Page 2 of Puck Love

“She’s looking mighty forward to your Nashvilleconcert.”

I smile, but it’s tight. I can’t focus on anything but my feet that are standing still when they should be running. I take another step, another deepbreath.

“Miss Stella, they’re asking for you.” Rich says, tapping his earpiece. “Lana’s on herway.”

I close my eyes. The breath leaves my lungs in a rush, and I shake my head. “Ican’t.”

“You can’t what, Miss Stella?” he asks. I start walking away at a clipped pace. “Ma’am?”

I ignore him. A second later the door slams and he says into the earpiece, “Shit, Miss Lambert, we got ourselves arunner.”

Rich is not a young man. He’s nearing seventy, with bad knees from an old football injury. For a split second, I feel bad for making him come after me, but I can’t do this. I can’t go back in there. I can’t stand on that stage a second longer with this emptiness inside, this desperate need to get out, to run and leave everything behind. So, I sprint across the asphalt as if I’m running for mylife.

Heavy footsteps pound the pavement behind me. I hear the door open, and Lana’s shrill voice yells for him to grab me. If I wasn’t so desperate to get away, I’d probably be in stitches laughing at her trying to run in heels. Me? I’m used to it. I’ve spent my whole life dashing from one end of the stage to another in eight-inch heels for costume changes. I could run a marathon in thesepuppies.

Before I know it, I’m passing the fleet of trucks and busses parked behind the venue. A few roadies stop and stare as I fly past. There’s a driver in his SUV parked near our convoy, already waiting to take me to my hotel after the show. I put on a burst of speed, desperate to reach him before Lana can get to me, and since I have nothing to slow my trajectory but the side of the vehicle, it hurts like hell. I grab onto the side mirror with one hand to keep from falling. I slam the other against the window and the man inside stares at me with a wide-eyed gaze, his mouth slackened in shock and one hand pressed to hischest.

“Open up,” I shout, as I thump on the glass. I glance back at Rich and Lana. They’re gaining on me. I’m not sure what happens when they catch up, but behind them is the camera crew, recording all of this.Of course. The driver lowers the window. He has a round face, and he seems real sweet. That’s why I feel a pang of guilt over what I’m about to do to the poorman.

“Help me, please. You need to get out of the car.” He reaches for the handle and I move back, almost slipping on the ground as he opens the door and scrambles out. “Thank you, thankyou.”

“You okay, MissHart?”

I don’t waste time answering. Instead, I dart behind, shoving him out of the way as I clamber into the driver’s seat. I start the engine. It’s been a long time since I drove myself anywhere. I’ve always had people to do it for me. I got my permit, of course, but in the ten years since my career took off, I’ve never gone anywhere alone. Even trips to the bathroom are usually accompanied by Lana standing on the other side of the door, telling me I have to attend this function, be at the studio by a certain time, or the airport for yet anotherflight.

I hit the gas. The tires screech. I bunny-hop forward and almost slam into a parked car in front. I back it up and clip one of our tour busses.Why the hell was this guy parked so damn close to everything? I finally shove the stick in gear and take off for the gates, in the right direction this time. They’re manned, of course, and the guy in the booth knows my face. He glances at the group of people behind my car, no doubt all clamoring to get to me, he shakes his head with a wide-eyed expression, but I slam my foot on the accelerator and drive right through the boom, leaving him and everyone else in a cloud of exhaust. As I pass the front of the arena, several fans that were unable to get tickets swivel their heads toward my screeching tires. I hit the switch and the window glides closed. I know there’ll be hell to pay for this. But I just can’t do it. I can’t stand on that stage for another night and pretend like I’m okay. I’m notokay.

I drive through traffic, and on the way out of town I pull into a liquor store and slide the keys from the ignition. For a beat, I just stare at my face in the rear-view, not knowing the woman I see glaring back at me. The fake lashes, the lip filler, the Botox I was forced to have to retain my youth at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. My face is as emotionless, as dead inside as I am. Though maybe I’m not as dead as I thought. I did run away from an arena filled with thousands offans.

Oh my god. What am I doing? If I turn this car around, I can still go out on stage. I’ll be thirty minutes late, or more by the time they touch up my makeup, but I can fix this. I justneed. . .

I stare at the flashing liquor sign above the store. A drink. That’s what Ineed.

I can’t remember the last time a drop of hard liquor passed my lips. With the exception of a glass of wine every other month, I don’t drink. I’ve never liked the thought of being out of control, and it’s not worth the hangover when you spend the next eighteen hours rocking back and forth with the motion of the tour bus as you puke up yourguts.

Still, I think tonight calls for a strong, dark something-with-the-ability-to-screw-me-every-which-way-from-here-to-Sunrise.

I climb out of the vehicle and walk into the store. It’s a quick stop with liquor attached, and the lights are so bright they hurt my eyes. I grab the biggest bottle of whiskey I can find. The clerk stares at me a beat too long. I turn my gaze downward, past the gleaming gold sequins of my dress, and I inspect the label on the bottle so he can’t make a positive ID, but I still feel his eyes onme.

“You’re that singer, aren’tyou?”

“No,” I say impatiently. That’s when I realize I don’t have any money.Shit. Shit. Shit.Shit.

“Yes, you are. I remember seeing your picture all over town. Aren’t you supposed to be playingtonight?”

“Um, I just remembered I don’t have anymoney.”

“Well hell, baby. I can’t give it to you for free, but maybe we can work something out,eh?”

I glare at him. “You’re kidding,right?”

He shrugs. “You want the drink ornot?”

Goddamn it. I do. I really, really want that drink. I know if I return to the stadium I won’t find one anywhere backstage—it doesn’t mesh well with the squeaky-clean image that my label likes to brandish around town as if it’s a badge of honor. Especially when the Maren Morris’s of the world pop up with their devil-may-care attitude and upset country’s sometimes delicate sensibilities.Not that I’m bitter or anything. The only way I’d get a drink in that stadium is if I raided Thomas Bentley’s tour bus for it, and that’s so not happening. The man has already expressed plenty of interest in the two of us bunking together, on my bus, on his, in my dressing room . . . He even told CMT he was planning on being my date for the CMA Awards. No thankyou.

I stare longingly at the bottle. I need this drink. Finally, I glance up at the cashier and swallowhard.

“What kind of deal, exactly?” He leers. I grimace. “Oh my god, forgetit.”

“I gotta get somethin’. That’s a fifty-dollar bottle of whiskey. Besides, it’s not every day you meet a countrystar.”

“You know what?” I step closer, putting a little more sway in my hips as I walk toward him. “Why don’t you shove your deal fair up your ass.” I clutch the bottle tightly. While I’m staring him down, I grab a couple of candy bars—I can’t remember the last time I ate one of those, either—and with a final look, I turn and run. Apparently, that’s what I’m goodat.

I climb into the SUV and throw the car in reverse. He comes thundering out after me, but I take off out of the lot, hooting like a woman who’s lost her damn mind. Once I’m back on the highway, I unscrew the cap with one hand and take a long, hearty swig. It burns like the dickens going down, and I nearly run right off the road. Bracing the wheel with one hand and using my teeth to rip into the candy bar wrapper, I take a bite and moan as I chew the chocolatey goodness. Why does everything so bad for us taste so damn good? I’m sure there’s a country song in theresomewhere.

Another sip of whiskey and two candy bars later, I begin to feel sick. The sugar, liquor and guilt swirl around my belly, and for a beat I think I’m going to puke, but I shove down that feeling and just drive. I follow that white line until it runs right out. I don’t care where I’m going. All I want is to be away from the city, from people who know my face and those who want to control every aspect of my life. I want to be anywhere but here. But no matter where I end up, it still won’t be farenough.

---