Country Music Cowboy Page 3

  Altogether, it took less than three minutes and they were standing awkwardly in the middle of the stage.

  A smattering of applause broke out from the back of the dimly lit theater.

  “Bravo!” A woman’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m pretty sure there was supposed to be a song, though.”

  Travis groaned.

  “Behave.” Another woman’s voice. “You two look good together. I can’t wait to hear how you sound.”

  Travis groaned again. “You’ve met my sisters? I’d hoped they wouldn’t come after I explained things to them. But they didn’t believe me.” He shook his head. “I’ll go ahead and apologize now.”

  “What?” Loretta was still scrambling to understand what he’d said. She’d managed to glean his sisters were here, but that was it.

  “You. Not liking me.” He shrugged. “They don’t believe you—No, I guess they don’t believe I was telling the truth about you not liking me.” He shook his head, the corner of his mouth kicking up. “Most people like me. I’m a likable kind of guy. Try it, you’ll see.”

  He’d told his sisters what she’d said? And now they were here? Loretta was horrified. But before she had time to make a quick exit, the beloved twins of country music, Krystal and Emmy Lou King, were walking across the stage toward her.

  Loretta had nothing but respect for the sisters. As musicians and advocates for several worthwhile charities, they understood the difference they could make—beyond their music. They might be twins, but they were as different as night and day. While she didn’t know them all that well, the Kings were media and tabloid staples.

  The midnight black stripe that had been added to one twin’s signature long honey-blond locks was a dead giveaway as to which twin was Krystal. But, even without the hair, Krystal’s resting bitch face and confident “Fuck you” vibe was unmistakable. What Loretta admired most was the woman’s refusal to explain or apologize for who she was. And who Krystal King was, was one hell of a performer—and one hell of a survivor.

  Emmy Lou King had some sort of inner glow thing happening. She was like a fairy-tale princess come to life. From her megawatt smile to her genuine warmth, Emmy Lou King oozed “it.” Star power. Like millions of Instagram and Twitter followers and record sales and ridiculously loyal and adoring fans sort of star power. And yet, somehow, she’d managed not to lose her down-to-earth accessibility and, by all appearances, kindness.

  “Loretta.” Emmy Lou drew her into a hug. “My heart hurts for you. I am so sorry about Johnny. He was a gentle soul.”

  Between the emotion lacing Emmy Lou’s words and the ferocity of her unexpected embrace, Loretta nearly crumpled. There were times she ached for this—for support. Just as quickly, Emmy Lou stepped back and Loretta did her best to recover.

  “I didn’t know him all that well, but I loved every single one of his songs. His lyrics said a lot about who he was, I think,” Krystal said, her green eyes assessing. “I am sorry. I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you.”

  The ache in Loretta’s chest turned painful, but she did manage to say, “Thank you.” She could leave now, couldn’t she? The sting on her eyes was telling; so was the lump in her throat. She really needed to leave. “Well, it was nice to see you.”

  “We thought, maybe, you’d like to have dinner?” Emmy Lou asked.

  They wanted her to have dinner with them. She’d been thinking “Why?” but apparently, she’d said it too. And now they were all staring at her. Because that was rude. “I mean, that’s kind of you, but—”

  “That’s Emmy Lou.” Krystal smiled, nudging her twin. “She’s kind. I’m not. But we are both nosy. Which is another reason we were hoping you’d come to dinner.”

  Which was a bit brash but Loretta appreciated the woman’s honesty.

  “Krystal.” Emmy Lou looked and sounded mortified.

  Travis mumbled, “And now you see why I apologized.”

  “You apologized?” Krystal’s brows rose, shooting her brother a narrow-eyed glare. “For us? Really?”

  “Oh wow.” But Emmy Lou wasn’t commenting on their increasingly bizarre conversation. She was looking up.

  With all the commotion going on, Loretta hadn’t noticed the large screens being lowered, let alone the images for tomorrow night’s “In Memoria” performance. So many faces. So much talent. Groundbreakers and innovators. Producers, lyricists, and composers. Music Hall of Fame members and fledgling artists taken way too soon.

  The moment Johnny’s picture appeared, Loretta looked away. She had to. Seeing his smiling face tore at the still-raw wound. Every day, it was there. Every day, she missed Johnny. And every day she was tormented by the questions that would never be answered. She’d known it would be difficult but this…this ball of pain and anger wrapped up inside a ball of razor wire shredded her insides and left her bleeding.

  But that was her problem and hers alone. She was not going to fall apart now—not publicly—and definitely not in front of the Kings.

  Keep it professional. Calm, cool, and collected.

  “I have dinner plans but thank you,” she managed, taking care to avoid direct eye contact with the siblings. “Maybe next time. Have a good night.” She was already walking, rapidly, backstage—and much-needed space. She dodged cords and workmen, wheeled wardrobe racks, and a group of dancers clustered together before pushing open a door and stumbling out into a mercifully quiet, mostly deserted, hallway.

  A few of the stage crew workers had been taking a smoke break, but they took one look at her and jumped up, leaving a plastic cup with cigarette butts, an empty can of soda, and a newspaper on the box they’d turned upside down for a table.

  Deep, cleansing breaths helped. So did leaning against the cool concrete wall and closing her eyes. She pushed off the wall and sat on one of the folding chairs. Eventually, it would get easier. Maybe not the grief part, but the anger part. I hope. When she thought about Johnny, she didn’t want to think about his death—she wanted to think about him. Smiling, laughing, singing. His beautiful face.

  “I miss you,” she whispered, rubbing her palms against her thighs. But missing him didn’t stop her from being angry with him. And she was oh so angry. “I miss you so much.” Her words were a garbled mess and there were tears on her cheeks but, for a second, she didn’t fight them.

  “Loretta?”

  She jumped, surprised by Travis King’s sudden arrival.

  “You left this.” His voice was low and soft.

  Her phone. Her purse. She blinked, beyond embarrassed. That’s what running away gets you. “Thank you.” Her hand was shaking when she reached for her things—making things ten times worse.

  “Here.” Travis dug in his pocket and pulled out a white cotton handkerchief. “It’s clean. Wrinkled, but clean.”

  She sniffed, eyeing the white fabric.

  “You can not like me and still take my handkerchief.” He shook his head. “And, no, I’m not offering it because I’m trying to change your mind, either.”

  It wouldn’t work. She sniffed again, her throat too tight to answer.

  “You’re crying.” He cleared his throat, those blue-green eyes focused solely on her. “Please…take it.”

  She did, whispering, “Thank you.”

  “Someone called.” He nodded at her phone.

  She tapped her phone. Donnie Gram aka Deep Breath. Her father. Not that the reminder to take deep breaths before she answered ever help. What do you want now? Because that was why he was calling. That was the only reason he ever called her. It was enough to have her slam the phone down on the cardboard box, knocking the cup over and the newspaper to the ground.

  Travis knelt, stacking the paper back together and placing it back on the box. “Everything okay?”

  She twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Yes.” From the corner of her eyes, an image
caught her eye. The paper.

  Not a real newspaper—it was one of those shock-headline gossip rags.

  With Johnny’s picture.

  And a headline that set her stomach churning and made the pulse in her temple throb.

  JOHNNY HAWKINS’S DEATH: OVERDOSE OR SUICIDE.

  ***

  Fuck. One look at her face was all he needed to know just how much that classless headline gutted her. If she hadn’t made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him, he’d probably have hugged her. He’d caught sight of her face when Emmy Lou had hugged her.

  The longing he’d seen… Add this fucking paper? Dammit. Loretta Gram needed hugging.

  Instead, he grabbed the page and wadded it up. “People are assholes.” He stared at the crumpled paper ball in his hands. “But the people that write this sort of shit? They make the assholes look like saints.”

  She hadn’t moved. The page was gone, but she stared as if it was still there—as if the words had branded themselves into the pages beneath.

  Johnny Hawkins’s addiction and depression had been public knowledge; it wasn’t a huge leap to assume the worst. In the three weeks Johnny had been at the Oasis with him, Travis had quickly learned that Johnny used humor to deflect or dodge questions that dug too deeply into his past. Since Travis tended to do the same thing, they’d gotten along well.

  But there was no doubt Johnny had been haunted by something. After he’d been found dead in his bathtub, there’d been speculation. After all, a celebrity overdose offered up months of sales. Throw in some irrelevant but easily manipulated interviews, add some hard facts about Johnny’s struggles, and toss in a real humdinger like some childhood trauma or recent heartbreak. It was all about making money and that sort of crap was solid gold. But every single time one of these bastards came up with a new hypothesis, Johnny would be stripped bare for loyal fans and tabloid readers alike.

  And those closest to him? Like Loretta? It wasn’t just words or a story to her… It was being dragged back through that hell all over again.

  Dammit all.

  She could hate him all she wanted, but he couldn’t leave her. He sat in the other folding chair, not saying a word, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Sometimes knowing someone was there was enough. For him, anyway. Hell, he had a full basketball team full of people there for him.

  Who did she have?

  Her phone started ringing, the words “Deep Breath” scrolling across her phone screen. He wasn’t one to judge but, as far as nicknames went, that was weird.

  Loretta sort of crumpled into herself. Hands, and his handkerchief, covering her face. He heard a muffled groan but couldn’t come up with a thing to say before she reached for the phone.

  “Hi.” She swallowed. “Rehearsal.” Another pause. “For tomorrow night, yes.” She stood then, wrapping one arm around her waist as she walking to the far end of the hall. “No. No one. I’m going alone. I couldn’t get an extra ticket, I told you that.”

  She glanced his way then, but her expression was mostly shielded by the fall of her thick hair. He took comfort in one thing. She’s not glaring. That was something.

  His phone vibrated, but he didn’t have to look to know who it was. Loretta’s quick departure hadn’t gone unnoticed. How could it? She’d all but bolted from the stage and left her phone and purse behind. Once her fight-or-flight instinct had been triggered, everything else had been forgotten.

  Is she okay? Emmy Lou texted.

  From the corner of his eye, he took inventory. Was she? Loretta’s posture was ramrod stiff, the grip on her phone white-knuckled, but her face gave nothing away. I’m not sure. He responded.

  We’re going back to the suite. Join us when you can. Love you. The blue dots scrolled across the screen before Emmy Lou followed up with another text. She is welcome to join us, of course.

  He smiled at the screen. His little sisters could be a huge pain in the ass, but he was damn lucky to have them. If he’d ever needed proof of their loyalty or love, the last year had done just that. Once he’d dried out and had his head straight, he’d vowed never to take them for granted again. Not that he’d ever stop teasing them.

  Love you too. Travis sent his text and slid his phone back into his pocket.

  “How much? I thought that was paid.” Loretta’s voice rose slightly. “When do you need it?”

  Now that he could hear her conversation, he wasn’t sure he should be listening.

  “It’s not that at all.” She ran her hand over her hair, twirling one long strand around her fingers. “That’s not fair.” Her tone was brittle. “Why are you saying that?”

  He tossed the wadded-up paper back and forth, debating what to do.

  “I’ll get it.” She sighed. “Give me a couple of days and you’ll get it.” Another pause. “I have to go.” Seconds later, the phone disappeared into the pocket of her dress.

  He tried to give her a minute, tried to act like he was just hanging out—not making sure she was okay. But she saw him glance her way and she wasn’t happy.

  “It’s rude to listen to people’s private conversations.” She didn’t look at him. “What did you hear?”

  “Me?” He held up his hands, the paper ball falling to the ground. “Nothing. I wasn’t listening.”

  Her brows crinkled, a deep V creasing her forehead. “You were just…sitting here?”

  He stood. “Yeah, pretty much.” He dragged his fingers through his hair.

  Her long hair swayed as she shook her head. “Travis, I—”

  “You don’t like me.” He cut her off. “I’ll leave. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I am fine.” Tawny eyes flashed and those rosy full lips pressed into a tight, flat line.

  “I see that.” His gaze snagged on her lips. Her mouth. Damn, but she was a fine-looking woman. “Now, anyway.” Damn, but he liked looking at her.

  She must have picked up on that, because she was back to glaring at him. “I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work so you might as well save your energy.”

  “Okay.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just so I know, what am I trying to do?”

  “What it is that Travis King always does.” One eyebrow arched high. “I thought I’d made it clear I’m not interested.”

  Oh, she’d made it clear, all right. But he wasn’t sure what the “What Travis King always does” comment meant.

  Her cheeks went fire engine red. “So, you and your hair and your smile and your tight shirts and all your…your…you can just…stop.”

  She had his full attention now. For a woman so hell-bent on making sure he knew how much she didn’t like him, she seemed awfully flustered by him. Good damn thing, because she got under his skin too. Her words, her blush, and the way her gaze fell away from his when the air between them grew charged.

  But she rallied. With a toss of her head, she unloaded on him. “I know this whole comeback thing is a stunt. I hate being a part of it. I’ll be glad when the awards show is over and done with and I can remove myself from the whole damn mess.”

  He wasn’t sure which stunt she was talking about. His father’s misguided attempt to build up his son’s confidence by having Travis stand in for him? The shameless way Wheelhouse Records had capitalized on the performance as his comeback? Or maybe she recognized him for the overall imposter he was.

  She kept going. “Tomorrow isn’t about you—”

  “You think I don’t know that? Or that I want it to be?” Travis’s laugh was forced. “I know you have a low opinion of me, Loretta, but I’d never do anything to sabotage our performance tomorrow night. You have my word.”

  Her expression hardened. “You might mean that. But we both know that you’re not in control. As long as you’re drinking, your word doesn’t mean a thing.” She pulled the door open, shot him
a parting glare, and left before he had time to fully grasp what she’d just said.

  Are you kidding me? What the hell was she talking about?

  The whole stunt comment had been about his sobriety? This was bullshit. Her attitude was bullshit and her words left a bad taste in his mouth. She didn’t know him, but that hadn’t stopped her from judging him. And it pissed him off. Every day, he made the conscious decision to stay sober. Every day, he had to fight off the self-doubt he’d never quite silenced. Every fucking day, he had to overcome self-loathing for hurting those he loved.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, the blood roaring in his ears, and left through the same door Loretta had used.

  He didn’t catch her—hell, he didn’t see her. Probably for the best. She must have sprinted out of there. It wasn’t like he wasn’t going to see her tomorrow. And, whether she liked him or not, he was going to set her straight.

  “We leaving?” Travis’s bodyguard, Sawyer, was waiting just outside the door.

  “Yeah.” Travis slipped his sunglasses on, still agitated.

  “Guess rehearsal went well?” Sawyer asked, his expression as deadpan as ever.

  Travis laughed. “Sure.”

  “Next?” Sawyer asked, his gaze sweeping the distance between the side door and the waiting black SUV.

  “Gym?” He didn’t care that he’d already worked out this morning. After this, he was too worked up.

  “Ready?” Sawyer shot him a quick look, then nodded. “There’s not too many waiting.”

  Fans. Travis nodded. Not Three King–specific fans—they wouldn’t know he was rehearsing. Not that it mattered. These were the sort of die-hard fans that stood under the Las Vegas sun hoping to get a selfie or autograph with someone famous. He rolled his head, pasted on his smile, and nodded. “Ready.”

  Sawyer opened the door, and his black King’s Guard shirt caused a series of overlapping questions. “Who is it?” and “Is it Three Kings?” plus several “Is it Hank King?”

  Nope. It’s just me. He hesitated, steeling himself for the reaction to come. Once this new tour had been set, he’d been plagued by nightmares. All his fans turning on him, yelling insults or booing him… So far that hadn’t happened, but it didn’t stop him from bracing for just that. You brought this on yourself. Now, grow a pair.