I’m mid head-banging to his cover of that same Luke Bryan song his dad sang in Memphis when an elbow digs into my ribs. I write it off as an ordinary dance-floor peril until it happens again as Lacey shoves me out of the way in her attempt to press closer to the stage.

  “You sure you have enough space there, Lacey?” I ask sarcastically.

  Lacey flicks me a look of contempt over her shoulder. “Not with you taking over the dance floor.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve supported his music way longer than you have,” she hisses, turning her back on the stage to lock eyes with me. Over the sound of Blake’s performance thundering around us, she glowers at me with the disdain she’s had for me all this time, but has never publicly displayed until now. “It’s pathetic, you jumping around like that as though you’re his number-one fan. So attention-seeking. You didn’t even know Blake existed until two seconds ago.”

  “But I know him well enough now,” I respond with a laugh as I flippantly wave my hand at her. “Get out of my face.”

  “Don’t worry, I will,” she says, while in fact moving threateningly closer. “Oh, and I heard you’re leaving tomorrow, Mila, so I trust you have a safe flight home.” Then with a smirk, she murmurs, “I’m sure there’s plenty girls around here who’ll take care of Blake for you.”

  Rage. Pure, blinding rage – that’s what ignites inside of me. I lose my cool entirely as I shove Lacey away and she falls back into the stage. She gasps at me as though I’ve just assaulted her unprovoked, pulling off the perfect weepy expression of innocence as she glances up at the stage to see if Blake has noticed. He has. Of course.

  This is so not a good look.

  The song comes to an end, and Blake leans down to grab a bottle of water from the stage floor, lowering himself nearer to Lacey. “What the hell are you doing?” he discreetly hisses.

  “Blake—” I try, but Lacey beats me to the punch, whining, “Can you ask Mila to stop pushing everyone around?”

  “Will you cut it out? It’s embarrassing,” he snaps, and I recoil with shock when I realize his words are directed at only me, then – as Lacey flashes me the most triumphant, patronizing smirk ever – he lines himself back up with the mic as he attempts to regain his momentum as though his focus hasn’t been broken by two girls squabbling over him. My heart sinks in shame.

  “How many folks in here love some Taylor Swift?” he asks the room, upbeat and charming.

  But only a few people reply. Instead, a wave of hushed voices moves around the bar, and I look behind me to see what’s going on now. Everyone’s attention has shifted to the opposite corner of Honky Tonk Central, to where a bubble of people surrounds one person as he enters the bar.

  “O.M.G.” Savannah emits an excited squeak. “Mila – it’s him, isn’t it?” I can only shrug, all thoughts of Lacey forgotten, as she exclaims, “What is your dad doing here?”

  The hushed voices are punctuated with the odd callout. Dad tries to edge deeper into the bar, but he can’t move far thanks to a handful of strangers approaching him. I throw my hand up in the air and attempt to wave him over, but as I watch, heads turn at the bar and customers quit stuffing tacos into their mouths. My heart sinks further and further. All attention is on the celebrity who has just waltzed through the door, half the crowd starstruck and rooted to the spot, the other half clambering toward Dad. The music has died, leaving Honky Tonk Central without a heartbeat. Blake has stopped performing.

  “I invited him,” I whisper, but I don’t think Savannah hears me.

  She takes off with Tori across the dance floor, and even Lacey has disappeared, and as Dad gets picked apart like a carcass thrown to crows, I stand alone and paralyzed at the front of the dance floor. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Before Blake picked me up earlier, I invited Dad to the gig. He likes watching people chase their dreams, after all, and he seems to like Blake. It’s our final night in Tennessee, the paps are no longer stalking his every move, and I thought that if he came . . . if people heard Everett Harding was at Honky Tonk Central on a Monday evening . . . that it would help draw in a crowd. More people for Blake to perform in front of. More people to fall in love with his talent.

  But I didn’t realize I had nothing to worry about in the first place. Honky Tony Central was already packed; packed with music lovers who are now no longer caring about some teenager’s honky tonk debut, who are now overcome with the thrill of having a celebrity in their midst. My blood curdles cold inside me as I realize that with all the excitement of seeing Blake on stage, it totally slipped my mind that Dad did say he might swing by.

  Horrified, I turn to the stage. Blake stands there alone with his guitar in his hands, wounded and abandoned, his gig at a standstill. The owner rushes onto the stage, stepping in front of him and taking over the mic, a born ringmaster.

  “It looks like we have a very special guest here tonight! Everett Harding, welcome to Honky Tonk Central!” he cheers to a far bigger round of applause than the one Blake’s entrance received, and I can physically feel my heart breaking apart as Blake’s face falls. “Everyone, please calm down! I’m sure Everett will be more than happy to sign autographs and take pictures, so there’s no need for quite such a frenzy.” He laughs, awkwardly, then instructs, “Please return to your tables, order yourselves another beer. Listen to some great live music. Oh, and Everett, your drinks are on the house!”

  Much to my horror, as everyone hollers in appreciation of Dad’s presence, Blake tears his guitar strap from his shoulder and strides across the stage, holding his guitar by the fretboard, his fist clenched tight around it. He doesn’t stand a chance of stealing the limelight back from Dad. His set is suddenly, agonizingly over, and his heartache is veiled by fury. His dream crushed right in front of me.

  “Blake, wait!” I yell, jumping onto the stage to try to catch up to him.

  He storms down the wooden side steps as though he is about to walk straight out of this place, but then in a split second, he decides he needs an explanation. As he twists sharply on his heels to face me, I bump into him and flinch at the thunderous look in his eyes.

  “What the hell is your dad doing here, Mila?”

  The guilt of knowing I’ve put a stop to Blake’s performance gnaws at my insides and my throat tightens, restricting my airways. “I . . . I asked him to come. I didn’t think this would happen,” I admit as my lower lip quivers. Am I going to throw up? I think I might.

  “He’s a movie star!” Blake yells in my face. “What did you think was going to happen?”

  “Blake, listen!” I beg, grabbing onto his shirt as he walks away from me. I pull him back, and we are against the empty bar, where even the bartenders have abandoned their positions. “I was trying to help! I invited him because I thought it would help you get a full house!”

  Blake clenches his jaw. “You thought I wasn’t good enough to draw in a crowd off my own back?”

  “No!” I gasp, shaking my head fast as I squeeze my eyes shut, realizing how this seems. I was so happy ten minutes ago, dancing to the sound of Blake’s melodic voice, but now tears press at the corners of my eyes. “I just wanted more people to see how talented you are!”

  “Well, congratulations,” Blake spits, “because now no one is listening.” He violently dumps his guitar on the bar as though his love for it has diminished. “What a great debut gig this is. Truly memorable. My dad isn’t here. And then, even before your megastar dad showed up, you were trashing it, Mila. Why the hell did you shove Lacey?”

  “Because she wants you! The moment I board that flight home tomorrow, she’s going to be all over you!” I stammer in exasperation, a million different emotions pumping through my veins. Fear that Lacey will make moves on my boyfriend once I’m gone, guilt and horror over inviting Dad here to ruin Blake’s first gig, and the mounting panic that Blake and I won’t survive as a couple when we’re two thousand miles apart. “You dated before and I’m sure she’s hoping history will repeat itself!”

  “I don’t care about Lacey!” he snaps, his voice low but as sharp and terrifying as I’ve ever heard it. He’s never displayed anger like this before, but he’s probably never felt disappointment like this. He pulls at the ends of his hair, throwing his head back to the ceiling as he groans. Eyes pooling with questions and his voice softening only very slightly, he looks at me. “You’re going home tomorrow?”

  Oh no. That wasn’t how I meant to break the news.

  “I was going to tell you,” I blurt, covering my face in my hands.

  “When? After you’d already left?” he growls, and I can hear furious betrayal woven through his voice. He slams his fist down on the bar next to his guitar, only just missing it. “What the hell, Mila? What is it with your family and weird secrets?”

  “It’s not a secret. I just didn’t want to ruin our last few days together! I didn’t want to give you any distractions before tonight!” I desperately try to explain, but my tears have broken free, and I doubt he can make sense of what I’m saying between my muffled, messy sobs. I didn’t mean to shove Lacey, I didn’t mean to stop his gig, I didn’t mean to keep anything from him. “I thought if you knew, we’d have just spent the past few days feeling on edge about it!”

  “Do you know how long I have waited for this chance?” He’s nearly snarling at me, his face distorted, and I take a step away. “And you ruined it, Mila. You fucking ruined it,” he adds venomously, shaking his head as though he’s fighting back his own tears. I pathetically grab onto his shirt again, trying to hold onto him so that he can’t walk away, but he removes my hand and there’s not a scrap of love or tenderness in the gesture. “You don’t have to wonder what will happen to us when you go home tomorrow,” he says, drawing his dark, tortured eyes level with mine, “because, Mila, we’re already done.”

  My heart splices. Blake grabs his guitar and turns away from me, his body as much of a barrier as a closed door. Tears streaming down my cheeks and my breaths shallow, I force myself to look across the bar as my world unravels around me in slow motion.

  Dad at a table, just like all the other customers were only a few minutes ago, his Hollywood smile dazzling. The bodies pressing around him from every angle, the raised voices, the poised cellphones, the pens and napkins being thrust through the air. I watch in horror as more people stream in from the street outside as word spreads down Broadway. It is complete pandemonium, and everyone is rammed at his side of the bar, leaving this half of Honky Tonk Central empty.

  Shrugging his guitar onto his shoulder as he walks away, Blake heads for the fire exit at the back of the bar, his pace determined and resolute.

  “Blake, please wait!” I cry, but either he doesn’t hear me, or he really has decided I’m not worth waiting for.

  He kicks open the fire door, setting off a shrilling alarm. I almost lose my balance in despair, so I sink to my knees, oblivious to the floor sticky with spilled beer, and shake my head over and over and over again. This can’t be happening. Blake can’t end things between us, not when I have to board a flight first thing in the morning, not when there is no time left to fix this complete mess I’ve created. As the alarm rings in my ears and my eyes sting with tears, I lift my hair from my face to find Blake one last time through the blur. With his head bowed, he walks straight out the door, his silhouette disappearing into the Nashville night. Just a boy and his guitar.

  I watch until he’s gone, until I have to give up hope that he might turn back to me, make things better with his easy smile inviting me to draw in close.

  And I don’t know it then, but it will be the last time I see Blake Avery for the next two years.

  Playlist

  Check out the music that kept me inspired while working on Trusting Blake.

  Speakers Sam Hunt

  She's With Me High Valley

  Dance Rascall Flatts

  Our Song Taylor Swift

  Move Luke Bryan

  Somebody Like You Keith Urban

  To Us It Did Mitchell Tenpenny

  I Want Crazy Hunter Hayes

  Home Sweet Russell Dickerson

  Stuck Redferrin

  Thank You

  Thank you a million times over to my readers for being such amazing champions of Mila and Blake even before ever reading their story, and for supporting every step forward I take in my writing journey.

  Thank you so, so, so much to all of the team at Black & White Publishing for being the greatest publishing team I could ever wish to have behind me since the very beginning. Thank you to my editors, Emma Hargrave and Janne Moller, for your guidance and expertise. Special thanks to Campbell Brown and Alison McBride for continuing to make possible my dream of having my name on bookshelves.

  So much love for my closest friends for keeping me sane. Rachael Lamb, Heather Allen, Rhea Forman and Bethany Stapley: thanks for the road trips for ice cream, endless cups of tea, and true friendships that I cherish.

  But most importantly, thank you to those who make my world shine brighter:

  My mum, Fenella, for all of the amazing memories we continue to make together.

  My dad, Stuart, for always reminding me that I can achieve anything I set my mind to.

  My sidekick, Bear, for filling me with joy whenever you look at me with your little puppy eyes.

  My best friend, Rachael, for being the person I laugh the hardest with.

  My granda, George, for being equally as stubborn as me, but who I wouldn’t change for the world.

  My grandma, Fenella, for always being so full of warmth and love.

  My sister, Sherilyn, for being the strongest person I’ve ever known.

  And my nephew, Anders, for always being the shining light at the end of every tunnel.

 

 

  Estelle Maskame, Trusting Blake (Mila Trilogy)

 

 

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