I check my trucker hat to make certain it’s secure before crossing the small lot and turning the corner to the side of the building where the garage bays are. This place used to provide full-service fill-ups, but they discontinued those about the time I was learning to drive-not that I would have paid the extra two cents a gallon for the luxury. I gather myself, haul my purse over my shoulder, and push the car door open again. As much as I want to indulge in a pity party, now isn’t really the time. This is what happens to women who leave their husbands-not once, but twice-without an actual explanation.Ĭrap. I sigh, releasing a huge breath, and drop my forehead against the steering wheel. I tear the receipt off and tuck it into my coat pocket before slipping back into my car. No one has to tell me that because I’ve already called myself every name in the book. if I didn’t get out of that penthouse at that very moment, I felt like something inside me was going to break. Thoughts of my husband spiral through me, followed by equal jabs of guilt and regret. Not much has changed about that since I married billionaire Creighton Karas. But as my share of the ticket sales goes up and I build my fan base, that will eventually change.īut for now, I’m saving every penny I can and getting by on the bare minimum because I don’t know when the bottom will fall out. And as far as the pay I get per show when I’m on tour, after all the expenses are covered? It’s also nothing to write home about. Albums? They’re expensive as hell to produce. I rarely splurge on anything.Įven though I won a “million-dollar recording contract” on Country Dreams, the amount I saw was laughable. When I get back to Nashville, I’m finally going to look into replacing this car. I swipe my card, get my gas, and twist the gas cap back on. It lowers the chance that someone will recognize me if I can avoid all human interaction. The old pumps I expected, the ones where the numbers click over as you fill up, have been replaced with newer models.Įven better. I tug on a trucker hat and slip on sunglasses before opening the door and climbing out. My Pontiac isn’t a whole lot nicer than the 1988 Fiero I drove back then, but in this town, it doesn’t stand out, and that’s exactly what I need. This is the first place I ever pumped gas in my life. I wait my turn at the single blinking red light in Gold Haven, Kentucky, and turn left before pulling into the gas station.
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