So why the hell was he living the life of a play boy? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a piece of work, a rowdy womanizer that wasn’t ashamed of it at all. He sugar-coated it nicely, but it was there. But as I looked deeper I saw there was something different about him. The sly grin on his face was indicative of a mask. His smile never reached his eyes.
Maybe he was still broken from his past.
One thing I knew for sure, he was miserable, and I could see it within the first few seconds of one of his most recent interviews.
If my goal was to help those struggling with substance abuse, then this was the perfect job for me. It was a hands-on assignment I could probably even pitch to the department for class credit, which would alleviate some of the stress I would encounter. Less time spent in class meant more time helping this guy, and then I could use the reference when trying to find jobs and sell myself as a counselor. Having the reference of someone like Drake Blackthorn could really catapult me into the field of study I wanted to work in, and I bit my lip as I weighed the pros and cons.
I found my mouse slowly moving from ‘decline’ to ‘accept,’ and squaring my shoulders, I clicked the button.
With this being my final semester of classes, it would be my busiest. Papers were going to be due, and final exams would be harder than ever. I was going to have to keep my nose to the books while I worked with this man. But if things went well with the department like I hoped they would, this could start me down a road toward success for myself.
Only seconds later, a barrage of emails began, which was normal when accepting a new job. Correspondence between my boss and this ‘Hank’ guy came up. Articles I needed to read on this guy were sent to me. Personal information, where to find him, and all of his contact information came in password-protected files. I opened up and printed everything out at my desk as I gathered everything into a folder. All of the preliminary stuff was in my hands for all the research I needed to do in order to be prepared for this job.
I wrote the day and time of my interview with Hank on the folder, then put it aside. I still wasn’t done with my stretches, and I wanted to work a few more in before my phone alarm went off signaling me to get back to work. I still had a long day ahead of me. I had schoolwork to complete as well as research to delve into. If I wanted to prove that I could help this man with his issues, then I needed to make sure I brought everything to the table. It wasn’t going to be enough to show off my studies and rattle off a few random facts from class. I was going to need to show this Hank guy that I was good at this.
My nonchalance to his celebrity status should also play in my favor.
If I could nail this interview, then I stood a real chance of helping this man.
There was always a trigger for why people delved into substance abuse, yes. But there was also always a personal reason for why they stayed in it. The first step to being able to help someone with a substance problem was getting them to admit they had one in the first place. No one could help those who couldn’t admit they needed it. If I could get Drake Blackthorn to admit he had an issue, it was easy to get him help. Fifty percent of the work of getting sober was admitting there was an issue in the first place, and I could tell by the look in his eyes in those interviews that he knew he had an issue.
I just needed to prepare myself from the anger and backlash that I knew would come my way from Drake. Celebrities had big egos, and they last thing they wanted was anyone telling them what to do – especially a student.
Nothing like jumping in with both feet.
CHAPTER 3
Drake
The sunlight streaming in through the window caught my attention. My body rose to the occasion, alerting me to the ranch life that needed tending to. It was a part of my past life that I stilled struggled to erase.
It brought me peace, so I just kept going back to it. It wasn’t like I couldn't afford to hire help - I could hire a bus load of full-time laborers, but I didn’t feel the need.
Animals needed to be fed and horses needed to be run. Crops needed watered, some picked, and vacant acres needed to be fertilized to replenish their nutrients. Life didn’t stop when I wasn’t on tour. If I wasn’t touring and pleasing the crowds, I was breaking my back on this ranch.
I sprawled out, allowing the sun to graze over the scars on my legs, illuminating the parts of my skin I could still feel and coldly throwing me back to that damn accident.
The accident that almost took my fucking leg off. Drinking and tractors don't mix apparently. Who knew?
Groaning, I rose up in bed. My head was pounding from the birds chirping at my window. If I had a pellet gun, I would’ve shot their asses off the fucking sill. They needed to shut up so I could wake up in peace.
I pulled myself from bed and shuffled into the bathroom. Getting my eyes to open the first day back from a tour was not easy. I’d gotten used to sleeping in, napping whenever I wanted, and performing instead of getting my hands dirty on farm. I splashed some water in my face and felt the stubble growing on my chin.
Luckily, on the ranch, I didn’t have to worry about shaving every damn day.
Dragging on a pair of jeans and my boots, I reached for a shirt I could get mud all over after running circles around the horses. I headed down to the kitchen to find something to eat, praying we had some damn coffee I could lay my hands on. I was looking forward to talking with Paul, catching up with my old school friend and figuring out what all had gone on at the ranch while I’d been off touring.
But Paul was like clockwork, so it shouldn’t have shocked me that he was already out with the cattle.
Grabbing the lukewarm coffee pot, I poured myself a cup and stuck it in the microwave. I watched Paul wrangle up the pregnant heifers as the vet’s truck came rumbling across the field. There were four pregnant ones when I left, but I saw Paul had rounded up seven.
Guess our bull was taking advantage of the prime time.
Grinning, I pulled my coffee out of the microwave. I drank it down, grimacing at the heat as it burned my throat. It was the type of pain I looked forward to every morning. It helped to wake me up until the caffeine could kick in and relieved my head of the pounding ache.
But once I finished slamming it all back, I heard voices coming from the living room. Hank was talking to my sister, Elsie. I didn't want to deal with Hank, but I felt bad for neglecting my sister. I'd been gone for months, finally come home and spend my first day back hungover. Yeah, I felt like a real asshole.
“What was your book about?” Hank asked.