Instantly, images of Michelle naked and writhing in his sheets, bound with a pair of her stockings exploded in his head. His blood pumped a little faster just thinking of it and he was pretty sure he had a blank stare and a stupid grin on his face.
"This isn't just about you, you know," Michelle said, spinning to face him.
"What?" All traces of that one happy night they'd spent together before she'd freaked out and gotten all morning-after on him fled as he took in the way her brows drew together and her plump lips turned downward.
"The tour. Our tour." Michelle spoke each word slowly as if he was just learning English. She crossed her arms over her breasts and narrowed her eyes on him. "I don't know how you're used to doing things, but when I go on tour, we don't just 'work out the kinks on the road'."
"Really." Annoyance stiffened his muscles. Seven years had made him forget how prickly she could be when she didn’t get her own way. Well, if she thought she was going to run him, she had another thing coming. And it was best they get that straight right now.
"Really. We work, we rehearse and get everything perfect before we hit Charlotte. That's the way it works, Shay. This isn't some dive bar tour. You can't just pull up, plug in your amp and hope for the best."
He grinned in just the way he knew she hated. "Well, it's worked for me so far, darlin'." He stepped towards her invading her personal space.
Her chin raised a notch as she refused to back down. She looked him right in the eye, and despite the fact that he was a good foot taller than her and almost twice her weight, she showed absolutely no intimidation. He grinned for real this time.
"Maybe that's how you’ve done things in the past. But this ain't your show, princess, in case you weren't listening when Robert read us the riot act." He stepped even closer.
Michelle drew in a breath but held her ground.
"You need to mind your business and stay out of mine."
"My name is on the marquee, too, Shay. That makes it my business. I don't know about you, but I'd like to have a record contract at the end of all this and not have this thing come off like amateur hour at the local honky-tonk. If you can't do that, maybe you should just go back to playing for beer money and leave the business to the professionals."
Shay's muscles tightened and it wasn't from looking at Michelle's tits this time. He'd been talked down to for twenty-odd years before he'd cut his first record. Especially by his old man, who never thought Shay would amount to a hill of beans. Music had been the only thing he'd ever been good at, other than drinking beer and starting fights, and when he told his dad he was moving to Nashville, he'd laughed and predicted Shay would be back like a stray dog scratching at the back door within the month.
Shay had proved them all wrong. And after all he'd been through and put up with he sure wasn't going to take crap from a spoiled country princess with a chip on her shoulder about having slept with him. "You think you're so damn much better than everyone else, don't you?"
Michelle glared at him silently.
Shay stepped closer, until he was only a whisper away from her. "I don't think this is about the tour or my practice schedule."
"Ha. This should be good."
"I think this is about the fact that you practically begged me to fuck you seven years ago and now you have to look me in the eye."
"I never begged," she said, reddening slightly. Her eyes slid away from his for just a second and he knew she remembered the way she'd called out his name right before she'd come.
"You wanted me. And you liked how I made you feel."
Michelle didn't move a muscle, but he saw her swallow. Her body knew the truth even if she wouldn't admit it.
He was so close he could feel her breath on his face and he breathed in that feminine fragrance of hers, all sweet and spicy at the same time. "You like the way I treated you—like a woman, and not some princess in an ivory tower bowing and scraping and 'yes, ma'am'-ing you to death."
He pressed into her just a bit so that the tips of her perfect little breasts brushed his chest. "You liked it when I tugged those cute pink panties down your thighs and put my—"
Michelle placed a hand on his chest and pushed, winning herself a scant inch of breathing room. "You need to get over yourself. That was years ago and I had totally forgotten about it until you brought it up." She cocked her head. "Maybe it's you who can't get over it and that's what's got you so cranky—knowing that you took advantage of my one weak moment. It was alright, Shay, but nothing to get worked up over."
"Bullshit," he whispered, his gaze dripping to her full lips. Her little pink tongue darted out to wet them, an open invitation if he ever saw one. And he'd seen invitations in every size, shape and color. “There are some things a woman can't fake, darlin'."
She smiled almost serenely. "Shows what you know. Women fake all the time."
"Not with me."
"Sure. Believe that if you want to."
He reached out and cupped the back of her head.
She caught her breath and simply looked up at him, all traces of uppity little princess fading. She looked at him like a woman...a woman who wanted a man. He couldn't think of anything else but tasting those pouty pink lips of hers, but he knew he couldn't let her have the upper hand, no matter how painful it was. He inclined his head, his gaze burning into hers with all the pent up lust he'd been unable to satisfy since their one night together, no matter how much he'd tried.
Her eyes drifted closed, her lips parted and he knew he had proved his point. He stepped away, quickly dropping his hands and grinning at her as if he hadn't a care in the world. Of course if she happened to take a gander at his fly, she'd know different.
"You still want me. And that fact is what this little discussion is really all about.” He strolled over to the fridge and popped another beer. “Who knows? If it's a slow week I might be willing to climb back in that saddle again."
Dick throbbing, Shay forced himself to sit on the folding chair and strike a casual pose. What he really wanted to do was rip that sexy little top off and suck on Michelle's pert pink nipples until she screamed. "But not today. I ain't had my lunch yet and my pizza is due any minute."
Michelle glared at him, and Shay was pretty sure she was imaging about 37 ways she'd like to rip his dick off and hand it to him.
She growled in frustration and turned to leave. "Stay away from me, Shay Rogan. I mean it. We might have to co-headline this tour together but I don't have to like it."
"Whatever you say." Shay made a show of kicking his dusty boots up on the chair across from him before sipping his beer and gazing at her through half-lowered eyelids.
Michelle rolled her eyes and wrenched open the door. "I'm warning you, Shay. You had better be ready to give the best show of your career out there or I will make it my life's mission to make sure no one in Nashville ever gives your ass another chance to do anything but spit-shine their boots."
"I've never had any complaints about my performance so far."
She rolled her eyes and slammed the door on her way out.
Shay took another sip of his beer before setting it aside and frowning.
As much as he hated to admit it, she had a point. He'd watched her rehearsals all week and had noticed that her performance was smooth and polished-looking while his was more of an off-the-cuff deal. He liked to improvise, adding a song here or there instead of giving the same performance night after night. He liked surprising the audience and himself. He was never quite sure what he would do next until he'd done it. His set might not be all spiffed up and perfect like Miss Control Freak's but he had fun on stage and it worked for him.
Well, until recently.
He had gotten a little too wild, maybe. He'd been drinking too much and getting into fights too often. But dang. He'd grown up poor in a scrubby little Oklahoma factory town where the most exciting thing to do on a Saturday night was hang out by the water tower with his old high school buddies, throw back a few beers and talk footba
ll and women.
Nashville was a whole different life. Fast. Exciting. Flashy. He could buy whatever he wanted and had enjoyed spending the money the label gave him on cars, a big fancy house on the lake and clothes that didn't come second-hand from the congregation of First Baptist Church of Hayleeville.
He'd taken care of things back home, too. He'd offered to buy his momma new house, but she said she'd been in the old farmhouse so long she'd grown roots. The house had long been paid off so instead he'd built his folks a swimming pool in their back yard and bought his daddy a brand new Ram pick-up truck. Even that hadn't changed his mind about Shay, though. He'd accepted the keys with a grunt and walked around the shiny black vehicle inspecting it like it was something off a used car lot in town. Or stolen. Momma had been proud, though, and always told people about her son the music star in Nashville.
“Career” was never a word Shay spent much time pondering. “Career” was for bankers and doctors and maybe some movie-star actors—people who planned things out and got up every morning at 6:15, showered, shaved and were at their desks with a cup of over-priced double something or other by 7 a.m. That just wasn’t Shay.
Getting into the music business had been pure dumb luck. He'd picked up an old guitar at a pawn shop and taught himself to play when he was a j J unior in high school, once he realized that being in a band would get him laid a lot more often.
He'd been right about the women, but he was surprised to learn that he was actually good at singing and playing. What really blew his socks off, though, was that he loved doing it even when there weren't any women around at all.
Pretty soon, he’d been playing with other guys and singing in bars whenever he got the chance. He’d never thought much about doing it for money. He'd graduated high school and gotten on at the plant, just like most of his buddies, thinking that would be his life until he got hurt or too old to work.
But Mr. Sal, the owner of one of the bars he played at sometimes, had made a tape of him singing one weekend and sent it to a guy he knew in Nashville. Things happened real fast after that and before he knew it, he was in a studio for the first time cutting a demo. There was nothing worth hanging around Hayleeville for, so he’d moved to Nashville. They even put up a picture of him at the old bar when his single had hit number one.
The last few years had been such a rush. Meeting his idols, playing with them. The money, the women. All of it. Maybe he did take it for granted, like Robert said. Maybe he needed to pay more attention to things before he ended up right back in Hayleeville working at the plant alongside his old man.
Shay ate his lunch and ran through his set, then knocked off for the day. He drove home with the windows of his pick-up down, enjoying the warm autumn sun on his face and the wind in his hair, singing along to the radio. He pulled into his newly built three-car garage a few minutes later, right between the '69 Charger painted like the General Lee he'd bought with his first royalty check and the beat up old Ford pick-up he'd used when he'd moved to Nashville, carrying all his belongings in the rusted out bed. His latest purchase, the1946 Indian Chief motorcycle, fully restored and painted the classic Indian Red, was parked in the corner. He grabbed his guitar case, covered in stickers and beer stains, entered his security code into the keypad and went into the house.
The cool of the A/C after the humid Nashville afternoon was a relief. He'd grown up in a house that barely had heat, let alone air-conditioning. That was one luxury he never took for granted. Shay tossed his keys on a small table in the entry way, and flipped through a stack of mail.
There was a packet of fan mail sent over via Belle Records and a few bills, which he'd give over to the little guy who did his financial stuff next time he saw him.
Shay kicked off his shoes and headed to the kitchen. The dishes had been washed and put away and the whole room had that strong lemony scent, telling him the maid service had been in that morning. All the beer cans were gone, the garbage was no longer overflowing and the glob of nacho cheese he'd dropped on the shining white tile a few days ago had been cleaned up. There were fresh flowers in the center of his small table and his fridge had been restocked with Bud Light. The stainless steel gleamed, finger-print free.
Shay popped a beer and leaned against the counter. He'd bought this place right after his first tour. When he'd seen it, it had seemed like a palace. Everything was bright and clean and the ceilings soared, a ton of light pouring th r ough gleaming windows. Shay had thought it might be what heaven looked like. He wished his momma would come visit him in Nashville. She’d love it.
Shay sipped his beer, unable to put the confrontation with Michelle out of his head.
She was the most infuriating female he'd ever met. She was just the kind of sexy-sweet girl that had always driven him nuts. The good-girl type that would never give him the time of day because she knew she was better than him. But he just couldn't seem to leave those girls alone.
The thing about Michelle, though, the thing that had kept her stuck fast in his head all these years, was that even though she was the perfect little lady on the outside with her shiny red cowgirl boots and the stage costumes she'd worked in from the time she was a kid with a nasally voice and flat chest, she'd been a deliciously bad girl once he got her naked and between his sheets. His teenage fantasy come to life—Michelle had been right about that part.
Shay's cell phone started playing “Friends in Low Places” and he answered.
"Mr. Rogan, it’s Bob Keller," his account said. "I was just going over the bills and accounts you sent over. We need to meet right away."
Shay didn't like the tone in his voice. He set his beer down. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Other than you're spending money faster than you make it." Shay could almost hear the disgust in the other man's tone. It reminded him too much of his father.
"I should be getting another check from the label any day—"
"I've already accounted for that," Bob said. "And I was told that they might not be extending your contract so you shouldn't count on significant income from that avenue in the future."
Shay went stock still. "It's that bad?"
"Yes, Mr. Rogan. On paper, you're flat broke."
Shay ended the call, promising to stop by Bob's office later that afternoon.
Broke. Shay could hardly fathom it. He'd made more money in the past several years than he'd ever expected to see in his lifetime back in Oklahoma. And somehow he'd managed to spend it all?
Shay thought of the cars in the garage, the wild times buying drinks for everyone in a club. The women. The diamond parting gifts he was known for giving those women after a night or two of good times. Bob had been encouraging him to save, to invest his earnings. But Shay had been poor his whole life. He deserved to live it up a little. Ok, a lot. He thought there'd always be time to earn more.
Reality was a bitch.
He shook his head. Michelle had said that she needed this tour to be a success and Shay had kind of blown it off. Sure he wanted to keep his contract with the label, but if it didn't work out, he assumed he'd land a contract somewhere else. But what if he didn't? He’d made a lot of mistakes and record execs didn't give second chances. There were too many young and hungry artists knocking at the front door of the record company, demo tapes in hand, for a record exec to waste time on someone whose star had risen then fallen again. It was easier to start over with someone fresh and new.
It looked like this tour with Michelle was going to be his lifeline after all.
Chapter Three
We'd pulled into Charlotte for our first tour stop around eight in the morning after having left Nashville at 11 and traveling overnight. Outside my bus, I could hear the roadies unloading the sound equipment, stage gear, instruments, cables, mics and everything else needed to put on the show later that night. The constant rumble of wheeled cases coming out of the truck, the shouts of the crew as they coordinated and the occasional curse or shouted order was as familiar to me as a lullaby.
It would go on for a couple hours, then the crew would work mostly indoors to get everything ready.
On tour, there was a specific order to my day I kept to pretty religiously. I normally checked out the dressing rooms early in the day and got settled in. Kaylee would have already made sure everything was as I had specified in the contract rider provided to the promoter when we'd signed on for the venue, but I felt better having a look for myself. I didn't like surprises. After that I liked to do the sound check as soon as the crew was ready for me and walk the stage to get a feel for the space. Then I’d go for a run and try to relax until it was time to change clothes, have my hair and make-up done and warm up for the show.
I peeked through the blinds. We were parked behind the venue inside the chain-link fence. My bus and Shay's were parked right next to each other, but his blinds were closed. I checked my watch. I was sure Shay was still in bed. He really didn't strike me as an early-riser. Knowing him, he probably just roll ed out of bed, slap ped on his beat-up old cowboy hat and walk ed on stage, rumpled and hung-over.
I let the blinds snap into place and stretched out the new kinks the unfamiliar bed had put in my back. I’d updated the furniture in my coach, changing the décor a little. A new sofa made of buttery beige leather dominated the small living area. Matching chairs sat opposite with a small end table between. New carpet had been installed and it was fluffy and soft on my bare feet. Brass wall sconces gave off soft light and reflected in the glass of the family pictures I always travelled with. My bus was comfortable, but it was still a bus. It took a little getting used to again.
Since confronting him in his dressing room, I'd managed to mostly avoid Shay. But now that we were on the road, it was inevitable we would run in to see each other whether it was backstage while the crew was clearing his set and putting up mine during the intermission or vice versa. We’d insisted on separate PR though. Radio interviews, appearances, meet-and-greets—all those things would be scheduled separately so that I wouldn’t have to put on a smile and pretend that Shay and I were buddies and having the time of our lives out on tour together.
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