Last Second Chance (2 page)

The truth was that she had pretty much made up her mind that—unless the Second Chance Ranch was a disgusting hellhole—she was most likely taking the job. Even after four years away from her family home, she still wasn’t ready to go back. Kind of funny that, whichever option she decided on, both would put her right smack in the middle of a horse ranch. Really wasn’t that surprising since Stella loved horses, she just had no desire to get back on one.

Her mother cleared her throat. “I wasn’t calling to pressure you. Your dad and I love you no matter what you decide. You know that.”

Right, except her mom had clearly just suggested that their love was part of the equation. And her father showed emotion about as well as the broad side of a barn.

Stella sipped her coffee and stared at her open accounting textbook. “Okay. Well, I really need to get back to studying. But, um, is Dad coming to my graduation next weekend?”

The long pause on the other end answered her question. “Stella Jo, you know he’s a busy man. There’s just always so much to do at the ranch and—”

“It’s fine, Mama. I was just wondering.” Stella swallowed more coffee in hopes it would ease the lump going down.

“Love you, hon,” her mother said abruptly. “See you at graduation.”

“Love you, too,” Stella Jo said to the dead air. She set her phone on the table and rubbed her temples.

She could practically see her mom stamping her foot in frustration as she told Stella’s dad that
his daughter
still hadn’t made up her mind.

That’s how it had always been. If Stella did something good, she was Mama’s girl. But one screw-up and she was
her father’s daughter
, like he’d passed on some defective DNA. She’d been her father’s daughter a whole lot since giving up riding.

Staring at the numbers in her meticulously organized notes, Stella’s mind wandered. For some reason, Nash had never taken her for coffee. In fact, the only places he’d ever taken her were his messy apartment and a few parties his fraternity brothers had thrown.

Whatever. It didn’t matter now.

After working a few review problems and realizing her drink had gone cold, Stella heard her phone buzzing again. It shimmied across the table before she picked it up. The familiar 817 number flashed on the screen, and she clicked accept.

“Hi, Dr. Ramirez.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Chandler. You’re a hard woman to get ahold of.”

This was true. In more ways than one. “Sorry about that. I’ve just been swamped with finals this week.”

The doctor chuckled. “Oh, how I don’t miss those days. My condolences. But actually, I’m just calling to discuss the opportunity here at SCR. As I mentioned previously, the Board was extremely impressed with your credentials, both your experience growing up on your family’s ranch and your scholastic achievements.”

“Thank you,” Stella said, even though being raised on a horse ranch wasn’t anything she had done on purpose, just luck of the draw when it came to the family she’d been born into. She hadn’t decided yet if it was good luck or bad luck.

The man on the other end of the line cleared his throat. “Yes, well, we’re hoping that when you come for a tour this weekend, you’ll accept our offer and begin work immediately. We have some high-profile clients coming in at the same time, and I believe your skills could be quite beneficial.”

She sipped her now cold coffee. “Um, okay. That’s certainly something to think about. But I don’t have an apartment in Dallas or anything yet. I’m still exploring my options.”

“That’s not a problem, Miss Chandler. We have on-site housing available for our staff. Speaking of your options, I also wanted to discuss with you the stipend provided should you choose to further your education.”

Way to dangle the bait
.

Dr. Ramirez almost had her completely hooked. Stella wanted nothing more than to get her master’s degree in either drug or family counseling. Or maybe both, crazy overachiever that she was. But her parents wouldn’t support that career path and she had no idea how she’d afford graduate school on her own.

“I look forward to discussing all of that with you next weekend, Dr. Ramirez. I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Yes, of course. I look forward to it as well. Best of luck on your exams, Miss Chandler.”

Stella thanked him and ended the call. Checking the clock on her phone, she realized it was almost time for her second-to-last final exam. Not even graduated yet and the real world was pulling her in two different directions.

The thing about Second Chance was that it was a dream job in so many ways—working with animals and people who needed her on a sprawling ranch that would have all the comforts of home minus the insane pressure her mom put on her or the cold lack of affection from her daddy. It was just that, after applying for the job of client care coordinator and getting the offer, Stella had done some research. Research she should’ve done before sending in her
résumé
.

The patients at SCR were referred to as “clients” for a reason. They weren’t regular folks who’d fallen down into a pit of addiction involving drugs or alcohol and were digging their way out. Those were the kinds of people she
wanted
to help. The Second Chance Ranch referred to patients as clients because it was primarily a celebrity rehab facility known for high-profile residents who checked in because they were suffering from “exhaustion” or some other nonsense and desired the anonymity of a ranch in the middle of nowhere. Because being famous was just so damn tiring. Poor babies.

Stella had no fucks to give about those types. And she damn sure didn’t work her ass off to be some spoiled celebrity’s beck-and-call girl.

But up against going home, where her mom would begin the relentless campaign of getting Stella back on the horse—literally—while her daddy tried to pretend she didn’t exist, it sounded kind of like a dream come true. Or at the very least, a miraculous escape route, regardless of the clientele.

F
ucking hell.

Van Ransom opened his eyes just long enough to wish he hadn’t. His vision was blurred, probably from the skull-hammering headache, and the lighting in wherever he was happened to be bright as shit. Naturally.

Groaning loudly, he threw a heavily inked arm over his face. “Someone turn that fucking shit off.”

“He’s coming to,” a male voice near his head announced.

“No, he’s not. Turn the goddamn lights off and go the fuck away,” he demanded. If there was one good thing about being the lead singer of a well-known band, it was that people did whatever you told them to. Or at least they always had before. Even with his eyes closed, Van knew the lights were still on.

“Mr. Ransom, can you tell me what day it is?” the same voice asked.

If it didn’t require opening his eyes, Van would have glared at the stupid son of a bitch. “No, but I can recommend you buy a motherfucking calendar and stop harassing me before I have your ass fired.”

“Van, wake up. Look at me.” This time, the voice came from near his feet and he recognized it.

“Sid?”

The blurry figure of his manager stood at the foot of…a hospital bed.

What the hell?

“Yeah, it’s me. You’ve been out of it for a few days.”

Jesus. Must’ve been some after-party if he was waking up in the hospital.
Again.
Usually he woke up to naked women and a huge fucking mess. Sometimes there was vomit involved, but that was just an occupational hazard as far as he was concerned.

But this time, his band, Hostage for Ransom, had been celebrating their freedom from a sadistic record label, aptly named Red Devil Records, which had damn near caused the band to break up. They were also just a few signatures away from signing with a label that actually gave a shit about them and their music, halle-fucking-lujah. So there’d been a lot worth celebrating.

The party had been at a hotel—a nice one that, before he’d made the cover of
Rolling Stone
, he wouldn’t have been allowed to step foot in. That much he could remember. But that was about all he had.

Sid pressed a button and Van’s bed angled upward.

“Can I get something for this headache? Like ten minutes ago?”

Sid nodded at a man in scrubs on his other side. Oh yeah. The asshole with all the questions. The man shook his head. Like hell.

“Can we have a minute?” Sid asked before Van could go apeshit on the scrub- wearing fucker. The man nodded and left the room.

Still squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light, which someone had mercifully dimmed, he glared at his manager.

“Get me the hell out of here. I don’t have time for this. If I’ve been out for days, aren’t we supposed to be meeting with Epitaph about now?”

Sid raked a hand roughly over his face and stared at Van with bloodshot eyes. “I’m just going to give it to you straight because, frankly, I don’t have the energy for this anymore. The only epitaph you’re gonna land at this rate is an actual one. As in, you are killing yourself. And everyone’s pretty damned sick and tired of watching you self-destruct.”

“That was very moving. Harvard would be so proud. But seriously, can we go now?” Van sat up and yanked out all the needles and tubes attached to him. Alarms began sounding all over the damned place. And fuck, he was going to vomit. And maybe pass out.

Shitty day this was turning out to be.

W
hen he came to again, a young blond woman in dark blue scrubs was leaning over him. Her breasts brushed against him and he groaned with satisfaction. Yes, this was much better than the first time.

“Morning, beautiful. Can I convince you to join me in this bed? It goes up and down.” He knew his breath probably smelled like hell but surely she’d be willing to blow him or something. He was Van fucking Ransom after all.

The girl’s fair skin turned a sexy shade of pink as she pulled back. “Um, I don’t get off until six,” she said barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Well, in that case, why don’t you come by at six so we can both get off?”

Her responding giggle made his cock twitch. Yeah, she’d be back. Before he had time to lay any more game on her, Sid strolled into the room carrying a coffee cup.

“Good, you’re awake.” His manager jerked his head at the sexy nurse, and she shot Van a quick smile before leaving them alone.

Once she was out of the room, Van glared at the man. “Well, thank you very much for the cock block. Remind me to return the favor, asshole.”

Sid rolled his eyes and stepped closer. “Listen to me. You have much bigger problems than missing out on a blowjob.”

Van grinned. Damn, his manager knew him well. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

Sid set his cup on the raised tray next to Van’s bed. “Like the fact that Epitaph has no intentions of signing someone who’s going to cost them more in damages than he’s going to sell in records. And they’ve placed a few stipulations on signing the band.” Sid checked his watch as if he had somewhere more important to be.

“What kind of
stipulations
?” Van sat up straighter to brace himself for more corporate record label bullshit.

Sid cleared his throat before answering. “Either you successfully complete rehab in a facility of their choosing and agree to let a drug treatment counselor accompany you on all future tours or the deal is history. As in, don’t call them and they won’t call you.” His manager shrugged like this wasn’t the shittiest news since Lynyrd Skynyrd’s plane went down.

Van raked a hand through his thick hair, which was in serious need of washing. “What is wrong with everybody? Can you people not get online and search
lead singer in rock band
and catch a goddamn clue? This is how it is. I’m not doing anything that all the other guys aren’t. You all treat me like I’m the antichrist for doing a little blow.” He huffed out a breath and considered throwing something. Nothing in reaching distance would make a satisfying enough noise, so he resisted the impulse. Barely.

Sid’s veins throbbed in his bald head—a sure sign that Van was pushing him past his limits as well. In a lot of ways his manager was the closest thing to a father he’d ever known. But he was on the payroll and needed to remember that.