Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,100

and frowns at me. “You know…” He shakes his head. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.” He slaps his jeans and twists his handsome face into a hillbilly duh look. “I know!” He snaps his fingers. “You’re the lady on the billboard!”

I shove his shoulder. Elvie topples toward the couch, and just as I can see his face tighten with embarrassment, we hear a car horn in front of my house.

My house.

I glance around my beautiful space, and Elvie huffs. He doesn’t say anything—he never does—but there are these times when he makes me feel like some kind of big, gross giant: when I wear heels, or when I can reach something he can’t. As if it’s my fault I’m tall for a girl, and he’s short for a guy.

Jamie beeps again, and Elvie gets my suitcase while I shoulder my purse and carry on. He gets the front door for me, and we step outside without a word. Our breaths make pale clouds. I find myself smiling as I turn to lock the door. It’s cold here in Nashville, but not as cold as it will be where I’m going. I can’t freaking wait.

I take a small step back, admiring my little house. My dream. The little wreath on the door. I get chills as I think of going back to the studio. To work more on my album, which combined with my movie and modeling income, helped me buy this house.

My album!

Elvie frowns at me, and I flick him on the arm.

“Daydreaming all the time,” he drawls.

“About the studio,” I say.

“Aww, I gotcha.”

But he doesn’t. The only son of one of country music’s most beloved duos, Elvie cut his first record when he was 9. He’s had a CD in Wal-Mart since last year. A Christmas CD since the year before.

Next year, I’ll have my own album too. My eyes tingle a little as we walk to Jamie’s schmancy SUV, a Cadillac SRX. As Elvie opens the trunk, Jamie gets out of the driver’s seat and throws her arms around me.

We both squeal, and Elvie covers his ears.

Jamie lets me go and jabs him in the arm.

“What is it with you women and the hitting?”

She shrugs and looks him over. “You look nice, cowboy.”

“Singing at the Bluebell.”

“Oh yeah, Gwenna told me about that.”

“Gwennie.” He settles my suitcase in the trunk and shuts it. Then he wraps his arms around me.

“You two. Get a room. Oh wait, I’m taking your girlfriend with me.” Jamie sticks her tongue out.

Elvie flips her off.

She goes around to her side of the car while Elvie kisses me. He tastes like cigar and chicken. We had dinner at Miss Darcy’s Grill. I wipe my lipstick off his mouth. He has the good sense not to complain this time.

He even kisses me again on the cheek. “Stay warm, Gwennie.”

“Break a leg. Not both, though. Or I’ll have to send you away on an ass’s ass.”

This is Elvie’s and my private joke. One time I told him I would always love him, even with no arms and legs. It was meant to be funny. Romantic, dark funny—but funny. He said he would love me always, too. But when I got too old and ugly to be photographed with him, he’d send me away on a mule’s ass.

“Such a comedian,” he says now. He runs a hand along my hair. “Be safe, now.”

“For sure. You too. Talk to you soon?”

“I’ll call tomorrow.”

I blow him a kiss and climb up into Jamie’s silver Caddy, bound for my favorite place on earth.

SEVENTEEN

Barrett

November 6, 2015

“Hey, man.” I hold my phone against my ear and lean against the bathroom wall. “You probably won’t remember me, but you did a tat for me about three years ago.”

“Yeah, man. Sounds right. I’ve been here since ’09.”

“It was a snowflake.”

“Yeah?”

“A little snowflake on my neck, kind of near my hairline in the back.”

“I think I remember you. Real big guy? Dark hair?”

I nod, and blink into the mirror. “That was me.” In my line of work, it’s wise to assume you’re going to stick out. When you’re six-foot-three, you have to.

“So what can I help you with?” he asks.

“I was wondering if you drew it.”

“That snowflake?”

“Yeah.”

“I draw them all. So yeah. All my shit is custom.”

“You give them out a lot?” I ask.

“You got a problem, man?”

“No. No problem.” I inhale slowly, hoping to bring my voice up from where it goes down deep when I’m thinking hard about something. So I don’t