Promise Me You Read online

  He slid his palms down her bare arms and took her hands, offering comfort and understanding. But he didn’t understand. And all of a sudden it became imperative that he did.

  “Not the dancing, Hunter. This.” She gestured back and forth between them to encompass the enormity of her words. “I can’t do this right now.” Her voice broke. “I have to go.”

  “Whoa, don’t cry. Give me a minute, and I’ll just grab Brody’s keys and drive you home.”

  “You can’t leave,” she said, horrified. “It’s your rehearsal dinner.”

  “But driving at night is bad for a migraine.”

  And staying here for one more moment would be bad for her heart. The weight of her decision was all-consuming. Her chest tightened to the point of agony, and the bile that had been churning in her stomach for the past six weeks burned the back of her throat.

  She didn’t have any destination in mind. Only knew that she had to get out. Spread her wings one last time before she settled into her new future—so that Hunter could hold on to his.

  “I’ll be fine.” She’d weathered storms rougher than this. “Be happy, Hunter.”

  With one last glance, to put every nuance of his face to memory, Mackenzie turned to walk through the rose garden, the pungent fragrance stinging her nose, the weight of the night clinging to her skin.

  Being with Hunter was like music without sheets—no restrictions or limitations. Just easy, natural, freeing. He embodied a sense of peace and weightlessness that had given her hope to dream when she’d desperately needed something to hold on to.

  It was the same gift she was determined to give him in return. Which was why she had to say goodbye.

  CHAPTER 2

  Three years later . . .

  There was not enough alcohol in the bar to ease the growing pressure. Hunter Kane’s chest felt as if it was going to explode right there in front of his cousins, and not a single one of them would do a damn thing. Other than tell him this was his own fault.

  The sorry-as-shit part was that they’d be right.

  Hunter had been sitting on his ass for the last year, waiting for inspiration to walk back into his life. But since he’d let her walk right out without a fight, he wasn’t holding his breath.

  “Come on, Brody,” Hunter said to his oldest cousin. “You make it sound like I’m asking you to get me a meeting with Johnny Cash.”

  “That would be a hell of a lot easier, because what you are asking is beyond impossible,” Brody said, not even trying to hide his piss-poor attitude. Hunter assumed it was partly from the predictability of the conversation—one they’d had many times recently—but mostly because it was well past last call.

  “You’re my agent,” Hunter pointed out. “By definition your job is to make the impossible possible when it comes to ensuring the band’s happiness and continued success.”

  At that moment Hunter’s needs included a meeting with the most sought-after songwriting team in country music. He’d made this particular request so many times over the past year he’d lost track, but each one ended with the same disappointing result.

  Two years ago, Hunter Kane had been a singing sensation headed toward living-legend status. There wasn’t a person he couldn’t get a meeting with. Even the president of the United States had knocked back a few stouts with the front man behind the Hunter Kane Band, who’d been deemed the greatest thing to hit country music since Garth Brooks and Keith Urban.

  Then they’d released their fourth album. And what a clusterfuck that had been. With their lead songwriter MIA, the label had paired him up with a team of writers who’d put an end to Hunter Kane Band’s trendsetting sound. While the album had contained two number-one hits, both written by the elusive Mack and Muttley, it was considered a commercial flop.

  A mistake Hunter would never make again.

  Which was why Mack and Muttley’s continued rejection lit a fire under Hunter’s ass, making him more determined than ever to lock down a meeting.

  “No, your agent works in that big office three blocks over,” Brody said. “He has a fancy schedule that is carefully managed by his amazing assistant, Raydeen. You should call her. Set something up.”

  Hunter looked at his watch. “And wake her? Big Daddy raised us better than that,” he said, referring to Brody’s father, who had stepped up to raise Hunter when his own father turned out to be ill-tempered for the job. “I mean, what kind of asshole calls someone at two fifteen in the morning on a work night?”

  “The same kind of asshole who pulls his cousin from a warm bed to come down here and hold his hand.” Brody dropped his hand on top of Hunter’s—hard. Then squeezed with enough force to fracture a few bones. “Now, if we’re done here, I’d like to go back home to my wife, who’s hopefully still awake in that nice warm bed that I left.”

  “Your wife told me I could call any time. Those were Savannah’s exact words.” Hunter shrugged. “Who am I to argue with a pretty lady?”

  “Jesus.” Brody ran a hand down his face. “And you wonder why you’re divorced.”

  Hunter didn’t have to wonder. He knew exactly why he was divorced. He simply wasn’t cut out for marriage. Period.

  Whatever that elusive trait was that allowed his uncle and cousins to love so freely had clearly skipped Hunter’s branch on the family tree. Oh, he loved his family and his music so fiercely he was often paralyzed with its power. But when it came to letting other people into his heart, he seemed to be more of a hard-ass like his father than he wanted to admit. So when Hadley wanted out less than a year into the marriage, he hadn’t fought her on a thing.

  He’d taken her around the world, bought her a dream house in one of the most prestigious areas in Nashville, and showered her with all kinds of things. Sadly, in the end, after the success and the touring and the insane hours, the divorce was probably the nicest thing he’d ever given her.

  “How are you doing with that?” Brody asked, his voice softening with genuine concern.

  Hunter knew by that they were no longer talking about the divorce, but Hadley’s new marriage. “Good. She seems happy and genuinely in love. Chet is a good guy, stable, works a suit job with a membership at the country club. She deserves that.”

  She was also expecting her first child. A difficult reality for Hunter to swallow, since she’d made it clear that parenthood wasn’t a role she had interest in pursuing. Apparently, she’d meant with him.

  Hunter loved kids, wanted a few of his own someday, when he had the time to devote to being a great dad. But he worked too damn much.

  A side effect of being responsible for so many people. It wasn’t just about his own success. He had bandmates, roadies, a whole team of people and their families whose financial security depended on Hunter’s ability to go the distance. To settle this standoff between the label and his bandmates.

  The band refused to record songs that the label picked, the label tossed out every song Hunter sent over, and if he didn’t find some way to get everyone on the same page, the band was going to miss their studio time. End result: the album would suffer.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d been appointed the savior of the fucking universe. Last he’d checked, he’d handed in his cape the day Hadley asked him for a divorce. Yet here he was, sitting in his uncle’s bar, sucking down a beer, trying to get another runaway horse back in the corral.

  Only this time he was man enough to admit that he needed help.

  “What did Mack and Muttley say?” Hunter asked.

  “Same as before: a regretful no,” Brody said without an ounce of regret in his tone.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yup. That’s it.”

  Hunter rested his weight on his arms and leaned over the tabletop to make sure Brody could see the whites of his eyes. It wasn’t a lack of effort on his cousin’s part that had gotten them here. In fact, Brody was one of the hardest-working agents in Nashville—his roster of exclusive clients proved that. He just had a hard time thinking outside
the box.

  If there was one thing Hunter had learned on his road to success, it was that there was always more than one way to sweet-talk a deal, and it usually involved skill, persistence, a couple of cigars, and a whole lot of alcohol.

  “Afraid that answer won’t do. This meeting needs to happen, and it needs to happen this week.”

  His career depended on it. If he didn’t hand over new material for the next album, his label was going to lock him in a room with another set of shitty writers. The band would freak. The songs would suck. So the only way he was going to please all parties involved was to submit the perfect batch of songs.

  The tricky thing about perfection—it killed creativity.

  “The label gave you a list of qualified writers,” Brody pointed out. “You scared them all off.”

  “Having a YouTube channel doesn’t make you qualified.”

  “Cody Kelly has more than ten million followers.”

  “He’s nineteen,” Hunter said. “With peach fuzz for a beard. If the kid can’t keep a proper beard, he can’t fucking write with me.”

  Brody leaned back and let out a frustrated breath.

  Right there with you, cuz.

  Hunter had studied the industry, identified the patterns that made some bands a mere flash while others held on for the long haul. Only a select few made it to the coveted icon status. The Hunter Kane Band was going to be one of them.

  And fucking peach fuzz wasn’t going to get them there.

  Not that Hunter cared about the fame or money—he was neck-deep in both and threatening to go under. What he needed was the artistic freedom to write songs that connected—songs like he’d had at the beginning of his career.

  Hunter wasn’t just a musician. He was a writer, and he was at a point in his music where he would either lose momentum and fizzle into obscurity or move on to become more than just another industry fluke. In order for him to do that, he needed to try something new. Which was where the writing talents of Mack and Muttley came in.

  Hunter scanned the iconic bar’s walls. Big Daddy’s was one of Nashville’s oldest honky-tonks and the first venue Hunter had ever played. He took in the gold and platinum records, which hung beneath the neon MASON JARS ARE AS FANCY AS WE GET sign and next to an old photo of the bar. The records were his, but the picture was of his uncle, taken the night he’d opened the honky-tonk in the late seventies. The gleam of pride and joy in Big Daddy’s eyes made swallowing hard.

  That was the kind of man Hunter wanted to be. Big Daddy had been the hardest-working man Hunter had ever known. He’d given 100 percent of himself to this bar but never compromised time with the family and never gave up the fight to make his dream come true.

  It had been only six months since Big Daddy had passed, but the loss was so fresh Hunter could taste it. That’s why he loved coming to Big Daddy’s: his uncle was in every brick and bar top.

  Hunter remembered the summer he’d spent with his uncle and cousins resanding all five thousand square feet of original wood floors to earn enough cash to buy his first guitar. Mostly, though, he remembered the day Big Daddy took out a loan against the bar to fund Hunter’s demo tape.

  Big Daddy hadn’t had a lot of money, but he’d been rich in love and faith. Enough so that he’d been willing to put his bar on the line to help Hunter reach his dreams. Even though Hunter wasn’t his kid.

  That demo tape had taken him from playing opening gigs for no-name acts in small towns around the south to landing a record deal with one of the biggest labels on the planet. And now the Hunter Kane Band played stadiums and arenas all over the country. Sometimes as the opening act, sometimes as the headliner, but always to a sold-out crowd.

  It wasn’t the loan that had made the difference. Big Daddy’s unwavering belief that Hunter could be more than his old man had given Hunter the singular focus he needed to push ahead in an industry designed to hold performers back. Hunter was determined to live up to the opportunity his uncle had provided.

  He had the fame and a growing collection of platinum albums, but every day, every song, was starting to feel the same. Hunter wanted to create something deeper, more textured—a journey that his uncle would have chosen. One that challenged his talent as much as his character.

  Hunter knew in his gut that this next album would help him find that feeling of fulfillment missing in his life and his work of late. He just had to finish writing it.

  Releasing a sigh, he dropped his head against the seat back. “The band won’t record any more crossover fluffy crap. And if we come out with another album like the last one, there won’t be a band. I want the long career, not the flash and fizzle.” Hunter paused. “If we do this right, we can position the band in a unique spot to go the distance, just like Mackenzie and I mapped out.”

  Hunter felt his chest tighten.

  After all this time, saying her name still brought on a rush of longing and pain so intense it was physical. He was at the exact place in his career they’d planned for, fought for, and dreamed about, but she was no longer a part of that dream. Hadn’t been since the rehearsal dinner.

  The memory of that night made him glance down at his ringless finger. After a moment, Hunter forced himself to focus and close off the part of his mind that always carried so much pain.

  “The band isn’t willing to work with just any writer, we’re looking to work with the perfect writers for this album. No more of this mix-and-match BS like last time. Which, I don’t need to remind you, nearly ruined us.”

  “Give up the tampons and stop being so emotional about everything. You know the cycle: once you stop overthinking and get to work, you’ll write hit after hit regardless of the writing partners.”

  It wasn’t going to work. Period.

  Hunter had tried everything to get his swag back, but the only hits he’d recorded weren’t his. And he didn’t want to spend his career singing other people’s stories. He wanted to tell his own. At least, that’s what he’d told Brody. In truth, he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. He just knew that he would find it with these songwriters.

  “Mack and Muttley are my only choice. I won’t work on this album with anyone else.”

  “Be prepared to be disappointed. Because they are at the top of their game and extremely particular on who they choose to work with. And they can,” Brody said. “They were named by Rolling Stone the best songwriters of the year. Not to mention the most reclusive. I’ve accepted a trailer full of GRAMMYs and CMAs on their behalf. And guess what? They choose to go it alone.”

  Hunter understood what Brody was saying. No one even knew what this duo looked like. They were like the Sia of country music.

  No one, that was, except his take-no-prisoners agent and favorite cousin, Brody Kane, who was still rattling off all the reasons Hunter’s plan wouldn’t work.

  “They didn’t show up to the Country Music Awards. Turned down the Tonight Show. What makes you think they’d meet with you?”

  “Because for me to make it to the next level, I need them. It’s like they write the things I need to get out but can’t quite put into words or chords. Every time they give me a song, it’s the perfect song at the perfect time in my career.”

  At the perfect time in my life.

  Brody leaned back in his chair and really considered Hunter’s plea. “They already give you first options on all their best material. Believe me. I see every song before anyone else. They write those songs specifically for you and no one else. I had five top artists bidding on the last set they wrote. Mack and Muttley flat-out refused to consider anyone else, said it could only be you. They were your last three number ones, by the way. What more do you want?”

  Hunter braced one leg on the opposite knee, laced his fingers behind his head, and dropped the bomb that was sure to send Brody into one of his anxiety-driven meltdowns, including pacing, ranting, nuclear-strength heartburn, and finally ending with Hunter getting his way.

  “I want to cowrite the entire album with th
em. All fourteen songs. The three of us locked in a studio till it’s done kind of situation.”

  Brody snorted. “Good luck with that.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” Brody rolled his eyes so hard Hunter thought his cousin would fall off his chair. “I get that people pretty much do whatever you ask. I know I do. Half the time I do what you want before you know you want it. Cash is right. This has all gone to your head, turned you into some fucking diva,” Brody said, and Hunter laughed.

  “Cash drinks craft beer. It doesn’t get more diva than that.”

  “He also outweighs you by thirty pounds,” Cash said from the other side of the bar.

  “You could be Garth Brooks for all I care,” Brody said. “Mack and Muttley do not—I repeat, do not—work with artists.”

  “They’ll work with me,” Hunter said.

  Hunter’s laid-back confidence had allowed him to win over even the stodgiest of people in the industry. He might not have met these guys, but he knew the type. Unlike LA, Nashville attracted good old boys who would rather throw back a few brews while sitting around in jeans and T-shirts playing cards than entertain some self-serving ego of an artist.

  Good thing, for all involved, Hunter was as easygoing as one could get. He’d bring a couple of six-packs, a fifth of Jack, and his old six string. By the end of the night, there’d be chords and contracts.

  “And why is that?”

  A slow, smug grin spread across Hunter’s face. “First off, because you know I’m right. Second, you represent both parties involved, so it’ll be easy to set up the meeting.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar top. “And did I mention I think I’m comin’ down with the flu? Might just have to retract that babysitting offer for next weekend.”

  Brody’s jaw tightened, and the vein in his forehead darkened, exposing an elevated heart rate. He blinked several times, probably listening to the sound of his sex life coming to a tragic ending. “You know how much this trip means to Savannah.”