Diva NashVegas Read online

  Praise for Rachel Hauck’s previous novel,

  Lost in NashVegas

  “Rachel Hauck not only writes a charming and humorous story, full of down-to-earth people, she writes about Nashville better than most travel guides.”

  —lifeway.com

  “Packing witty dialogue, quirky characters, and a rocking “country vibe,” her story will make you laugh as it plunges you into the world of today’s country music industry.”

  —Christianbook.com

  “Thoroughly down-home delightful.”

  —best-selling author Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “Move over Jennifer Weiner—a new voice has just hit town! Lost in NashVegas gives us a fun peek at what it might be like to be a struggling songwriter in the heart of the South. Hauck’s storytelling is a rare and luminous gift. I’m her number one fan.”

  —Colleen Coble, author of Fire Dancer

  “A highlight of my reading year, Lost in NashVegas receives . . . my highest recommendation.”

  —novelreviews.blogspot.com

  “Lost in NashVegas strums the heart strings with humor and a girl’s search for purpose. For Robin McAfee, finding the spotlight isn’t easy, but always fun.”

  —DiAnn Mills, author of Lanterns and Lace

  “Fun, funny and full of good ol’ country charm, Lost in NashVegas grabbed me on the first page and didn’t let go. Pour yourself a tall glass of sweet tea, sit back in a comfortable chair, and get ready to meet one of the sassiest Southern chicks in Christian fiction. You won’t be sorry!”

  —Virginia Smith, author of Just As I Am.

  “Thanks to Hauck’s masterful storytelling and characterization, aspiring songwriter Robin Rae McAfee from Freedom, Alabama lingers in my mind like a lifelong friend. Lost in Nashvegas breaks through genre lines so smoothly that anyone with a heart and a sense of humor will love this story.”

  —Christine Lynxwiler, author of Arkansas and

  the Pinky Promise Sisterhood series

  “Perfect! Beautifully written with perfect Southern charm, Rachel Hauck superbly captures the world of NashVegas—the fears, the hopes, the people, and the aspirations of a wanna-be songwriter. I found myself cheering for Robin Rae: a brave, spunky, good ol’ country gal shouldering not only her dreams, but the dreams of the people she loves. Encore, Encore!”

  —Susan May Warren, award-winning author of

  Everything’s Coming up Josey

  “With a lively cast of characters and a Southern setting so real I feel like I’ve just returned from a visit, Lost in NashVegas grips the reader from start to finish, offering a fun glimpse into the world of songwriting and a storyline that’s as good as warm apple pie on a lazy afternoon.”

  —Diann Hunt, author of RV There Yet?

  Lost in NashVegas, an ACFW book club selection.

  Diva

  NashVegas

  Rachel Hauck

  Copyright © 2007 by Rachel Hayes Hauck

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Viva Nashvegas® is a trademark registered by George Hamilton V.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc. books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Hauck, Rachel, 1960-

  Diva NashVegas / Rachel Hauck.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-59554-191-8 (pbk.)

  ISBN-10: 1-59554-191-8 (pbk.)

  1. Women country musicians--Fiction. 2. Nashville (Tenn.)--Fiction. 3. Musical fiction. 4. Chick lit. I. Title.

  PS3608.A866D58 2007

  813'.6--dc22

  2007008341

  Printed in the United States of America

  07 08 09 10 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Javier LaBoy, for calling me a diva.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Reading Group Guide

  MUSIC

  1995—Willing to Make a Change

  1997—Aubrey James

  1999—Better Left Unsaid

  2001—Dandelions & Daffodils

  2003—This Way to the Parade

  2005—Borrowed Time

  2007—At Last

  BIO

  At eighteen, Aubrey James, the daughter of gospel icons Ray and Myra James, rocketed to the top of country and pop charts. An overnight sensation with her first album, Willing to Make a Change, she quickly found the platinum road to superstardom comes at a very high price . . .

  1

  “Aubrey James is the holy grail of celebrity interviews. Whoever gets her to sit first wins.”

  —Beth Rose, Inside NashVegas

  On a warm June night, I stand stage left among a swirl of activity—the stage crew, band members, and music artists coming and going—waiting to go on. Closing my eyes to rehearse my entrance, I have an odd sense of suspension, for a moment unable to determine time or place.

  Ladies and gentlemen, Aubrey James . . . Run out smiling. Grab the mike. Wave and greet the fans. Hear the opening bars of “Borrowed Time.”

  Done it a thousand times. All over the world. Before queens and rednecks. Tonight is no different.

  Except I’m utterly exhausted.

  You’re the CMA Fest’s closing performer, Aubrey. Don’t let the fans down. Don’t do it.

  Opening my eyes, I expect—I hope—the fans’ excitement will jump-start my adrenaline, washing away the cloak of weariness.

  It always has.

  But tonight, the electric excitement charging the Titans Coliseum fails to touch me. My thoughts wander, and my heartbeat fires like a worn piston. Tiny beads of sweat prickle under my arms and across my forehead. I try to focus on the opening number again.

  Walk out . . . Drummer counts down “Borrowed Time,” bass comes in, then the electric. On the downbeat, I sing. Engage the crowd. Find the sweet spot.

  Six months on the road with my all-girl band.

  Hear the smooth call of the steel guitar, the whine of the fiddle, the exquisite, elegant harmony of my background singers. Can do this . . . By pure grit and grind. Come on, Aubrey.

  Tonight’s performance also ends my eleventh tour—sponsored by a hip new bottled-water company, FRESH!. A brilliant partnership orchestrated by my business manager. Music, I’ve had to learn, is as much about business as it is art.

  Rolling Stone magazine put me and the band on the cover of their January edition
with the headline “Aubrey James Gets FRESH!”

  The swirl of activity around me increases. Roadies and techs finalizing the stage before we go on. CMA Fest cameras moving in. The show is being taped for television.

  Are there half as many people in the coliseum as there are back here?

  My drummer hurries past with her cymbals and snare. “I’m late.”

  “You have time,” I say, watching her step up to the drum stage. From the corner of my eyes, I spot my manager, Zach Roberts, observing me with an inquisitive expression, his arms crossed over his lean chest. “What?”

  “You’re sweating, and don’t tell me it’s the Nashville heat. You have dark, puffy eyes, a frog voice, and you’re pale.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You’re sick.”

  “I’m going on, Zach.” Six months on tour, a hundred cities, can’t end with a sore throat, fever, and puffy eyes. Besides, the fans deserve their final CMA Fest performance.

  Zach rubs his forehead, doubt shadowing his brown eyes. “You look like a bag of bones, Aubrey. Did you lose weight on the tour?”

  “Haven’t you heard? It’s all the rage. The Tour Diet. I’m writing a book about it this summer.” I pat his cheek. “I’m fine. Trust me.”

  The stage manager passes by, flashing his palm. “Five minutes, Miss James.”

  Five minutes. Where’s the familiar rush of preshow adrenaline? Without it, I’m not sure I can manufacture enough energy to carry me through the set.

  Zach curves his arm around me. “This is your last performance. Then you’re free as a bird for the summer.”

  “Free. Right. Besides this little gig here and that little gig there. A new photo shoot for the FRESH! campaign . . .” I lower my chin and gaze at him from under my brow. “Not to mention concluding the renegotiation with SongTunes and finishing my next album, and wanting to sleep until fall.”

  He smiles. “We’re working with SongTunes, and if you have to cancel a few appearances to get rested, then do it. Besides, if you’re sleeping, I can work with some of my other clients for a change.”

  “Oh, please. I’m your favorite and you know it.”

  “Some things go without saying.” He winks, but his merriment fades. “Hard tour, wasn’t it?”

  “Incredibly.”

  “At least the tabloids have backed off.”

  “For now.”

  How could one tour have so much controversy? Stolen equipment and personal items like jewelry. Missing money. A bus fire. The fired bus driver, who is now threatening to sue.

  Worst of all, I parted ways with my musical director, Melanie Daniels. Midtour she announced she wanted more control, more money, and a solo spotlight. We argued. She left.

  Angry.

  A few days later, the tour arrived in Dallas amid the swarming media. Frustrated, tired, and hurt, I just had to make a pithy remark about Mel to a nosey journalist, didn’t I? The B-word slipped out. Along with a few other choice phrases. Once the tongue gets loose . . . This is why I never do interviews. Never. Words get said, ideas twisted.

  My comment about Melanie leaving the band made celeb magazines and tabloid headlines around the world.

  Remembering causes my pulse to pound and my middle to constrict. I fall against Zach.

  “Aubrey, you can’t go on,” he says, pressing a fatherly hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  “I’m going on.” The rest of my band emerges from a dark corner of the stage, and I move away from Zach, forcing my lips to smile. “All set?” Vickie Campbell, my bass player, puts her hand on my shoulder. “Let’s do it.”

  “One minute.” The stage manager passes again, flashing a finger in our faces. “One minute.” Rascal Flatts is performing on stage two and coming to the end of “What Hurts the Most.”

  I breathe deep, shaking out my hands, stretching my neck, wiggling my legs. Tom Petty sang it right—the waiting is the hardest part. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, and . . .

  A firm hand slips over my shoulder, and soft lips nuzzle my neck. My heart races as I whirl around.

  “Car, what are you doing here?” Nervous energy fires through me. “I’m about to go on.”

  His smile fades as his expression darkens. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.” He pulls me to him. “Surprise.” Then, Brown “Car” Carmichael the Third kisses away my lipstick.

  Gently, I struggle free. “Car, honey, I thought we were meeting at the house later.”

  “This isn’t the welcome I expected, Aubrey.” His tone is clipped.

  The stage lights go up and the crowd’s rumble deepens.

  “Car, what did you expect? I’m thirty seconds from a performance.” Stepping backward toward the stage, I hold my expression, pressing the corners of my lips upward. “Can we talk about this later? I’ll be all yours then.”

  He props his hands on his belt, the sharp edges of his handsome face softening. “Sure. Knock ’em dead, Brie.”

  The announcer is on the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the queen of country soul, Aubrey James!”

  2

  “Once she realized she could capture and hold a crowd, Aubrey became consumed about delivering the perfect, standout performance. She demanded it of herself, her band, and her crew. She drives herself hard and expects no less from everyone working with her.”

  —Greg Leininger, CEO of SongTunes Records

  “Hello, NashVegas!” Dashing out, I find enough of a spark to brighten my weariness. With an album-cover expression, I wave to the crowd. The coliseum is a sea of glow sticks, but the exertion cost me my last ounce of energy.

  Come on, Aubrey, buck up.

  Digging deep, I try to find my diva-self, quite sure she’s hiding under a mountain of blankets, sipping a cup of homemade chicken noodle soup. So very tired.

  The cheering mounts. Poster boards declare, We love you, Aubrey.

  “Are you having a good time tonight?”

  The crowd’s response is enthusiastic, but instead of spurring me on, it exhausts me more. Two sentences into the performance and my throat burns and aches. No way will I hit the big notes of the “Borrowed Time” chorus.

  Wondering why the band is not counting down the intro, I turn around to see Reba McEntire walking out from backstage.

  My smile drops. Reba? What’s she doing here? While it’s an honor to see her, I’m not sure why she’s strolling my way, grinning. Did I forget something? Please don’t tell me I’m supposed to sing with Reba. How could I forget?

  “Look who’s here.” I motion to the country legend. “Give it up for the first lady of country music, y’all.”

  In contrast to Car’s unexpected appearance, seeing Reba is the kind of surprise I like. While the fans give Reba her due, I slip my arm around her, hoping to tap into the country legend’s incredible strength. “I know a secret about you, Aubrey,” she says in her famous twang while flashing her famous smile.

  “Me? Y’all know I don’t have any secrets. Just read the National Inquirer.”

  Laughter balloons among the fans, accompanied by a barrage of hoots.

  I try to focus on the crowds, but the stage is bright, and my eyes start to water. Faces are melding with the light.

  Reba gives me a squeeze. “This is the last night of Aubrey’s hundred-city FRESH! tour”—more cheering— “and her thirtieth birthday.”

  Well, there’s that secret. “Shhh, Reba, no one is supposed to know.” Dozens of Happy Birthday signs pop up. Camera flashes explode around the coliseum like tiny white bombs. When a couple of stuffed bears and wrapped boxes fly at the stage, the coliseum’s security team move into action.

  Reba sweeps her arm wide and, looking over her shoulder at the band, begins a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

  The fans sway and join the song, their voices chasing around the coliseum.

  “Happy Birthday, dear Aubrey . . .”

  Cheers and whistles rise as the song ends. The ba
nd holds out the last note, crashing the cymbals and whining the electric. Laughing, I face them, cutting the air with my hand. The music stops. But now Car appears from the shadows, walking toward me with a lopsided smile that makes my heart skip a beat. For the first time tonight, I notice how amazing he looks. Clean-cut and all-American.

  But what is he doing out here?

  “This is Aubrey’s sweetie, Car Carmichael,” Reba announces. “Vice president of Carmichael Financial right here in downtown Nashville. He has a special surprise for our birthday girl.”

  This news jump-starts my adrenaline. Car, what are you doing?

  Reba hands him her microphone and disappears into the shadows. Car bends slowly to one knee.

  The fans go bonkers.

  “C-car? Get up.” My legs and arms tremble.

  He pulls a small blue box from his pocket and holds the mike to his lips. “Aubrey Jo James . . .” His voice thunders around the coliseum.

  Tugging on his hands, I will him to stand up. Please, Car, not here, not now.

  “. . . will you marry me?”

  He opens the Tiffany box to reveal a dazzling, brilliant diamond. A cameraman butts in between us, zeroing in on the prize. Over my shoulder, the ring is splashed up on the Jumbotron. The crowd hoots and whistles.

  This is ridiculous. How can a man ask a girl to marry him—at least ask me to marry him—in a fan-filled coliseum? I’m working.

  Car slides the ring onto my finger.

  Words escape from my heart. “Oh my gosh.”

  The ring is like a fireband, hot and suffocating. A chant rolls forward from the fans: “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  My arms feel weak, my feet numb. The roar of the crowd swirls around me as if I’m trapped in the belly of a dark cave. A drop of sweat runs into my eyes and burns.

  “Car, I—”

  Before I can finish, he swoops me backward for a long, crowd-pleasing kiss. When he sets me upright, all I can utter is, “Wow.”

  Cradling me like a pet puppy, Car raises the mike again. “Y’all want to come to the wedding?”

  The fans roar back a “Yeah!” making my blood run cold.

  “Stop! You’re giving ideas to the wackos,” I hiss in his ear.

  Car frowns, leaning down to my ear. “Brie, have fun with this. They’ll forget by the time we get married next spring.”