to try them on. And a pair of those purple Dingos for my friend. Size?”

“No way,” I say.

Jesse grabs my leg and yanks off my ankle bootie in one movement.

“Hey!” I shout.

He peers inside my boot. “She wears a seven, Rosie,” Jesse says, and the saleslady scurries to the back.

I grab my bootie from his hand. “If you’re retiring in two months, why are you buying new spurs to perform in?”

He shrugs. “I like helping out local shops.”

A couple of minutes later, Rosie has me sit down on a plush bench as she opens a long brown shoe box and pulls out the purple boots.

“These are so not me,” I say.

“Stand up and model,” Jesse replies, so I put the boots on and walk back and forth in front of him like when Mom took me shoe shopping as a kid.

“I don’t like how they look, but they feel almost as awesome as the leather in that GT,” I tell Jesse, which makes him smile.

“Then you’re getting them.”

“How much?” I ask Rosie.

“Five hundred.”

“About four hundred and eighty out of my price range.”

“If you change your mind, just come back,” Rosie says. “Those boots were made for you.”

Just
like
that
GranTurismo?
I’m sorry, but these boots and that Maserati weren’t made for me. They were made for country music stars.

Jesse admires the boots with flames. “Oh boy. I’m getting these Laredos though.”

“But the spurs don’t match,” I say with a laugh.

“Guess I’ll have to order some more spurs then. Rubies, maybe?”

I shake my head with a smile, glad that his temper seems to have cooled.

But how damaged is he?

• • •

“I miss doing stuff like that,” Jesse says and nods at the playground across the street. He tucks his Nashville Spur Emporium box into the Harley’s saddlebag.

The playground is filled with toddlers and chatting moms. There’s a jungle gym, a merry-go-round, swings, and a sandbox. A little girl is throwing pennies into a marble fountain with a fish statue that’s spurting water.

Maybe the key to helping him feel better is to make him feel like a kid again. I grab his arm. “Come on.”

“Where’re we going?”

“To swing.” I grin at him, and he returns it.

“You gonna push me?”

“You’re a big boy. You can pump by yourself.”

We sit on the swings by the sandbox, where four little boys are building a castle. I swing higher and higher, my short black skirt flapping in the wind. Jesse starts laughing as he zooms higher than me. I pump harder to beat him. It’s a nice moment—just me and him and the blue sky. I hum the Charlie Brown theme song; it’s been stuck in my head since Jesse played it on the piano.

“Can I ask a personal question?” he asks.