Sins of the Cowboy Billionaire

Mollie

The lights dimmed, and the room exploded with applause—mixed with laughter, screaming, moaning. I gave them exactly what they wanted for the first half of my act. I rolled my eyes at the drunk idiots throwing crumpled paper balls at me, phone numbers scribbled inside.

“Assholes,” I muttered, turning my back and heading backstage.

“HEY BABY!” men yelled. “HEY, GET BACK OUT HERE!”

I ignored them, collapsing into my makeup chair and kicking off my heels. My feet throbbed, my calves burned, my lower back felt like it might snap in two, and my head was splitting from the lights. I was miserable. I wouldn’t object if someone dragged me out back and shot me like a sick dog.

I hated it here—more than anyone could hate anything.

Some people would love coming to work like this: getting dolled up, having an amazing singing voice, a killer body. But not me. I hated it.

I wore a dreadful amount of makeup—so much that I felt like I was dipped in latex. My face looked unnaturally smooth, plastic, with bright red blush high on my cheekbones and hot-pink lipstick like some cheap doll. The worst part was my eyes. I was afraid to blink, terrified they’d glue shut from all the glitter and adhesive caked onto my lids. That stuff never came off. I swore my eyes had been this color since I walked into this place four years ago.

If it didn’t wash off in the shower, it didn’t come off at all.

I carefully removed my green contacts, revealing my naturally black eyes—pitch black, except for the faintest dark sapphire strands that radiated toward my pupils. The blue was so dark no one ever noticed. No one except my mother. Ronnie didn’t see it either—only the black. That freaked her out, so I wore contacts.

I flipped my head upside down and drowned my hair in hairspray for volume, curls, bounce. I hated my hair more than my makeup. At least makeup could be scrubbed off. My hair was nothing but a tangled storm of extensions and curls. None of it was real. My natural hair was bone-straight—or at least, that’s what I remembered. I hadn’t seen a real strand in four years.

I stood and changed into my next skimpy outfit, glancing at myself in the mirror. I had a decent body—curves where they belonged, muscle where it looked good. A small bubble butt, a decent rack, as Paisley liked to say. But none of it was what got me the job. My voice did.

My stomach and legs were tight and toned, and it pissed me off that I had to parade them around like this. Why couldn’t I just wear shorts like a normal girl?

Sometimes I wondered why I didn’t leave and get a regular job. Then I remembered I dropped out of high school in tenth grade after my mom died of cervical cancer. I ended up here not long after, and Ronnie fell in love with my voice. The pay—especially the tips—kept me stuck. McDonald’s couldn’t compete.

“MOLLIE!” the stage guy shouted. “YOU’RE ON AGAIN!”

I sighed, dragging myself out of my makeup area, probably flashing the world while I did. Tonight I was a “sexy pirate,” which meant your standard slut costume. I hated the word stripper, but fine—blunt honesty won. I preferred entertainer. A showgirl with sex appeal.

The curtains rose. I inhaled and scanned the audience. Ninety percent were piss drunk. The rest looked lost, hunting for anyone desperate enough to go home with.

What the hell was I doing with my life?

The music swelled. On cue, I opened my mouth and let the first note rip free, muscle memory and reflex taking over.

Fourth time this week.

Please God—just shoot me.

xxXxx

The parking lot behind the club was empty and damp as I dug through my purse for my keys.

“Hey, baby,” an attractive voice whispered near my shoulder.

“Paisley!” I spun around. “Are you stupid? Sneaking up on girls at two in the morning is how you lose a testicle.”

He chuckled. I smirked.

“You were great tonight.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Like usual.”

He grew serious. “Mollie. Come with me. We need to go somewhere important.”

That caught my attention. Paisley never got serious.

I followed him to his car. His tattoo peeked from beneath his tank top—the same one stamped on my tailbone. Worst drunk decision of my life. We’d been wasted, bored, sick of sleeping together, and decided tattoos were a great idea.

They weren’t.

Paisley and I went way back. Fourteen years old. Best friends. Still best friends—just with benefits. He bartended at the club; I was the star. We dropped out around the same time after my mom died.

People called me a whore for sleeping with him. They didn’t understand. There were no feelings, no future. Just comfort and familiarity.

Rain streaked down the windows. The craving hit.

“You got anything?” I asked.

He nodded toward the glove compartment.

I didn’t feel ashamed anymore. That scared me.

The needle slid in. Warmth followed. Everything softened.

I could quit tomorrow.

Just not tonight.

We drove a long time.

“Paisley?” I murmured. “Where are we going?”

He grinned. “I’m about to change your life forever.”

Life-changing sounded nice. I imagined mountains, quiet, trees—anything but neon and noise.

We pulled up to a modern glass building tucked against the Smoky Mountains, completely out of place in Wears Valley, Tennessee.

This wasn’t a dealer.

Inside, everything gleamed—black floors, mirrored walls. I saw my reflection everywhere and wanted to disappear into it.

An older flamboyant man rushed over. “Mollie Davis! Darling!”

“Personal space,” I muttered.

He launched into a speech about my voice, my look, my future. A record deal. Fame. Money.

He talked about my green eyes. My curly hair.

None of it was me.

If I accepted this, I’d be fake forever.

I hated the makeup. The contacts. The costumes. The drugs. The noise. The city life—even here, bleeding into the mountains.

“I don’t want your record deal,” I snapped.

Paisley dragged me outside.

“What are you doing?” he demanded. “This is our way out.”

“No,” I said. “This isn’t my dream.”

I wanted quiet. Love. A real life. Something honest.

“I’m leaving tonight,” I said.

He hugged me. “I know.”

“I don’t know where I’m going,” I admitted.

He smiled sadly. “Wherever faith takes you.”

xxXxx

Paisley

The storm rolled in hard.

Mollie was gone.

The club would fail without her. Everyone knew it.

I stared at the photo of us—laughing, young, wreckless.

She was right.

You only live once.

And if you don’t choose your life, it chooses you.