Hell, she can barely meet his.
She’ll never shake the look on her father’s face when she showed up on his porch after the scandal hit the papers. He knew what she had done—tried to do—to get ahead. He heard the names the paper was calling her. But he wasn’t angry. He was ashamed, embarrassed. To Alabama, that was worse than anger any day.
Still, he let her stay with him, and after a few months they settled into an uneasy routine. Fractured, but Alabama hoped they’d make it back to each other. They had to. He was her father, the one who put the guitar in her hands, who had raised her up after her mother had run off to California when she was a baby, who always did the right thing by her. He learned her honest and true, and though she had her share of screw-ups in her teenage years, they never reached this status of epic failure. They never ended up breaking his heart like this.
She guesses it’s about time her father realized she’s not his perfect little girl. That she ruins everything she touches.
At the thought, tears fill her eyes.
She needs a breather. Quick. Before she turns into a weeping puddle.
“Cover my table, will ya, Holly?”
Holly waves a spatula to show she understands, and Alabama escapes out the back door to the alley.
She glances down at the letter held in her shaky hands. She exhales a long breath, trying to work up the nerve to open it.
Four months.
Four months since her life blew up. Four months and she’s still living with the fallout of that damn photo.
It was her fault. Her fault for trusting Mort, her ex-manager, who came to her like some shady savior when she was hustling nights at the Bluebird Café.
After years of waitressing days, of singing nights to get her music out there, Mort was a light at the end of a dead-end tunnel. She saw what he had done for the Brothers Kincaid and other artists. She had been in Nashville for nearly ten years and all she had to show for her sweat was an album of her own songs, put out years ago by some two-bit label. Wild Wonder barely made a dent, never got airplay. Mort promised to reinvent her, promised her a new album, promised she’d finally have a number one song.
And he did. He did it all—all for a price.
Alabama was with Mort for three years. Three years of swinging her hips and her hair and then being billed as Nashville’s pop-country princess before he cashed in on his favor.
What Mort wanted was for her to frame Luke Kincaid after their recording session. It killed two birds with one stone—Alabama got her hit song and Mort kept the Brothers Kincaid on as a client.
So she did. She kissed Luke. A reporter Mort hired from the Nashville Star snapped a photograph of the kiss. The plan was to send it to Luke’s wife—Mort would squash the brewing scandal, and the Brothers Kincaid would stay on as a client. But the plan went to hell when Luke’s wife crashed her car after receiving the photo. Her car accident spun Mort’s entire plan in an entirely different direction.
Four months ago, the truth finally came out. The Brothers Kincaid fired Mort’s scheming ass, and in retaliation, Mort released the photo to the world.
The photo billed Luke and Alabama as cheaters. Luke, wanting to protect his wife and preserve his marriage, released the incriminating texts that outed Mort and his scheme. Which meant they outed Alabama.
She never blamed Luke for that. He did what he had to do. And Alabama came out and admitted to the world that she was Mort Stein’s lackey. Luke stuck up for her at a press conference; even his wife, Sal, came to her defense. But even that wasn’t enough to get her back in the good graces of Nashville.
Harlot. Whore. Homewrecker. Those were just some of the names she was branded with after the scandal. As always, the tabloids twisted the truth. The things they said about what she did to get ahead with Mort churned her stomach and tore out her heart. None of it was true, but in Nashville, it didn’t matter. She’s taken full responsibility, owned her mistakes, but she’s still getting billed as the bad girl of country music, still getting called trash in the papers, especially by the Nashville Star.
It’s bullshit is what it is. She’s had her entire career and reputation derailed, while Mort quietly fucked off and is working as an agent in New York City.
She was a fool for trusting someone as much as she did. People let you down. People lie. And you get fucked over.
Case in point: Exhibit A.
Huffing a lock of red hair out of her face, Alabama steels her courage. She slides a finger under the envelope flap and tears it open. Dread curdles her stomach as she unfurls the letter. She reads fast, skimming the legal bullshit, the lawsuit.
As if the disastrous press wasn’t bad enough, Six String Records dropped her from their label and then promptly sued her for damages for participating in what they called a series of “unethical decisions.”
And of course, the judge ruled in their favor.
Alabama’s eyes blur as she reads, dizzy from the debt. It’s more than she expected. More than she has. Christ, she’ll have to wait a thousand tables to recoup beaucoup bucks.
She sticks one hand in the pocket of her apron, running a thumb over the old copper penny that lives there. It’s supposed to bring her good luck. Fat chance of that.
Once again, Alabama’s eyes focus on the letter’s parting words: Failure to pay the enclosed bill within thirty days will result in us filing an attorney’s lien on your properties and wages ...
Lord, what else could go wrong?