Girl on Tour (Kylie Ryans) by Caisey Quinn Read Free Book Online Page A

like you’re about to sink the orange ball.”
    “Yeah, I would. But I’d look like a jackass aiming my stick at the nine ball when there’s no cue ball on the table. Isn’t the idea for it to look like Gretchen and I are out on the town actually playing pool? You can’t play pool without a cue ball.”
    The photographer lowered his camera and rubbed his temples.
    Trace huffed out a breath. “Dude, I’m not trying to be a dick here. I can stand with the stick and look like I’m planning my next shot or whatever, but I’m not going to pose like I’m a fucking moron who doesn’t realize he needs a cue ball to play pool.” Trace lifted the stick behind his head and rested his arms on it while he waited for someone to use their brain and realize how asinine the whole thing was.
    “Can somebody please get Mr. Corbin a cue ball? Now!” an assistant called out and a few people scrambled to do as they were told. The photographer glared at him. Trace glanced at Pauly and shrugged. His manager just shook his head.
    This was the part he hated. He didn’t want to “pretend” to shoot pool. He really didn’t want to be in a bar period. And he sure as hell didn’t want to be arguing with some tight-ass photographer about the importance of a cue ball. He wanted to be at home, snuggled up on the couch with his gorgeous girlfriend. Writing music, watching a movie, making love. Any and all of those options would be better than this.
    “We have a cue ball,” someone called out. The cue ball in question was passed to several people before it made its way to the table. Once it was in place, Trace leaned down and pretended to shoot. He held that pose until his back ached. He’d unloaded several hundred bales of straw at the farm last week. When he couldn’t take any more, he stood. He met the photographer’s gaze and the expression he found there said he was still supposed to be bent over the table like his bitch. Oh well.
    “Now what?” He turned and cracked his back.
    Before the photographer could answer him, there was a commotion up near the bar. “Actually, Ms. Gibson, those are just for looks,” an assistant told Gretchen as she waltzed in and snatched a shot off the bar. Her sunglasses were still on and Trace had a feeling he knew why.
    “Where the hell is the fun in that?” she asked as she downed the shot and set the empty glass back down on the bar. The assistant grabbed it and refilled it.
    “Nice of you to show,” Trace called out to her.
    “You’re welcome.” She finally took off her glasses as Rose converged on her with a handful of brushes. The woman wore a tool belt full of makeup for God’s sakes. The world was a weird place.
    But one look at Gretchen and he was grateful for the woman’s emergency makeup skills. Gretchen was hungover as hell. Normally she was kind of pretty, but today her face looked like road kill. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, the skin beneath managing to be swollen and saggy at the same time. He knew she was a few years older than him but that was still too young to have deep-set lines around her mouth. Without makeup she looked like she was pushing fifty. She made Rose look like Miss America.
    “Rough night, Gretch?” he asked quietly as he approached.
    “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She sneered at him from under Rose’s meticulous hands.
    Okay then. Operation Make Peace with Gretchen was a no-go. Abort. “Well, is it okay with you if we go ahead and get this shit over with then?”
    “Yep, I’m ready.” She hopped down off the stool even though Rose was still attempting to swipe brushes all over her face. “Cut it out. That’s what Photoshop is for, dammit,” Gretchen snapped, leaning away from the makeup woman’s efforts.
    “Easy, cowgirl. Don’t be a bitch to Rose. She’s trying to help you. God love her, I’m not even sure that’s possible.”
    “Fuck off, Corbin. Really not in the mood for your shit today.”
    He laughed harshly. “My shit?