Page 17 of Hope and Country

“Can I count on you then? Will you show up, or are you just saying those words to make me think you will?”

I pinched my lips together, swallowing the laugh threatening to come out. How could my mother do this? I bet she’d placed a microchip in my head the day I was born so she could monitor all my thoughts. Yeah, that must have been it.

I moved the phone off my ear and opened the calendar app. It was filled with blue, orange, pink, purple, and yellow squares. My days were full. I was a businessman. Thanks to Carter Hills Band trusting me with their management when they were eighteen and still pretty unknown on the country music scene, I’d become one of the most respected and sought-after managers in Nashville.

Carter Hills Band and I reached stardom together. I had the contacts, the drive—and the big mouth—and they had the talent. A perfect recipe for fame and success.

I scrolled to the Saturday five weeks from now. Great. I had no engagement whatsoever that weekend. Nothing. All other weekends for months were booked with events except for that one. Fuck, I needed to find that microchip and destroy it as soon as possible. Did my mother also have access to my phone? My head fell into the crook of my elbow. Damn it.

“I’ll come, Mama. Send me the details.”

She made a whistling sound. The undeniable sign my mother was pleased. No way would I ever be able to disappoint her.

“Oh, Riley, I’m so happy. We’ll have a great time.” Her tone turned serious, and she inhaled, noisily enough to annoy me. “And one last thing. Bring a nice lady to join you.”

“Mama, I have no one in my life right now—”

“Don’t waste your breath, darling. You’re surrounded by women every day. I’m sure you can ask someone to come with you. But, please, not a scatterbrained, big-breasted, I-don’t-know-the-difference-between-right-and-left woman this time. You almost gave us a heart attack last Christmas. Petula was nice—and probably a great accessory for your star-studded parties—but there wasn’t much more she could bring to the table. Bring someone who can hold a conversation.”

“Mama—”

“Don’t mama me. I want you to thrive, Riley. But you won’t have a personal life if you act like a five-year-old in a candy store wanting the most colorful sweet when you choose such women to date. You’re talented, handsome, and far too intelligent to be that shallow. You have great values and a huge heart, one of the most caring persons I know. There’s more to life than making big bucks and having a great career. Just think about it.”

I rubbed my eyebrow, the liquor in my bloodstream now doing a poor job of numbing my brain.

I hated it when my mother’s words sounded right. When I didn’t have a choice but to let them reach the processing center of my brain and take them into account. I loathed it.

“I’ll think about it.” That was the best I could come up with in my intoxicated state. No way I’d promise my mother anything because she’d spend years reminding me what would happen if I brought another beauty-with-no-brains woman to their house.

“I love you, honey. Take care. I can’t wait to see you. Don’t be a stranger. And please talk to your father. It’s time you two make up.”

“I will.” I shut my eyes, confident my mother knew I was talking shit. For once, she didn’t push the subject and hung up. I exhaled.

My stomach churned with all the whiskey I’d drunk tonight.

My mother—even from thousands of miles away—had a way to stop my drinking binges. Her voice was powerful enough to sober me up. Almost.

Every single time.

I motioned to the redheaded waitress with denim cut-offs and a tiny black tank top to bring me the check. She was interested. I wasn’t. I placed a hundred on the table and called a cab, in no state to drive the red sports car I’d gifted myself for my thirtieth birthday three months ago.

I faltered out of the cab toward the front porch but dropped my keys before climbing the three steps. In the dark night, my navy-blue craftsman house with stoned columns and white trims looked almost haunted. I scratched the side of my head. Why were the lights out? I had a timer installed when I moved in six years ago. The lights on the front porch turned on at sunset and turned off in the morning. Every single day. No exception.

Not tonight, though.

Was there a blackout?

I spun on my heels and scanned the street. Every other house had lights on.

I scratched the side of my head once more.

This was a mystery I’d solve another day. Now all I craved was a hot shower and a comfy bed to forget my week.

I blinked, but my eyes refused to adjust to the darkness. Damn it. I bent down to scramble for my keys. With my hand clamping the banister in a death grip, I barely made it up the stairs and promptly tripped over something, falling to my knees.

“Fucking great.”

Had I received a package and they’d just set it down right in the middle of my way?