Page 105 of The Roads We Follow

He blinks. “No. I own a recording label in Nashville. Rigger Records.”

I nod as if that might ring a bell, then turn back to my drink.

“What do you do?”

“Therapist,” I say. “Here with some clients.”

“A traveling shrink, really?” He sounds genuinely surprised and leans in. “Anybody I know?”

“Probably.” I take another sip of my drink, wishing I could have ordered a tonic minus the gin, and shrug. “Confidentiality.”

“Of course.” He bobs his head as if he’s the picture of integrity. Doubtful. “After all my time in the industry, I could be an honorary therapist.” He barks a laugh, and I offer him the tiniest smile in return. It’s all he needs. “I have more dirt on most of these headliners than they have in their gardens.” He points at the tent wall to indicate the tour buses and trailers on the other side of it. “I’m a steel trap, though. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s how interconnected everyone is in this industry. I swear, that whole six degrees of separation statistic doesn’t apply to musicians in Nashville. Everybody is related to somebody.”

Every thought in my head empties to make room for a series of new ones I don’t want to accept.

I force myself to rotate in my stool just enough for him to feel validated by my hard-won approval and so I can look him in the eye. It’s quite possibly the most difficult eye contact I’ve ever made. Because I see it. Even without a proper DNA test. I have his eye shape and his nose and even the widow’s peak my brother always teased me about growing up.

Turns out, it’s hereditary.

“Do you live in Nashville?” I ask.

He tips his head and grins with pride. “Born and raised.”

“Is there a family waiting for you back home?”

It’s the first time he’s hesitated, and I wonder if it’s because he’s trying to find the right answer, the one that will impress me. Only, that’s impossible.

“Bachelor.” He forces another harsh chuckle and lifts his glass to tap mine. “By choice,” he adds. “You?”

“Currently, but I hope that’s not the case for long.” Raegan wrapped in my hoodie before she climbed the bus steps is the most welcome image in my mind.

“May I give the therapist some free advice?”

“Please do.”

“Women bring more problems than they’re worth.” He tips back the end of his martini, then sucks off the olive to bite on the toothpick. “Especially in my industry.”

“You never married?” I ask, as if he’s the most interesting person I’ve come across.

“Could have, maybe even thought about it once or twice, but ultimately, I’ve always been more of a test driver than a car owner, if you get my drift.” His smile is repulsive. “When I was your age, the only days my bed wasn’t warmed by a woman of my choosing was when I agreed to go to her place.”

It takes everything in me to look impressed by this abhorrent brag. “Maybe it’s the line of work I’m in,” I start, “but I can rarely find time to take a woman out to dinner.”

He leans in close and examines my face. “You’re a sharp-looking guy. Stop worrying about dinner dates and start asking yourself what you can provide that nobody else can.” At my look of confusion, he breaks it down for me. “For me, it was often women who were decent singers who needed some insider tips. Vocal coaching recs, exclusive invites to private clubs, extra hours in the recording studio, even a little chemical pick-me-up from time to time, if you know what I mean.”

“What? Like drugs?” The question comes out like a reflex I can’t control.

“It was no big deal back in the day.” He shrugs. “Uppers were easy to snag. Every chick I knew was on a little speed to keep skinny. You know how it is with women. Times haven’t changed too much, really.”

Rage flashes hot in my periphery, and it takes every shred of willpower to keep a rein on my impulses as the realization sets in. This man supplied my mother with black-market diet pills for twenty years. Twenty years that caused irreversible damage to her kidneys. Kidneys that were too far gone to be saved by the time she entered into renal failure six months before she died.

Troy spits his toothpicks onto the bar napkin in front of him and claps me on the arm as he pushes away from the bar. “Figure out what you can offer a woman, and you’ll enjoy all the perks of a relationship without the hassle of being tied down.”

I force myself not to go after him, to stay seated and count to a hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. All the while, I can’t erase the mental image of my mother as an innocent young woman starting out in this industry. The same way Cheyenne Farrow is doing now. Why hadn’t someone warned her about men like Troy? She needed a father in her life.

Only, my mother’s father was a monster.

And as it turns out, so is mine.

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