Country Music Cowboy Page 2

  Maybe I should have.

  He already felt like a damn imposter—filling in for Hank King. It was a fucking joke. He was a fucking joke. He’d grown up in his father’s shadow knowing he’d never be his father. His father was a country music legend for a reason. The charisma. The voice. The energy and confidence.

  Travis was a backup singer.

  To make matters worse, Loretta Gram showed up, all narrow-eyed hostility. He got it. She was anything but pleased with the situation. That makes two of us.

  The only time she hadn’t looked ready to tear off his head was when they’d been singing. Music did that. It was powerful. It smoothed off the rough edges, filled an empty ache, triggered memory or longing… Singing the chorus together, the first time, had been the only time those amber-topaz eyes of hers hadn’t been shooting daggers his way.

  Now they sat, silent and awkward, while his father played back the recording of the session. A recording. Not exactly standard practice protocol. But the recording wasn’t for them. It was for Wheelhouse Records. Because his own record label didn’t trust him either. Nope. They’d needed verifiable proof that he was capable of pulling this off.

  Apparently, his father was the only one who believed he could do it.

  Since his release from the Oasis, he’d been working out daily. The physical exertion helped work out the stresses of the day. Tonight, he’d need one hell of a workout.

  Travis’s phone vibrated from the recesses of his pocket.

  He ignored it. According to Momma, playing on your phone while keeping company with others was rude. Considering how popular he already was with Loretta, he figured he’d avoid adding fuel to that fire.

  Still, Loretta was studying her fingernails like they were the most interesting damn thing in the world. She had been since they’d stopped singing. Her long, dark hair hung forward over one shoulder, a glossy curtain hiding most of her face from view. There is no way her nails are that interesting. But her nail-gazing was better than her glaring hostility.

  His phone vibrated again. Screw it. He pulled it from his pocket and swiped it open.

  A picture—from his sister Krystal. A very flattering picture of Loretta Gram. Long brown hair. A mischievous smile on red lips. A pale blue sweater that hugged curves he’d been hard-pressed not to acknowledge since the moment he’d spied her waiting for them this morning. It was a good picture. Of course, the Sonic Blue Fender Jazzmaster guitar in her lap helped.

  Damn fine guitar.

  Three little blue dots bounced on the screen until Krystal’s text popped up. Is she madly in love with you yet?

  He glanced at the woman sitting opposite him. No smile. No eye contact. Hell, he wasn’t even sure she was breathing. About the only thing he was certain of? She did not like him—not one teeny-tiny bit.

  His response was short. No.

  Three little dots started bouncing again. Emmy Lou says you should tell her you’ve stopped being a man-whore.

  Travis burst out laughing. His twin little sisters were as different as night and day. He knew damn well Emmy Lou would never say man-whore. But Krystal? She wouldn’t think twice. She was likely laughing as she typed the text.

  His laughter had temporarily halted Loretta’s all-encompassing nail inspection. Now, those big tawny eyes were waiting. Actual eye contact.

  He smiled, holding up his phone in explanation.

  There it was. The death glare.

  Loretta turned her attention to the sheet music now. She lifted the pages from the stand, reading over each one as if it was the first time she’d lain eyes on the notes and lyrics she’d been singing so sweetly for the last thirty minutes.

  His phone vibrated in his hand.

  Krystal’s text popped up. Okay, fine. I said man-whore.

  I figured as much, he responded. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

  What? Am I wrong? I said no longer, didn’t I? Never mind. How’d it go? Knowing Krystal, she was rolling her eyes right about now. I’ve been sucked up inside Emmy Lou’s wedding vortex all morning. When are you coming to save me?

  Travis smiled. Wedding vortex? Emmy Lou’s wedding was the best thing that had happened to the family in recent years. But Krystal wasn’t one for making a fuss out of things and just about everything involved in Emmy Lou’s wedding had fuss involved.

  Wrapping things up here now. If there’s cake involved, save me some. He hit send, then followed it up with, Session went well. He thought. He hoped. The musical part anyway. But he was no Johnny Hawkins. Johnny had been a rare artistic soul. A musical pioneer. How he’d found a way to blend folk, rock, classical, or rap into hit songs was a mystery. Most die-hard old-school country music fans didn’t take too kindly to their country sounding like anything other than country. But Johnny had made it work. He and Loretta together? They’d had the sort of connection that made their music soulful and true.

  Losing Johnny Hawkins had been a blow to the industry.

  He risked a glance Loretta’s way. It would have been a hell of a blow to her. She’d worked with one of the best and now, this? She’d lost her long-term partner and been saddled with a backup singer to honor his memory. Was it any wonder she was so resentful? No. Hell no. He owed her an explanation—if not an apology.

  “Thank you, for this. I know I’m a piss-poor stand-in for my father.” Travis waited for her to respond. At this point, any acknowledgment that he’d spoken was fine.

  Her wide-eyed surprise wasn’t exactly the response he’d expected. “Stand-in?” Her voice sounded brittle. “You mean…”

  Shit. “You didn’t know?” She honestly thought their record company would put him up as a first choice for this? That they’d put her with someone like him? Guess I get why she’s so pissed off. Now that he’d made her good and worked up, he didn’t have much hope he’d be able to smooth her ruffled feathers. Still, he tried. Maybe now that she knew he was the stand-in she’d cut him a break and turn down the hostility. “Daddy wanted to but, well, I’m sure you’ve read about my parents?” Everyone had heard about it—the radio, television, and every damn tabloid had run a piece on the downfall of the long-standing power couple.

  She went back to studying the music she still held. “I’ve heard things are strained.”

  “I guess that’s one way to put it.” He ran his fingers through his hair. His parents might not be officially separated yet, but that wasn’t stopping his mother from acting like they’d finalized their divorce. “Daddy heard she was coming to the awards show—with a date. He’s not taking the news well.”

  She glanced his way. “No. That’s…no.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “Daddy worried the attention over more King family drama might overshadow the performance. So, you’re stuck with me.”

  Loretta stiffened, her full lips pressed flat and her eyes narrowing just enough to suggest she was holding something back.

  Don’t ask. You don’t want to know. “If you’ve got something to say, go ahead.” He leaned back and braced himself. Whatever she had to say wouldn’t be pretty.

  She hesitated briefly, took a deep breath, and said, “You…” She swallowed. “You think making the ‘In Memoria’ your return to the stage doesn’t do just that?” There was a not-so-subtle hint of accusation to her tone.

  “Now? Yes. But that’s not why I’m doing this.” If he could go back… No, he’d do the same. “At the time, I was doing a favor for my father. He doesn’t ask very often.”

  Her posture eased just a bit. “I’m sorry your family is going through this.”

  “It’s been coming for a long time.” Which was true. As far as families went, he was pretty sure the Kings won when it came to the most emotional baggage. “Maybe they’ll be happier this way.”

  This time, she didn’t hide behind her nails or the music. She wasn’t even trying to hide that fact that she was
studying him now. He figured he had the right to do the same.

  He’d seen dozens of pictures of her—videos too. A country girl. Unlike his sisters, Loretta wasn’t one for sparkles and bling. She looked every bit the country girl, sitting here in some frilly red top with a tie and little blue flowers or dots all over it. Red earrings—he’d noticed them swaying when she was singing. Faded jeans that fit just right and hand-tooled leather boots. A country girl, through and through.

  But Loretta Gram the person? He was having a hard time figuring her out. She was something to look at. Thick and wavy hair, a mix of deep browns and reds and warmth that fell down her back. He’d already experienced the power of those eyes… They were something. The hint of gloss tinting her full lips was just enough to draw attention. She wasn’t smiling like she was in the picture Krystal had sent, but she was just as beautiful. Beautiful and angry.

  “That’ll do it.” His father came out of the control room, nodding. “You two made some mighty pretty music today.”

  “We’re done?” Loretta asked, slipping from her stool and offering his father the only authentic smile he’d seen her make all day. “Then I’d best be on my way.”

  Travis stood too. “I’ll walk you out.” Things might have started out rocky, but maybe they could finish out the day on a more positive note.

  “You don’t need to,” she argued, her smile going flat.

  “I don’t mind.” He held the door open and followed her into the hall.

  As soon the studio door closed behind them, she spun to face him. “As much as I appreciate what you’re doing for your father, I think it’s important that you know exactly where I stand on this…arrangement.” Her cheeks flushed deep pink.

  So much for being positive. “I think I got the gist of it.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “I’d rather there was no confusion.” Her brows rose. “We are not friends. We will never be friends. Both of us are doing this for our career—period. You don’t need to walk me to my car or give me first pick of the stools or act cordial or even talk, really, since the two of us have nothing in common.”

  “Considering how uneventful this recording session has been, this seems like an awfully strong reaction.” As far as he knew, he’d never done wrong by Loretta Gram. Overall, he was a likeable enough guy. Maybe less fun now that he wasn’t drinking, but still. This speech didn’t add up. “Did I do or say something to piss you off?”

  “This isn’t about today.” She sighed, impatient. “This is about…you. To be frank, I just don’t like you. Period.” With that, she brushed past him, headed down the hall, and went out the door.

  Travis stared after her, wondering what the hell had just happened.

  Chapter 2

  Loretta sat cross-legged on the side of the stage, watching the director and the choreographer argue. All around them was a flurry of activity, the stagehands, designers, and sound techs a coordinated team doing their jobs with efficiency—regardless of the drama unfolding on the stage itself. Right about now, she envied them. They could get their work done. She could not. Not until the director said they were good to go. Gabriel Luna, the awards show director, had yet to recognize her presence, let alone give her the thumbs-up to rehearse.

  She was too far away to hear what the argument was about, but their body language stopped her from finding out. Not exactly riveting stuff, but she watched, devouring her snack-size bag of candy-coated peanuts. The alternative was acknowledging Travis King’s presence—something she was trying very hard not to do.

  Luckily, Travis hadn’t tried to make small talk. After his initial nod of greeting, he’d flopped onto the stage with a well-worn paperback novel in his hand. He lay flat on his back, holding his book above him, and was seemingly engrossed in the pages in a matter of minutes.

  They’d been slated to have the stage for thirty minutes. That was forty minutes ago. Forty minutes of the crinkle of her wrapper as she crunched away on candy-coated peanuts and the flip-slide of Travis turning the pages of his book and running his thumb down the side to smooth it in place. She knew the cause of the flip-slide sound because, after its fourth occurrence, she’d covertly managed to assess the situation from the corner of her eye…under the cover of reading the back of her candy-coated peanut wrapper.

  For reasons unknown, her curiosity hadn’t been satisfied by determining the cause of the sound. Like it or not, her attention lingered on the man lying on the stage. He was too good-looking. Until now, Loretta hadn’t known that was possible. But it was. Even slumming it in ripped jeans, a faded heavy metal band T-shirt, and boots that had seen better days, he looked like something out of GQ. That hair though… He probably rolled out of bed that way. Careless and irreverent and, honestly, beautiful. It bothered her. A lot.

  She didn’t want to be bothered by him. She didn’t want anything to do with him.

  What had Johnny seen in Travis?

  Once, she’d gone off on the Kings—Travis especially—and Johnny had been quick to come to the other man’s defense. He’d said Travis King had been dealt a shit hand and was doing his best with what he had. But Johnny had always found a way to see the good in a person. Always. Even when they didn’t deserve it. Especially when it came to those he considered a friend. Their time together at the Oasis had made them friends. At least, Johnny had thought so. Johnny’s last stint at rehab before his death. As far as she knew, Travis never reached out to Johnny once he’d left rehab. Not such a good friend after all.

  She sighed and pushed off the edge of the stage, anger coursing through her veins. Not the most productive train of thought right now. Twenty-six hours from now, she could shoot Travis King the finger and walk away. And that’s just what I’ll do. The image made her smile.

  A burst of sound, a garbled yell, snapped her back to the confrontation still unfolding in the midst of her scheduled rehearsal time. The director’s clipboard went flying. The choreographer laughed.

  Loretta glanced Travis’s way. He’d propped himself up on his elbow, causing the muscles in his arm to bulge, to watch the conflict. Eyebrow raised, curls falling onto his forehead, blue-green eyes wide, and the corner of his mouth cocked up. If she took his picture and posted it on Instagram right now, his fangirls would begin a snowstorm of likes and reposts so frenzied they’d probably break the internet.

  Whatever.

  Irritation renewed, she crumpled up her candy wrapper and shoved it in the pocket of her blue chambray dress. With her snack gone, all she could think about was getting back to her hotel room. Tomorrow would be nonstop. In the morning, she’d have her final fitting for the two gowns selected for her, hair and makeup, and on to the endless red carpet and then the dreaded performance itself.

  Tonight, she needed a little decompress time for herself. Las Vegas wasn’t her scene; growing up with her father had removed all interest in gambling or drinking. Her night would be more of the eating-room-service-cheesy-fries in her fluffy white bathrobe while watching her favorite British baking show marathon. To her, that sounded pretty close to perfect. Way better than this, anyway.

  Waiting. And waiting.

  Travis’s page turning.

  The now elevated voices still bickering.

  The low roar of conversation and movement as the stage workers prepped all the bells and whistles for tomorrow night.

  She walked along the edge of the stage, slowly—like a tight rope. Back and forth, then stared up to count the can lights mounted on the catwalk overhead.

  “Miss Gram, Mr. King.” The director, Gabriel Luna, approached. “Please forgive the delay. We are ready now.”

  “Oh good.” She didn’t bother hiding her relief.

  That was when she realized Travis was watching her. Smiling. Why was he smiling? The smile was irritating. Almost goading—whether or not he knew it. What was his problem? Really? And why didn’t he own a shirt t
hat wasn’t vacuum sealed to his chest? What did he put in his hair to make it look so…so perfect all the time?

  The sooner I get back to my room, the better.

  “Ready?” Travis asked. “We can wait, if you’re not done doing whatever you were doing.”

  She ignored him. Go use all your…charm on someone else.

  “With or without music?” Gabriel asked. “We’re a bit behind.”

  As far as choreography went, they didn’t really have any. She walked in from one side of the stage, he walked in from the other side, and they met in the middle to finish the song.

  “I’m fine just walking through our marks?” Loretta asked, glancing Travis’s way. No singing. No dragging this out. Just run through their blocking, pausing on the little taped “x” marks for the right amount of time, then moving on to the next. That would wind things up nice and quick.

  Travis ran his fingers through his hair, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Fine by me.”

  The hair, the jaw twitch, the shift of his arm muscle… She had to admit there was a certain mesmerizingly virile quality about Travis King. He was ripped. Distractingly so. If she hadn’t seen him popping pills with a whiskey chaser, she’d have thought he was some health nut that worked out all the time.

  Travis’s blue-green gaze bounced her way—and held.

  Even knowing he was all the things she despised most didn’t dampen the rush of warmth that filled her belly. The sudden tightness in her chest only compounded her frustration. She was only vaguely aware of Gabriel saying, “Wonderful.”

  Wonderful? This was not wonderful. No, it’s fine. She was in control of this situation. A pretty face and an incredible body were not going to cloud her judgment. I refuse to be distracted by you. With an impatient sigh, she ended the over-long look with a pointed glare and all but stomped off the stage to wait for Gabriel’s count.