Free True for You by Marquita Valentine

Johnny Cash and June Carter had performed together.
Hell, my middle name is Cash. If my birth mother had anything to do
with my name, I’d eat my guitar, but I’m pretty sure it
was all my dad, trying to stack the odds in my favor.
    All
my life, I’d heard from him: “ Son,
once you find your June, then you’ll be set. The writing will
flow and so will the music. You ain’t good for anything else,
without the music.”
    Everett’s
right. I’m not good for anything else. What will I do, if I
can’t perform on stage? Making movies was only a temporary
solution and a convenient way to piss off Everett. Not where I wanted
to be at this point in my career.
    I’m
still singing the same damn songs, to the same damn tunes, only the
band and my singing partner have changed.
    As
in, I don’t have one, because my faux-fiancée went nuts
on my dad for cheating on her. While Violet… I shake my head.
    Obviously,
Violet wasn’t my June, no matter how much I wanted her to be,
or how good we were together on stage.
    However,
Bliss could be molded. She could be taught simple chords and
Auto-Tune can make anyone a super star, if we needed it.
    I
crack each side of my neck, relieving the tension there, ready to
figure out which bedroom Bliss is sleeping in and tell her my plan.
    Then
I frown.
    I have to convince
her to stay, first.

    *** *** ***

    Bliss
    A
gentle shake and the sound of my name wake me up from a dead sleep.
“What’s wrong… Is it the baby? I’ll go feed
him.”
    I’m
back at the Richards, all of eight years old. They’d agreed to
foster me, but after two months of homeschooling without the actually
schooling, I know I’m their new nanny. One that they not only
don’t have to pay while they get paid by the state for letting me stay there.
    “What
baby?”
    “Huh?”
I rub my eyes, Jackson’s image sort of coming into focus. He’s
wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. “Oh. I thought you
were Mr. Richards.” My gaze travels over his sexy body. He’s
leaner than when we first started the tour, nothing but muscle over
bone, under skin that smells good enough to lick.
    I
want to touch him so badly that I make my hands clutch the covers
instead.
    “Who’s
he?”
    I
swear I should keep my mouth shut, but the lack of sleep I’ve
had over worrying about everything has caught up with me. I’m
punch drunk. “My foster parent when I was eight.”
    A
sharp intake of breath, and then Jackson carefully places my glasses
on my nose. His face becomes clear, worry and disbelief evident. “You
had a baby at eight?”
    “No.
I was in charge of the Richards’ baby when I was eight. He was
such a sweet baby.” I yawn, curling into a ball and taking off
my glasses. I set them back on the table and close my eyes.
“Sometimes I wonder what he looks like now. I miss that little
guy. He was always happy to see me and loved hugs and kisses.”
For a long time, I’d thought the Richards would keep me. Lyle
helped me through the pain and confusion of my parents’ death.
He loved me as much as I loved him.
    “Mr.
Richards?”
    “You’re
so pretty, Jackson,” I giggle, finding this entire conversation
absurd. “Lyle Richards, Mr. and Mrs. Richards’ baby, is
the one I miss.”
    “Oh.”
I feel him run his hand through my hair and I smile, snuggling into
his arm. “Are you still upset with me?” he asks.
    “I’m
resigned with you, or is it to you?” I don’t want to
think. I want to enjoy the last days of warmth, peace, a full belly,
and the safety of this house, before I have to leave. “Either
way, I’m not thinking about us anymore.”
    The
mattress dips, and I crack open one eye to find Jackson sitting on
the bed, studying me. “Why were you in foster care?”
    “Because
a truck driver hit our car when we were travelling to the beach. I
was the only survivor.”
    Jackson
curses under his breath. “How old were you?”
    “Seven.”
    “How
many different places have you