Lost in Tennessee Read Free Page B

together.”
    Butch walked into the farmhouse and fell into the old couch his parents brought from the big house. “Evening, Finch.”
    “Everything is set for the tour, Butch.” There was no preamble with Finch. The man got straight to it, no hellos and no good-byes. “I’ll see about adding a few smaller venues to fill in the gaps, but all the major venues are set. I have your road crew set and I have a surprise for you.” In classic Finch style, everything was done big. He had hired the top concert designer to work with Butch on the lighting. A hard-drinking, hard-playing band the audience would eat up would open the gigs. Then it would be Butch and the band he toured with. People would come and come big. Coliseums, ball parks.
    “Nice, Finch. You are the master.” Butch took a breath and broke the news. “I filed the papers yesterday.”
    Something heavy came down on something solid. Glass on wood? “It’s about time you cut off that ball and chain. I’ll handle the press statement. How has the soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. McCormick taken the news?”
    “I don’t expect she knows yet.” Butch ran his fingers through his hair. He stayed away from social media, not wanting to see himself depicted as a villain, a jealous man, a cheat, or whatever else the person posting thought others would “like.”
    Finch gave a rare, real belly laugh. “Just keep your legs crossed, and protect your balls.”
    Butch snorted with amusement but crossed his legs. “I thought that was your job.”
    “Damn straight. Now I got something to look forward to this week. Fawn Jordan may play the lamb on that sex-opera of hers, but she’s going to go out like a lion.”
    Butch cringed. “Yep, I know.”
    Finch snorted, the audio equivalent of an eye roll. “Don’t sound so worried. Just remember, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
    Butch didn’t believe it but had no interest in debating the point. He didn’t do this for the publicity. He wanted his life back. He wanted to feel like him again. “Finch, I need a piano.”
    A moment of silence preceded a question that was more an accusation. “What happened to yours?”
    Butch draped his arm over his eyes. “I left it in California. I couldn’t pack it in the truck like my guitars.” He had moved the necessities of his life to his cabin in the hills, but his piano had stayed in the house he and Fawn shared. He could buy his own piano. Maybe he should, but he wasn’t in the mood to shop. He wanted to play. That little realization made Butch sit up tall. He wanted to play. Hot. Damn.
    Ice clinked against glass, then Finch spoke using the badass voice that showed his New York roots. “Fine, I’ll get one ASAP but don’t you let that unsophisticated wench keep that piano.” Finch walked in detail through his plans for promoting the tour, including appearances on Saturday Night Live, a fleet of morning shows, and a spread in Rolling Stone .
    A dull roar rolled into the living room, sounding like a brawl breaking out outside his back door. Butch leapt to his feet. “Finch, I’ve gotta run. I’ve got trouble.”
    Finch dropped the business tone for concern. “Trouble? Do you need cops?”
    A sharp metallic ping had Butch breaking into a sprint. “I’ve got to go. Call you later.”
    Butch ran into the barn and stopped short when he saw the guts of the big, green tractor spewed across the dusty floor. A computer sat on his Granddad’s workbench, a disembodied voice cheered on the ruckus. Tractor parts were spread out in parallel lines against the wall. In the middle of the floor, Kate wailed on the tractor with an old sledge hammer.
    “What are you doing?” Butch had to scream to get above the noise. “Kate. Kate! What the hell are you doing?”
    “Yes! Who’s your mama?” Kate held a mangled piece of metal triumphantly over her head.
    “You got it?” an amplified voice asked. “What is it?”
    “A wrench. A big-ass wrench.” She reached out, handing Butch