“That sucks.”

“Everyone always wants something.”

“C’mon. Everyone?”

“It’s more likely than not. Lately, I just like being alone.”

“And you’re happy with that?” I ask quietly, not accusing him or anything.

“I’ve got Casper.”

“Oh God. You’re like one of those old cat ladies!”

He laughs softly, then grows pensive again.

“What about your parents?” I ask, but he shakes his head. “You can talk to me. I mean, if you want to. You can trust me.”

He rubs his eyes. “My parents don’t—we haven’t really been speaking to each other lately, okay?”

“What?” I blurt.

And that’s when his phone rings.

He looks at the screen and starts pacing back and forth in front of the silver MC Sport. “Hi, Mark. No, we’re done with lunch… I’m at the Maserati dealership… I forgot to call… Test-driving a red car… I dunno, I might buy it… We don’t want to go on the tours… Please? No, do not send Tracy and Gina over here!… No, I don’t need a stylist! I look fine,” Jesse grumbles, and on that note, he hangs up.

“What’d he say?” I ask.

“He told us to have fun, go hog wild, and he’d check in later.”

“Really?”

“No, he said he’s on his way here now. He’ll be here in five minutes. Which means we need to get out of here in the next hour or so if we want to miss him.”

I grin. “How long has he been your manager?”

“I signed with him right after I won Wannabe Rocker…so eight years? He gets me. Lets me do my own thing.”

The sales guy comes back and leads us outside to the shiniest, most beautiful piece of machinery ever built. “Holy shit,” I whisper, dragging the tips of my fingers across the GT’s hood.

The man hands me the keys. “Mr. Scott, I trust you’ll have this car back in mint condition in twenty minutes, correct?”

Jesse claps the man’s back. “You got it, Bill.”

We slip inside the car. The leather seat is so soft it’s like lying in sheets made of clouds. I groan.

“All my years of being a country stud and I’ve never made a girl make that sound,” Jesse says with a laugh.

I smack him on the shoulder. “Would you behave?” I insert the keys in the ignition and test the clutch. “Any objection to me driving stick, or do you want to go automatic?”

“Whatever suits you.”

“I like manual, ’cause then I’m in control.”

“Figures.”

I stomp on the clutch, start the engine, take my foot off the brake, give it some gas, and we shoot out of the parking lot. My head slams back against the seat.

“This thing’s a rocket!” Jesse says as he turns on the radio.

I soar past the entrance to the Grand Ole Opry and sail onto Briley Parkway. I steer the GranTurismo onto I-24, shifting through all six gears, taking it up to ninety miles an hour, zigzagging across four lanes of cars. Eight cylinders roar.

“What do you think of her?” Jesse hollers over the music, drumming the dashboard.

“I’ve always wanted a Lamborghini, but I could get used to a Maserati,” I joke as I near a hundred miles an hour, flying past a semi.

I rest my palm on the stick, and it surprises the hell out of me when Jesse reaches over and places his hand over mine for several seconds, then pulls it away.

Jesse Scott just touched my hand!

Trying to focus on the road, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, I tell myself.

He stares out the window. “Sorry. Just wanted to see what it feels like to have that kind of power and control.”

He thinks I have control? Yeah, right. Remembering the first real smile Jesse gave me makes me wild inside. But this isn’t a movie; this is a one-day thing with Jesse Scott, a famous star who’s about to quit the business and give up all of his success.

And I’m gonna go back to my life, where I don’t know what I’m doing anymore because I have no band. Where there is no control.

Live Your Life

I hand the Maserati sales guy my phone so he can take pictures of us with the red GT, and then we break it to him: we aren’t buying a car today.

“I’ll come back to check out the red car again real soon,” Jesse announces, which somewhat placates the snobby sales guy. “Now what?” he asks me as we climb on his bike.