Song for a Cowboy Page 13

  “This time I think I’ll stay over here.” He crossed his arms, doing his best to act casual.

  Her green gaze slammed into his, her cheeks going pink. “I guess I deserved that. It wasn’t planned. Obviously. I don’t know what happened. I just sort of…lost my head?” She seemed sincerely flustered.

  He knew the feeling.

  She blinked, her cheeks going darker. “I didn’t go to the hospital to cause problems.”

  No, she’d come to get her picture in the paper with a flattering headline. Both of which had been accomplished. Emmy Lou’s sweet goodness, singing to Brock’s ailing father, had been touted as another example of her selflessness.

  “Aunt Mo and your father always made me feel like I was part of the family.” She stopped. “Things didn’t work out between us, but I still think of you all—”

  “You wanted to check up on him.” Did she realize she was lying? Or had it become so second nature that it was instinctual? Either way, it pissed him off. Not just at her, but at himself. Even though he knew she was lying, he wanted her. Maybe that’s why he pushed back. “You coming to the hospital had nothing to do with publicity? Or this?”

  “This?” She swallowed, her gaze darting to his mouth then away.

  “This, Emmy. You. Me.” He broke off, but the words wouldn’t stop. “I know you want me. You know I want you. And flattering news coverage is always a good thing for you Kings.” He waited for her to deny it—waited for more lies. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  She was staring at him. Frozen. Was she breathing?

  “What would have happened if your bodyguard hadn’t come in?” He stepped forward, looking down at her.

  But she stayed quiet, those green eyes fixed on him.

  Shit. Even now, he was giving her the upper hand. He’d just admitted he wanted her. And she hadn’t said a thing. Shit. He should have kept his mouth shut. Instead he added, “You look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong. Don’t act like you were just there to visit my father.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath, but it was the shock and anger on her face that held his attention. “Are you serious? You think…” She broke off. “Travis is right. You are a complete a-ass.” She pushed herself onto her feet, pushing his hand away when he would have helped her up.

  “For telling the truth?” There was an edge to his voice now. “The truth can be hard to hear. Hell, sometimes it hurts.” He could attest to that fact.

  She recoiled then, shaking her head, one hand pressed to her chest. “Is that what you want? To hurt me?” The red drained from her cheeks. “What have I ever done to you?”

  It took everything he had not to laugh. Was she serious? Making fun of him? Or did she just not have the capacity to understand what love—love and trust—was? Or the hell that followed when that love and trust was broken?

  Did he want to hurt her? Yes. Dammit all to hell. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to hurt her like she’d hurt him. He wanted the lying to stop… But then he’d have to stop lying, too. He’d have to admit that every time he heard her sing, saw her face on a magazine or billboard, or touched her, the hole she’d left in his heart ached for her to come back and make him whole again.

  Fuck no. He’d never give her that power over him, not again. Maybe the lies were easier.

  The sooner he got out of there—away from her—the better.

  She drew in a deep breath. “I—”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk anymore.” Nothing good could come from this conversation.

  “Fine,” she agreed, walking to the other side of the room to lean against the wall. “You don’t have to stay on my account.”

  None of this was fine. Not the anger, regret, and longing. Not the hurt she stirred, again. Not the wide-eyed, wounded look she was giving him as he pushed out of the green room and left the studio. He left knowing the last thing he needed to do was go back to his hotel and the minibar. Not right now, not this worked up.

  He called his sponsor, went to a local gym, and worked out until he was sweat drenched and shaking. But after he’d showered and eaten his dietitian-approved dinner, he was still too worked up to sleep. He called Milton Thomas, a friend and LA Charger. Milton rounded up some friends and they hit a few clubs. Clubbing sober? Not much fun.

  He slept for shit and woke up irritable and ready to get home. He hated leaving his father right now. Aunt Mo kept saying she had things under control, but that didn’t make him feel any better. He should be there. Instead, he was heading toward some high-end men’s clothing company to talk about a new endorsement deal.

  “You were on fire last night.” Connie sat across from him in their town car, the tinted window keeping the interior cooler than the triple-digit temperatures outside. “Who knew you could play the guitar?”

  “I told you,” he murmured, adjusting his sunglasses.

  “I didn’t think you could play play.” She had one of those dramatic haircuts—black and supershort, with a long sweep of bright-white hair that fell at an angle across her forehead. With red-tipped fingers, she tucked the white strands behind her ear and grinned. “You should be thrilled. Guy James donated ten thousand dollars—and convinced his network to match it.” She paused. “What’s got you so uptight?”

  Not what. Who. He wasn’t going to talk about Emmy. He didn’t want to think about her. He shrugged. “Who said I’m uptight?”

  She arched a well-defined, black brow and shot him a pointed look. “Okay.” The rest of the drive consisted of her filling him in on the latest pertinent player injuries and backroom chatter leading into this weekend’s game. The first game of the season, and he wouldn’t be playing. Ricky Ames’s name came up and Brock had nothing nice to say about the kid.

  “Everyone, and I mean everyone, knows he’s a shit. But everyone knows he is a hell of a player.” Connie leaned forward. “One thing he is not? You. You are Brock Watson. Don’t let some cocky little asshole get in your head.” She sighed. “Today is all you. Not the team or the game—just you. Options, Brock. Income streams off the field. Security. Responsible shit.”

  Standing in the foyer of Alpha Menswear’s ultramodern foyer, he read the slogan, in bold, red, block letters, covering most of the far wall. “Be the alpha in the room.”

  Connie grinned. “I’m seriously psyched about this.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Brock was feeling pretty damn psyched, too. He did his best to keep a straight face. But it wasn’t easy. They were willing to pay him seven figures to launch their new line. It wasn’t a men’s line so much as a men’s underwear line. While he’d never imagined strutting around in underwear for a camera, he was willing to give it a go.

  “We feel like Brock is the best fit. Our polling numbers confirm he is one of the most recognizable athletes out there and, frankly, a lot of fans find him attractive. Added appeal means added dollars when consumers are thinking about buying products for their family or significant other.” Nolan Young, head of Alpha’s marketing, kept going. “Our name is synonymous with quality. Brock Watson is, too.”

  Connie nodded, then asked Brock, “So?” He gave her the thumbs-up she’d been waiting on. “Then we have a deal,” Connie said. “We’ll be waiting for the final contract.”

  There was a collective sigh from the room, followed by a lot of handshaking and congratulations. But Connie had saved the best for last. As their driver took them to the airport and his waiting Cessna, she said, “I thought I’d share a little something with you.”

  “That’s some smile.” He waited.

  “You wouldn’t believe who was campaigning for this.” Her smile grew. “I didn’t want to tell you before the meeting because I thought it might stress you out.” She clapped her hands. “But now… If you thought Ricky Ames didn’t like you before, get ready. He wanted this, begged for this. And you got it.”

  That did it all right. That
, right there, was the pickup he needed. It felt good. Maybe a little too good. “Well, damn.” He ran his fingers over his jaw, fighting the urge to laugh. “Poor kid.” But then he was laughing, hard. Ricky Ames might play hard, but Brock Watson wasn’t a quitter. “Game on.”

  Chapter 9

  “Who went to the store last?” Krystal was staring into the pantry. “Why do we have nine boxes of kids’ cereal?”

  “I think Travis did one of those online orders.” Emmy Lou sat at the scrubbed plank kitchen table and propped herself up on her elbow. “Probably while drunk. Or getting drunk. Or…” She stopped talking as Krystal emerged, balancing three huge boxes of cereal. “You’re not planning to eat that, are you?”

  “Yep.” She retrieved a bowl and spoon and milk, then sat opposite her sister. “And if you keep up the judgy stare, I will build a protective fort with the boxes.”

  Emmy Lou laughed. “No judgment.”

  Krystal poured a large bowl of brightly colored, sugarcoated rings. “Whatever.” She glanced at her bowl, then Emmy. “Still doing the self-imposed hunger-strike thing?”

  “Hunger strike?” She tried not to think about how yummy the cereal looked. They’d been her favorite as a child—until the day Momma had shown her a diagram about the glue-like effects of sugar at the cellular level. She’d been twelve or thirteen. Krystal had fallen asleep, but Emmy Lou had listened as Momma had rattled off the horrible things sugar would do to her body. Momma drove home how important it was for them to look their best for their fans, how selfish it was to overindulge in sweets, and how anything that tastes really good is probably bad for you. After that, her love of food got complicated. Stress made it worse. A whole cookie or piece of cake—her body rejected it. Now? She was stressed. The Guy James visit. Brock. He’d sounded mad that he wanted her. He certainly didn’t want to want her. And accusations that she was using his father for press… “Maybe I’m just not hungry right now.”

  “Or ever.” Krystal spooned up a huge bite of cereal. “Not since you were like…eighteen?” Krystal could eat her weight in Red Vines without a care in the world. “Oh, this is so good.” She scooped up another bite.

  The kitchen door swung open and Travis came in, yawning and rubbing a hand over his face. He took one bleary-eyed look at the table and advanced. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He reached for the cereal boxes on the table, but Krystal grabbed the Fruity-o’s box. “You can’t just raid a man’s stash, Krystal. Come on now.”

  “I can if the stash is in my kitchen.” She cradled the box against her chest, took another bite of cereal, and smiled up at Travis. But Travis kept standing there, staring, until Krystal eventually snapped. “What? What is your deal, Trav?” she asked, tapping her spoon against the bowl.

  “That’s my favorite kind.” He pointed at the box Krystal held.

  Emmy Lou stood up, got a large bowl from the cabinet, grabbed a spoon, and put them on the table. “Give me the box.” She held her hand out, laughing now. “The box.”

  Krystal sighed but handed over the box.

  Emmy poured a heaping amount into the bowl, poured milk, and looked at her still-frowning brother. “Eat.” She pushed the bowl toward him. “All yours, Big Brother.”

  Travis ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t want it right now.”

  “You are such a child.” Krystal threw a fruity cereal O at him.

  “Really?” Emmy Lou shook her head. “Just eat.”

  “You eat it,” Travis argued. “I just want coffee.” Another yawn. “You need it more than I do, anyway.”

  Emmy Lou shook her head and took a sip of her tea. “Would you both stop? I came down here for peace and quiet and tea.”

  “Peace? In this house?” Krystal shot her a look of pure disbelief. “Might as well get over that and, you know, eat something with your tea. If I were you, I’d eat Trav’s. The whole box.”

  “No thanks. I’m not hungry.” Emmy Lou picked up her cup and turned to leave.

  “Wait, Em, I’m sorry.” Krystal pleaded. “I’ll stop. Please stay. Please. We haven’t had breakfast together in so long—”

  “Because you’ve shacked up with your boy toy.” Travis sat, picked up the spoon, and started eating. “Why are you even here eating my cereal…? Right, Momma’s got that retreat thing today.” He kept right on munching. “Still, you and Jace need to get your own cereal. Keep your mitts off mine.”

  Krystal was ready to launch another O at their brother but caught Emmy watching her and held her hands up. “See? I’m being good.”

  How long would that last? Her twin’s smile was so mischievous that Emmy had no choice but to smile back.

  Travis scooped up a bite. “So…I’ve been looking at apartments. To keep my cereal safe.”

  Emmy Lou stared at him. This was news to her. Not necessarily good news. She’d still see her siblings on the road, but she missed this. Lazy mornings full of laughter and teasing and cereal throwing without the time constraints and exhaustion of a touring schedule.

  “You can’t do that.” Krystal threw a piece of cereal at him. “Spill.”

  Emmy grabbed a piece of Krystal’s cereal and threw it at him, too. The bright purple O veered sharply and bounced off the table onto the floor.

  “Pathetic.” Travis glanced at the cereal on the floor. “I need a reason? Like you two don’t know? Freedom. Escape. Breathing room. You pick. Besides, you already moved out.”

  “Not officially.” Krystal frowned. “My mail still comes here.”

  Travis shook his head. “I can’t stay here. Momma is like a time bomb. The home studio? The costume approval? She’s not happy about you and Jace. She’s not happy about Emmy Lou working with the AFL. She’s not happy about the direction of our music…”

  “The underlying thread in all of that is her lack of control,” Krystal murmured.

  As far as Emmy was concerned, Momma was just acting like Momma. Travis was just more clued in now. But she might be a little more intense now that Krystal wasn’t around.

  “Whatever. It’s only a matter of time before she explodes, and I don’t want to be in the blast radius. Damn, when did we get so fucked up?” He used his spoon to point at each of them.

  “We are not…” Emmy Lou started to argue, but it was halfhearted.

  “Mm, Em, I hate to disagree but…we are.” Krystal wrinkled up her nose. “We so are.”

  “I feel like I live on some reality television show. A really bad one. ‘Tonight, on The King Family Crap we explore lingering questions.’” Travis was using his spoon as a microphone now. “‘After deserting them in their time of need, will Hank King ever be able to look his children in the eye? Is CiCi King truly a recovering addict? Or is she simply using her possible addiction as an excuse to get away with her evil and manipulating ways? Will Krystal and Jace stop boning enough to make music? Will Travis’s parts actually fall off from a horrible sexually transmitted disease? And will Emmy Lou retire her nun’s habit and eat a donut or twelve?’” He stopped, his gaze bouncing back and forth.

  Laughter filled the kitchen. On and on, until Krystal managed, “You so do not need coffee.”

  “I do.” He stood, spoon hanging from the side of his mouth, and headed to the coffeepot on the marble-topped counter.

  “Okay, fine. But can you not make it strong enough to cause heart palpitations?” Krystal asked.

  “I like it how I like it.” He kept heaping coffee into the machine.

  Emmy Lou smiled. They all had a laundry list of worries. Most of which Travis had ticked off in his faux reality TV voiceover. She’d never dared admit her suspicions about her mother, but apparently, she wasn’t the only one. While her brother and sister were angry, Emmy Lou was sad. For her mother and father, Travis and Krystal—and herself.

  Krystal pulled her bowl back and poured more cereal. “So you’re moving out? What about Daddy?�
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  Emmy Lou held her breath. The friction between her father and brother was so thick, it made being in the same room as them unbearable.

  “What about him? He is not my responsibility.” Travis frowned. “It’s past time we live our own lives—by our own rules. That includes having my own roof over my head.”

  “What about Emmy?” Krystal asked.

  And then Travis and Krystal were both staring at her, waiting for her to say something. “What about me?” She sipped her now-cold tea.

  “If we’re not living here to pester the shit out you, you’ll starve to death.” Travis frowned.

  “Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” Emmy glared at him.

  But Krystal and Travis weren’t smiling; they were both staring over her shoulder at the kitchen door. From the look on her brother’s face, she knew without having to look that their father was there. Travis’s defensive posture hurt her. She could only imagine how it made Daddy feel.

  “Daddy.” Emmy stood, forcing a smile even though anguish tightened her throat. “Want some coffee?”

  “I’ll get it. You eat.” He looked tired—beaten down. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you all in the same room.” He glanced around the table. “Mighty fine sight.”

  “Emmy Lou wants some real food.” Krystal stood. “Since I’m already cooking, I’ll make you something, too. Sound good?”

  “I won’t say no to that.” Daddy even sounded beaten down. “No way.”

  Emmy Lou ignored the victorious flash in her sister’s eyes. She’d choke down bacon and eggs and biscuits if it made Daddy happy. “I do love your biscuits. With lots of butter and jam.”

  Their father sat at the opposite end of the table from Travis, stretching his legs out in front of him and letting out a long, slow sigh that seemed to deflate him from the inside.

  She placed a hand on his arm. “Still coming to the game tomorrow?”

  He nodded, sipping his coffee and wincing again. “Damn shame Brock is still on the bench. He mention anything about when he’d be released to play?”