Puck Love - Carmen Jenner

Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
About the Author
PUCK LOVE
CARMEN JENNER
PUCK LOVE
Copyright © 2017 Carmen Jenner
Published by Carmen Jenner
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic
or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of
the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied
in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events,
and incidents are either of the author’s imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This
book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you
would like to share this book with another person, please
purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.
If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was
not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the
seller and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the author’s work and not pirating
this book. Pirates suck!
PUCK LOVE: Carmen Jenner September 21st, 2017
[email protected]
Editing: Lauren Clarke Editing
https://www.laurenclarkeediting.com/
Cover Design: © Be Designs
http://www.be-designs.com.au/
http://www.ericbattershellphotography.com/
Model: Kaz Vanderwaard
Formatting: T.E. Black
http://www.teblackdesigns.com
To my mum,
For instilling a love of all things country in me.
For the Readers,
It’s about time we had a happy one.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Carmen Jenner
Acknowledgments
“CAN WE JUST … CAN WE turn the
camera off?”
The cameraman, Grant Schafer,
glares over the lens as if to say, “Bitch, are you
crazy?” and he keeps the damn thing trained on my
face. The red light continues to flash, taunting me.
It’s happening again. The tightness of my skin,
the inability to breathe. My heart stutters, beating
out a broken rhythm as if it were a butterfly inside
my chest, captured, caged, and desperate to get out.
“Please?” I beg, sucking in air that never seems
to reach my lungs. Grant looks to the woman beside
him for clarification.
“Why don’t you take a break and we’ll pick
this up in ten,” Lana Lambert, my manager of five
years, says, and it really isn’t a question. She has
this way about her that forces people to shut up and
take notice. Me? I need a face full of makeup, a
short skirt, and a pair of six-inch stilettos to achieve
what she can with a single look.
Grant mutters, but it sounds like an inaudible
grunt. God, why in the hell did I agree to this? Oh,
right, I didn’t. Lana did it for me. If I didn’t think
I’d lose my shit completely without her, I’d fire her
ass.
“I need air . . .” I take a deep breath and unclip
my mic from my gold sequin mini dress. Of course,
the tape prevents it from being removed completely
because the battery pack is strapped to my back.
Feedback bounces all around the room. I wince at
the noise, and reach for the battery, but I’m unable
to remove it by myself. My hands tremble. I need
to get it off me. I need the quiet of my tour bus as
the noise of the stadium falls away. I need to get
out of this ridiculous dress.
“Get it off. Get it off!” I scratch and claw at my
back, desperate to remove it, to shut out the noise.
Our boom operator sets his pole down, and the
woman who wired me up rushes in so I don’t ruin
their precious microphone.
Grant switches off the camera and sets it in his
lap. “This is gold, Stella. Your fans want to know
what you do before coming out to perform. They
want the behind-the-scenes Stella Hart. Uncut,
unedited . . . not the perfect package you and your
label have presented for years.”
“They’ll have to search pretty far for her,” I
whisper. Considering I have no idea who she is. “I
. . . I need everybody out.”
I can’t breathe, all the noise, the cameraman in
my face. I feel as if I’m sinking, and the whole
world is watching. Despite being loved by millions,
not a damn one of them is throwing me a lifeline. I
pant, double over and rest my head between my
knees.
“Stella, you’re alright.” Lana moves closer. I
flinch, and rake one hand through my hair. Makeup
is gonna be pissed that they’ll have to fix my face,
but tears slide down my cheeks anyway.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Okay, honey. No one’s going to touch you.”
Lana is no stranger to my panic attacks. I’ve been
having them for as long as I’ve been performing,
but they’re getting worse. They’re getting harder to
control, with each one more emotionally draining
than the last. I want to claw my way out. I want to
shuck off my skin and slither free like a snake,
along with all my regrets and mistakes.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
I have to get out. I stagger toward the door. I’m
drunk on despair and emptiness. My heart is
beating so fast I feel like it might escape, just bust
free of my chest and fly away. I wish it could. I
wish I could follow it.
“I need air.”
Lana knows, she knows, but she still warns me.
“Stella, you’re due to go on in ten minutes.”
“So, stall them,” I whisper. “Tell Thomas it’s his
lucky night. He gets to do another few songs.”
“That’s not on the set list.”
“Then tell him to improvise. I hear he’s good at
that,” I snap. Grant stands as if he’s about to follow
me. “No!”
“But . . .”
“Turn the camera off,” Lana says coolly.
Grant continues filming, but he stares at her
over the lens as if she’s now the crazy one.
I push past them both. Out in the corridor, I
ignore the women waiting backstage to meet my
support act, Thomas Bentley. They scream when
they see me, and plead with me to sign autographs,
but I keep my head down. I’m focused solely on
getting outside, feeling the crisp October Calgary
air on my face. When I reach the exit, Rich opens
the door automatically. This man has worked for
me on every tour since I was seventeen years old.
He, too, knows the routine. Though I usually never
cut it this close.
“You’re late, Miss Stella.” He steps aside,
allowing me room to exit through the tiny door.
“I know.” I launch myself outside. Gulp down
air the way a fish does when it’s pulled from the
water. I close my eyes and let the cool breeze wash
over me, and for a minute I can breathe again, but
the clamor of twenty thousand voices chanting my
name from the arena presses down on me like a
lead weight. It’s suffocating. I need a distraction.
“How’s Clara doing?”
Rich’s eight-year-old granddaughter has come
to every concert since she was three that we do in
our home state of Tennessee. When you’re on the
road, your staff becomes family. A huge,
dysfunctional family. Of course, there are some
members of my road crew that I know better than
others, but at the very least, I remember the names
of all one hundred and fifty people who work for
me.
“She’s good. Aced her spelling bee,”
“Good for her.”
“She’s looking mighty forward to your
Nashville concert.”
I smile, but it’s tight. I can’t focus on anything
but my feet that are standing still when they should
be running. I take another step, another deep
breath.
“Miss Stella, they’re asking for you.” Rich says,
tapping his earpiece. “Lana’s on her way.”
I close my eyes. The breath leaves my lungs in
a rush, and I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“You can’t what, Miss Stella?” he asks. I start
walking away at a clipped pace. “Ma’am?”
I ignore him. A second later the door slams and
he says into the earpiece, “Shit, Miss Lambert, we
got ourselves a runner.”
Rich is not a young man. He’s nearing seventy,
with bad knees from an old football injury. For a
split second, I feel bad for making him come after
me, but I can’t do this. I can’t go back in there. I
can’t stand on that stage a second longer with this
emptiness inside, this desperate need to get out, to
run and leave everything behind. So, I sprint across
the asphalt as if I’m running for my life.
Heavy footsteps pound the pavement behind
me. I hear the door open, and Lana’s shrill voice
yells for him to grab me. If I wasn’t so desperate to
get away, I’d probably be in stitches laughing at her
trying to run in heels. Me? I’m used to it. I’ve spent
my whole life dashing from one end of the stage to
another in eight-inch heels for costume changes. I
could run a marathon in these puppies.
Before I know it, I’m passing the fleet of trucks
and busses parked behind the venue. A few roadies
stop and stare as I fly past. There’s a driver in his
SUV parked near our convoy, already waiting to
take me to my hotel after the show. I put on a burst
of speed, desperate to reach him before Lana can
get to me, and since I have nothing to slow my
trajectory but the side of the vehicle, it hurts like
hell. I grab onto the side mirror with one hand to
keep from falling. I slam the other against the
window and the man inside stares at me with a
wide-eyed gaze, his mouth slackened in shock and
one hand pressed to his chest.
“Open up,” I shout, as I thump on the glass. I
glance back at Rich and Lana. They’re gaining on
me. I’m not sure what happens when they catch up,
but behind them is the camera crew, recording all of
this. Of course. The driver lowers the window. He
has a round face, and he seems real sweet. That’s
why I feel a pang of guilt over what I’m about to do
to the poor man.
“Help me, please. You need to get out of the
car.” He reaches for the handle and I move back,
almost slipping on the ground as he opens the door
and scrambles out. “Thank you, thank you.”
“You okay, Miss Hart?”
I don’t waste time answering. Instead, I dart
behind, shoving him out of the way as I clamber
into the driver’s seat. I start the engine. It’s been a
long time since I drove myself anywhere. I’ve
always had people to do it for me. I got my permit,
of course, but in the ten years since my career took
off, I’ve never gone anywhere alone. Even trips to
the bathroom are usually accompanied by Lana
standing on the other side of the door, telling me I
have to attend this function, be at the studio by a
certain time, or the airport for yet another flight.
I hit the gas. The tires screech. I bunny-hop
forward and almost slam into a parked car in front.
I back it up and clip one of our tour busses. Why
the hell was this guy parked so damn close to
everything? I finally shove the stick in gear and
take off for the gates, in the right direction this
time. They’re manned, of course, and the guy in the
booth knows my face. He glances at the group of
people behind my car, no doubt all clamoring to get
to me, he shakes his head with a wide-eyed
expression, but I slam my foot on the accelerator
and drive right through the boom, leaving him and
everyone else in a cloud of exhaust. As I pass the
front of the arena, several fans that were unable to
get tickets swivel their heads toward my screeching
tires. I hit the switch and the window glides closed.
I know there’ll be hell to pay for this. But I just
can’t do it. I can’t stand on that stage for another
night and pretend like I’m okay. I’m not okay.
I drive through traffic, and on the way out of
town I pull into a liquor store and slide the keys
from the ignition. For a beat, I just stare at my face
in the rear-view, not knowing the woman I see
glaring back at me. The fake lashes, the lip filler,
the Botox I was forced to have to retain my youth
at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. My face is as
emotionless, as dead inside as I am. Though maybe
I’m not as dead as I thought. I did run away from
an arena filled with thousands of fans.
Oh my god. What am I doing? If I turn this car
around, I can still go out on stage. I’ll be thirty
minutes late, or more by the time they touch up my
makeup, but I can fix this. I just need . . .
I stare at the flashing liquor sign above the
store. A drink. That’s what I need.
I can’t remember the last time a drop of hard
liquor passed my lips. With the exception of a glass
of wine every other month, I don’t drink. I’ve
never liked the thought of being out of control, and
it’s not worth the hangover when you spend the
next eighteen hours rocking back and forth with the
motion of the tour bus as you puke up your guts.
Still, I think tonight calls for a strong, dark
something-with-the-ability-to-screw-me-every-
which-way-from-here-to-Sunrise.
I climb out of the vehicle and walk into the
store. It’s a quick stop with liquor attached, and the
lights are so bright they hurt my eyes. I grab the
biggest bottle of whiskey I can find. The clerk
stares at me a beat too long. I turn my gaze
downward, past the gleaming gold sequins of my
dress, and I inspect the label on the bottle so he
can’t make a positive ID, but I still feel his eyes on
me.
“You’re that singer, aren’t you?”
“No,” I say impatiently. That’s when I realize I
don’t have any money. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Yes, you are. I remember seeing your picture
all over town. Aren’t you supposed to be playing
tonight?”
“Um, I just remembered I don’t have any
money.”
“Well hell, baby. I can’t give it to you for free,
but maybe we can work something out, eh?”
I glare at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
He shrugs. “You want the drink or not?”
Goddamn it. I do. I really, really want that
drink. I know if I return to the stadium I won’t find
one anywhere backstage—it doesn’t mesh well
with the squeaky-clean image that my label likes to
brandish around town as if it’s a badge of honor.
Especially when the Maren Morris’s of the world
pop up with their devil-may-care attitude and upset
country’s sometimes delicate sensibilities. Not that
I’m bitter or anything. The only way I’d get a drink
in that stadium is if I raided Thomas Bentley’s tour
bus for it, and that’s so not happening. The man has
already expressed plenty of interest in the two of us
bunking together, on my bus, on his, in my dressing
room . . . He even told CMT he was planning on
being my date for the CMA Awards. No thank you.
I stare longingly at the bottle. I need this drink.
Finally, I glance up at the cashier and swallow hard.
“What kind of deal, exactly?” He leers. I
grimace. “Oh my god, forget it.”
“I gotta get somethin’. That’s a fifty-dollar
bottle of whiskey. Besides, it’s not every day you
meet a country star.”
“You know what?” I step closer, putting a little
more sway in my hips as I walk toward him. “Why
don’t you shove your deal fair up your ass.” I
clutch the bottle tightly. While I’m staring him
down, I grab a couple of candy bars—I can’t
remember the last time I ate one of those, either—
and with a final look, I turn and run. Apparently,
that’s what I’m good at.
I climb into the SUV and throw the car in
reverse. He comes thundering out after me, but I
take off out of the lot, hooting like a woman who’s
lost her damn mind. Once I’m back on the highway,
I unscrew the cap with one hand and take a long,
hearty swig. It burns like the dickens going down,
and I nearly run right off the road. Bracing the
wheel with one hand and using my teeth to rip into
the candy bar wrapper, I take a bite and moan as I
chew the chocolatey goodness. Why does
everything so bad for us taste so damn good? I’m
sure there’s a country song in there somewhere.
Another sip of whiskey and two candy bars
later, I begin to feel sick. The sugar, liquor and guilt
swirl around my belly, and for a beat I think I’m
going to puke, but I shove down that feeling and
just drive. I follow that white line until it runs right
out. I don’t care where I’m going. All I want is to
be away from the city, from people who know my
face and those who want to control every aspect of
my life. I want to be anywhere but here. But no
matter where I end up, it still won’t be far enough.
IPULL MY BALL CAP down on my head and sink
farther into my seat. It’s a half hour past when
this show was supposed to start, and after
sitting through the torture that was Thomas Bentley
wailing away in pants so tight I could see his nut
sack, Emmett and I are still staring at the fifty-foot
woman on the screen. She’s blonde, cute as a
button, and fucking hot—in a virginal, squeaky-
clean rep kind of way. I’d so tap that. I would
ravage her tight body, and dirty up her sweet little
mind so fast she’d be taking her clothes off at the
very mention of my name.
Emmett lets out an impatient sigh as he drums
his fingers on the armrest. I shift uncomfortably in
my seat. Jesus. Staring at the fifty-foot image of a
country music star and attempting to cover my
boner while my baby brother gets angstier every
second she’s not gracing the stage is not how I
wanted to spend my one night off.
I shift my shoulder, pain shooting through me. I
thought I had a handle on my injury from
Wednesday’s game against Washington, but this
shit could see me recovering for weeks. I badly
want more meds, but I should slow my roll. I can’t
be getting high on Oxycodone. I need to look after
Emmett, and when your little bro has Down
syndrome, it’s important to keep in touch with
reality. Besides, overdosing on prescription meds is
kind of a dick thing to do.
“Come on, come on,” Emmett says with an
edge to his usual impediment. “What’s taking so
long?”
He rocks back and forth in his seat, a good sign
he’s agitated. He likes things to be punctual. I do,
too. We both like routine—that’s why we work so
well living together. Of course, he goes back to our
mom’s house when I play away games. He hates it.
She adores him, but it’s hard for her not to baby
him. She’s always on him about his Flamin’ Hot
Cheetos obsession, and won’t let him drink. A
grown man should be able to have a beer whenever
the hell he wants to. Emmett’s pretty good about
handling his limit, and when we do have a drink on
the deck at the end of a long week, it’s rarely more
than two. Besides, coach would bust my ass if I
showed up hungover and didn’t bring my A game,
and I have no desire to get drafted to another team.
The MC’s disembodied voice comes through
the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re very
sorry to tell you that Stella Hart is too sick to
perform. Tonight's show has been canceled. Please
see your ticket provider for details on how to obtain
a refund. Stella and her team wish to extend their
sincerest apologies.”
The crowd boo and hiss. They stand up and
cram towards the exits in an attempt to vacate the
venue, and a man nearby throws an empty water
bottle that bounces off the stage and lands a few
feet from us. I turn my focus to my bro beside me.
He ducks his head, covers his ears and rocks back
and forth, being jostled by the angry mob. I grab his
hand, but he shrugs me off. The little bastard is
strong. “Come on, Emmett. Let’s get outta here.”
“No,” he shouts to be heard above the noise.
“She’s supposed to be here. She’ll be here.”
“I know, buddy. But she’s not coming.”
“She is. These are the only tickets we could get.
She’s in Vancouver next week.”
“I’ll get you tickets to that show. I promise.”
“No. I wanna see her now.” His voice reaches
fever pitch, and severa...