The Closer You Get

by Kristi Gold

  The far wall housed a recessed liquor cabinet displaying a couple of bottles of top-grade whiskey. An intricate stereo system, two flat-panel TVs and DVD player were built into the inlaid paneling next to that. Underneath, two white leather-covered benches framed an oak table where a pile of pennies and several crumpled beer cans sat adjacent to abandoned hands of cards.

  The scent of a driver’s most important staple—strong coffee—wafted from the galley kitchen to her left, barely masking the residual odor of cigars. Stainless-steel appliances sparkled without any sign of wear and tear, leading Cammie to believe they’d rarely been used. Nor would she be putting them to use. Driving the bus, yes. Cooking, no way.

  She leaned forward and glanced down the corridor, nodding toward the closed door at the end of the hallway. “Is that where he sleeps?”

  “Yeah, his stateroom.” Bud stood and walked past the refrigerator to a division equivalent to the bulkhead on an airplane. “There’s only one berth in this middle compartment right here, which is where you’ll sleep. It’s got a TV on the wall and it’s pretty comfortable.”

  “As long as it has a mattress, I’m good.” She pointed at a remote control set in a bracket hanging from the wall. “What’s that?”

  Bud smiled. “That’s high tech at its best. It controls the two slides that expand the front cabin, and all the stereo equipment. It’s pretty easy to operate.”

  Easy was good. “The bathroom?”

  “It’s opposite your berth and there’s a washer and dryer next to that. The shower’s kind of small, but it’s workable.”

  “Who needs a large shower when you have the means to wash clothes?” She did have one major concern. “Do I have to share the bath with the star?”

  Bud shook his head. “Nope. He has his own, along with a fancy steam shower. He might even let you try it out if you ask nicely.”

  Not going to happen. “I assume the band members have their own bus.”

  “Yeah, lucky for you. Sometimes they travel together on this one, but they sack out on their bus.”

  “Who drives for them?”

  “His name is Dennis, but don’t expect to see him too often. He’s kind of antisocial. I think it’s because he gets tired of the guys. They can be kind of crude, but basically they’re a pretty decent group.”

  Having spent most her life around tactless men, Cammie definitely related to crude behavior. She strolled toward the driver’s quarters and studied the high-backed seat she would be occupying for the next month. “How does he feel about having a female driver?”

  “I’m not sure he’s figured that out yet.”

  She faced Bud and frowned. “You didn’t tell him?”

  He sent her a sheepish smile. “I told him your name’s Cam Carson.”

  Cammie leveled a hard stare on him. “So help me, Bud, if my boss thinks a woman’s place is anywhere but behind the wheel, you’re in deep—”

  A noisy commotion filtering in from outside suspended Cammie’s tirade just when she was about to get going. The door released and a sudden flurry of voices invaded the territory, including a few common curses. Cammie stepped back into the main quarters, Bud following behind her. A literal band of merry men tromped up the entry steps, but by the time the last one stepped into the bus, the once-jubilant atmosphere had grown silent, interrupted only by the steady hum of the idling diesel engine.

  Cammie regarded the disconcerted group now gathered in the small space next to the driver’s quarters, looking like confused clowns crammed into a phone booth. They seemed somewhat perplexed over why this woman was on board. Alone. With Bud.

  “It’s okay, come on up, guys,” Bud said. “Just wipe the suspicious look off your faces and meet my replacement for the next few weeks.”

  Bud stepped back to make room for the men, then gestured toward the closest member. “This is Pat Jordan on bass guitar, vocals, and senior member of the band. Pat, Camille Carson.”

  “Just call me Cammie,” she said.

  Pat smiled and tipped his baseball cap up and away from his silver hair. “Glad to know you, Cammie.”

  Bud nodded to the man standing beside Pat. “Doug Jones on drums.”

  “I answer to Bull, ma’am.” His wide grin exposed a toothpick protruding from shiny white teeth framed by a sandy-colored beard and round face. His intimidating stature hinted at how he’d come by his nickname.

  “And this is Roland Williams on keyboards and steel guitar,” Bud said. “He prefers to be called Rusty.”

  The clean-shaven redhead squeezed between the two men and gave her a brief salute.

  “And finally, the newest member, Jeremy Black, guitar and fiddle.”

  Cammie looked over Rusty’s shoulder and met the shy eyes of a boy who couldn’t be older than twenty, his blond hair pulled low into a ponytail. He hung back from the group as if his presence was an intrusion, simply raising his hand in acknowledgment. She could relate to his discomfort.

  She afforded them a welcoming smile while she wondered over the absence of the star of the show. Probably holed up in the hotel room with some buxom babe. “A pleasure to meet you all.”

  “You can close your mouth now, boys,” Bud said. “I know she’s a damn sight prettier than I am, but she can drive the hell out of a bus. I taught her everything she knows.”

  Rusty gave Bud a playful punch on his way toward the sofa to take a seat, Bull and Jeremy following behind him to claim a place at the booth. “That’s reassuring.”

  “Haven’t killed you yet, have I?” Bud said.

  Pat eased forward. “Sorry we look so surprised, Cammie. Bud here told us you were coming but—”

  “What Pat’s trying to say is they weren’t planning on you,” Bud interrupted. “They were expecting someone with hairy arms who dips snuff and pitches pennies.”

  Pat shot Bud a go-to-hell look. “Not that it matters you’re a woman, mind you. We’re just not used to having a girl on board.” He addressed his cohorts with a shrewd grin. “At least not for more than a night.”

  “That’s okay,” Cammie said. “I’ll try to stay out of the way. In fact, you probably won’t even know I’m here.”

  “Oh, we’ll know you’re here,” Rusty said. “And so will he.”

  He, as in Brett Taylor. Well, he could just get used to it. And he was apparently coming into the bus, she decided when the door opened again.

  Cammie’s first view consisted of the top of a dark head bent down to allow his six-foot-plus frame into the passage. When he looked up, she noticed right away he was in need of a shave, at least two days’ worth of stubble covering his sculpted jaws. A crescent cleft engraved into his chin set off a sensual mouth that released extraordinary sounds when he sang, generating endless emotions. He wore a pair of threadbare jeans and a faded black T-shirt, not the usual trappings of success, but she sure couldn’t register any complaints considering the perfection of the fit.

  Yet the cut-glass blue eyes and raven hair were affirmations of the stunning good looks of a man said to have “squeal appeal.” And a reputation as the consummate heartthrob of country music.

  Some performers had charisma, some had phenomenal talent. Brett Taylor had it all.

  Cammie stepped behind Bud, silently admonishing herself for sinking into wilting-flower mode, yet she couldn’t quite gear up to face him when considering the possible fallout. The rest of the group just stared at their boss as if he’d grown a second head.

 
“What are you guys looking at?” he asked.

  Bud pulled Cammie forward with a little more force than necessary. “This is Camille.”

  Brett leveled his unearthly blue eyes on her, letting it be known he had no qualms about using them to his advantage. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said, followed by a blatant size-up from her sneakers to the sunglasses perched atop her head.

  Cammie tugged at the hem of her flannel shirt and wished someone would turn the air conditioner up to arctic mode. “Same here,” she muttered, but failed to look directly at him, or least not at his face. For some reason her gaze drifted to his thumbs now hooked in his pockets. Not a bad idea at all.

  She forced her attention to his eyes and held out her hand. He took it without hesitation, his gaze fixed on her in a try-to-resist-me look.

  “How long will you be visiting?” Brett asked with a smile that exuded sensuality and a hint of amusement.

  “She’s not a visitor,” Bud said quickly. “She’s my sub until Jeanie has the baby.”

  In those few moments following Bud’s declaration, Cammie felt certain, as her grandfather always put it, you could hear a fly spit. No one moved, much less spoke.

  Brett’s smile faded. “You’re going to drive my bus?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said with more confidence than she felt at the moment.

  “All by yourself?”

  Cammie found that utterly insulting. “Unless you plan on helping, but it might get crowded with both of us in the driver’s seat.”

  The guys laughed, which seemed to irritate the star. “What kind of credentials do you have to take this on?” Brett asked.

  “She’s good,” Bud said. “I’ve been with her when she’s driven. She can handle it. She’s been on the long haul.”

  Cammie tried not to choke on the lie. True, she’d driven a bus most of her adult years for her grandfather’s Tennessee charter company, but only on jaunts from Memphis to Nashville or Knoxville with chattering seniors, not a superstar stud among them.

  Feeling the need to defend her skills, Cammie went into spontaneous résumé recitation. “I hold a commercial license with a passenger endorsement and I’ve been driving tour buses since I was barely in high school. Contrary to popular belief, women are quite capable of getting in and out of tight spots, handling dipsticks, even the human variety—”

  Bud discreetly pinched her arm to silence her. “I’ll guarantee you’ll feel safe and sound with Cammie,” he said. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll come back early.”

  Brett didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. “I’ll take your word for it, Bud. But if she screws up, then we’ll call you.” Without further comment, he headed down the aisle without even a backward glance.

  “She’s starting immediately,” Bud called after him. “That okay with you?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered before disappearing into his quarters and closing the door behind him.

  Cammie massaged her throbbing arm, then turned and kicked Bud in the shin, drawing laughter from the other men.

  He winced and scowled. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “Because that pinch hurt, dammit.” She unclenched her fists and rubbed her fingertips across the indentations her nails had left in her palm. “Not to mention, your boss obviously isn’t too thrilled with my presence. Forty-five feet isn’t a lot of room if you’re spending weeks on the road with someone you don’t like or trust.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Cam,” Bud said. “Just give him some time to get used to the idea. Besides, he’s probably in shock because you didn’t try to tear his clothes off.”

  “That’s true,” Rusty said. “If you ignore him you’ll get along just fine. He gets tired of all those girls crying and falling at his feet.”

  Bull stretched his legs out in front of him and sighed. “Hell of a life.”

  “And take my word for it, Cammie,” Pat said. “After two days with this group, you’ll learn to hate us, too.”

  Cammie grinned. “I doubt that.”

  She also doubted that she would ever rip Brett Taylor’s clothes off in some fit of uncontrollable lust. Yes, he was unbelievably gorgeous. Incredibly tall. Great body with a gifted voice to match. She’d learned the hard way that the facade didn’t make the man. It could be oh-so-easy to fall for the image without ever knowing what you were getting beyond the external packaging. Brett Taylor was just that—a package deal. A carefully conceived commodity, marketed, promoted and sold daily like prime stock. How well she knew that concept.

  So why all the effort to catch her breath when he’d looked at her? Not too late to turn and run.

  Ridiculous. She refused to be blown away by this particular kind of man. Been there, done that and didn’t plan to ever do it again. Once bitten and all that jazz.

  Cammie wrung her hands. “Where are we heading?”

  “Austin,” Bud said. “Then it’s on to San Antonio and Corpus Christi before we head north to Fort Worth. When we leave there, I’ll ride on to Oklahoma City with you where I’ll catch a plane back home. After that, you’re on your own.”

  On your own. The very first time in Cammie’s life when that was essentially true. Even as she’d attended college, she’d still been under her grandfather’s thumb. Now all the decisions would be hers to make. The thought was exhilarating.

  Except she somehow sensed everyone had glossed over the real Brett Taylor. He obviously found her unsatisfactory as an employee. He would simply have to get over it. She could stand her ground and take on the best, a trait inherited from her crusty grandfather and stubborn grandmother, the people who’d raised her after the tragic bus accident that had claimed her parents’ lives.

  “What now?” Cammie asked.

  “Let’s grab some food to go, then we’ll be on our way,” Bud said, motioning her toward the exit.

  When they stepped onto the parking lot, Cammie heard more muffled laughter coming from inside. “They think I’m a joke.”

  “Nah,” Bud said. “They think they’re going to have one hell of a time explaining you to their wives and girlfriends.”

  “Does that include Brett Taylor, too?”

  “He doesn’t have either one. Says he’s not interested in settling down.”

  “I know the feeling. Maybe we’ll get along, after all. He keeps his distance, I’ll keep mine, and all will be well in the world of country-music touring.”

  Bud grinned. “Just one more thing, Cammie.”

  Suspicion hit her full force. “What thing?”

  “He has a serious weakness for brunettes.”

  She considered cowboy charm and laser-blue eyes. Nice-fitting jeans and black felt hats. The perfect smile and the perfect line. She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I can handle that because I have no weaknesses when it comes to men, especially arrogant, high-strung singers.” Not anymore.

  “Give it time, little girl,” he said. “I still remember running the boys off when you were in junior high. The fact that you wouldn’t have anything to do with them made them want you all the more. Someday some lucky guy will come along and you won’t be so quick to pass him off.”

  “Don’t count on it, Bud.”

  He patted her cheek. “One day you’ll find someone you can’t resist.”

  “And when I’m eighty years old and still single, scouring the senior centers looking for a decent man, I’ll drive up in a bus and make you eat your words.”

  Bud belly-lau
ghed and hugged her hard. “Right now I’m going to eat some greasy bacon and some eggs.”

  “Sounds good. I’m starving.”

  Cammie linked her arm through Bud’s and tugged him in the direction of the hotel. When she glanced back at her temporary home, she noticed the slightly parted curtains and caught a glimpse of the face that undoubtedly stole millions of hearts on a nightly basis. And for a moment she even thought she saw him smile.

  * * *

  BRETT YANKED THE curtain closed with a vengeance. Man, this was all he needed. A woman on board. Now they’d have to watch their language. He couldn’t walk around in his underwear anymore. Or maybe he could, if she’d return the favor.

  A not-so-subtle surge of downward blood flow coursed through his body and landed smack dab behind his fly. He fell back onto the bed and studied the recessed lights. The thought of this Cammie person running around in skimpy panties had caused his body to react like any normal man’s would. And the more he thought about it, the more jacked up he got.

  He rolled over and stuffed his face into the pillow. Maybe he needed a woman. After all, it had been a while. He purposely tried not to be too preoccupied with sex until his own need forced his preoccupation. Then he’d find someone who could take him away from the craziness, even if only for a while. Over the years, he’d made acquaintance with several women in several different cities that would come to him if he made a call. Hell, he was human. On occasion he’d take one to bed, close his eyes and escape. Nothing more expected of him than a quick tumble and a story to tell their friends. Nothing beyond physical satisfaction. No promises. No commitment. Just like he liked it.

  When the familiar rush of loneliness filled him, he ignored it, same as always. He couldn’t afford the distraction. Any distraction.