One for the Road

by Lynne Marshall

  “No. But, hey that’s great.”

  D’Anne returned the blood pressure case to her bedroom, feeling a twinge of jealousy. Once the task was done, she took a deep breath and ventured her desire.

  “Why don’t you let me be your personal trainer? We’ll have that belly back behind your buckle in no time. You’ll be able to quit taking blood pressure medicine, or at least cut it in half. You’ll look more handsome than you’ve ever looked in your life, because men always do in middle age.” The next part hurt a little bit, but she wanted to reassure him, so she plunged ahead. “Pretty soon women a lot younger than Marlene and me will be swooning at your feet, just like old times. Deal?”

  A look somewhere between insult and that’s-the-greatest-idea-I’ve-ever-heard crossed his face. They stood staring at each other for several seconds. Tyler hesitated before he answered.

  “Deal.”

  They shook hands and Tyler held on until D’Anne looked into his face. She saw something written in his eyes, something that said take a chance with me—I’m okay. She freaked, pulled her hand away and found a place to regroup. The kitchen. Suddenly the soup was boiling and the sandwiches needed to be made and sliced.

  She worked to distraction, but nothing could erase the look in his eyes. And more than anything, she wanted to find out what it meant.

  The serrated knife sliced her skin when she made a diagonal cut through the bread. “Ouch!” She sucked the tip of her stinging index finger.

  Tyler was at her side quicker than she could blink. “You okay?” He looked at her finger, held it under the running faucet.

  She let the big man gently wash her wound with soap. Could she trust Tyler? Did she have a choice?

  “You gotta be more careful,” he said.

  “I know.”

  Chapter Ten

  From her vantage point at the front of the miniscule club, D’Anne watched the band on stage. The cramped, sleazy roadhouse with its nonexistent ceiling had exposed pipes and air vents hanging so low Tyler had to duck his head while on stage. He found a spot where he could stand at his full height if he took off his hat, but must have decided it looked silly, and found a stool to sit on instead. Even that struck her as cute.

  She worried about having to stay at the bar with the hardcore drinking Lubbock cowboys, though she had no choice. They’d made their pact to stick together and that was that. Where Tyler went, she went. The thought had a certain appeal.

  Dressed for the occasion wearing tight black jeans and a tourist-stop version of a western shirt, D’Anne sat before the rustic cypress wood bar and admired her new boots. She and Reese had each splurged on a pair back in Nashville. Finally, with Tyler, she had a reason to wear hers.

  She opted for draft beer when she saw the cheap twist-cap wine they kept behind the bar. She tried not to focus on her ass, but still worried how she looked in her ladies’ Wranglers. Feeling as self-conscious as a single at a bar, and realizing that was exactly what she was, D’Anne straightened her spine and glanced over her shoulder to spy on her buns. Nothing looked out of place, albeit there was more of them since the last time she’d occupied a barstool as a single lady—way back when. Tyler hadn’t helped her insecurity a bit when she caught him earlier checking out her backside at least twice.

  J.T. concentrated on setting up his drums in a dark alcove. “How’m I gonna have room to stretch out on the skins?” he asked Tyler.

  “We’ll just have to make do,” Tyler said. “They’re paying us better here than at the Buddy Holly thing, so quit griping.”

  D’Anne got a kick out of the way Tyler pronounced thing like thang. She’d become enchanted with his smooth southern accent. Sometimes, when he talked, she got tingles.

  She watched him fuss, situating the stool in front of the microphone. He made a sound check, figured out what level to adjust the mic and speakers, lined it up with his mouth when he sat, and made strumming room for his arm and the guitar.

  Bear opted to set up on a portion of dance floor next to the platform in order to accommodate all of his equipment, steel guitar, banjo, and assorted other instruments. He left his tall hat on. He’d straightened D’Anne out about their various hat styles. Tyler wore a Tombstone, because his crease tilted. J.T. liked the Shady because it sloped down and looked cool in front while curling up tight on the sides. Bear wore a Cattleman brand, tall and wide, sort of like him, and Ricky-Bob didn’t need a hat at all with his high hair.

  The shortest of the group, Ricky-Bob rested his bass in its stand on the opposite side of the stage while he tuned his fiddle, holding it like a ukulele and plucking the strings. When he finished, he set it down and ran his hands alongside his head to smooth his hair. The brown, greasy pompadour rose above his scalp like a pinecone. He smiled with satisfaction when everything was in place, reached in his leather vest pocket for a cigarette, and headed out back for a smoke.

  Tyler approached D’Anne when he’d finished setting up. “You gonna be okay here?”

  She nodded, took a sip of beer from a thick glass mug, and licked the foam off her upper lip. He watched her mouth for the briefest of moments, which made her uncomfortable.

  “Think I’ll join you.” He motioned to the bartender to slide him one, grabbed the stool next to her, and scooted it a bit closer.

  He looked good in his black cowboy shirt, tight, faded, ripped jeans, and hat. D’Anne admired his broad, sturdy shoulders. She liked how he used his knuckle to move the hat back on his head just a bit to look at her. And damn if she didn’t catch him checking out her ass. Again.

  As they drank, D’Anne and Tyler sat in amicable silence watching people filter in. Occasionally they caught each other’s eye and made shy smiles. She felt a blush every time. The joint filled up with singles and couples, assorted winners and losers spanning all of life’s ages, plus a sprinkling of music groupies for good measure.

  When he’d finished his beer, he slapped his knees, and in typical Tyler fashion said, “I’d better git on up there.”

  He patted her back and rubbed her shoulder in a rather intimate fashion, which made her spine straighten and her flesh prickle. Her reaction to his touch made her stop and wonder what the hell was going on.

  “You watch yourself with these bad boys,” he said with half a grin before he walked away.

  “Ha! Men quit looking the day I turned forty-five.” She spun on the stool to face him. “It’s one of the silent rites of passage we ladies go through.”

  Tyler turned around and tucked a bun right back on his stool. His Texas blue belle shaded eyes looked intrigued. “Who says men don’t look at you?”

  “They do,” she swept her hand across the room filled with inattentive males.

  Tyler glanced around. “Maybe they think you’re with me.”

  “Nope, nope, nope. It’s just the way it is.”

  Tyler tapped her hand. “A man don’t mind a few wrinkles on a woman if she’s got a lot of life in her.”

  “Is that so?” She wanted to sound snotty, but fell miserably short. She became distracted by his earnest face and by the warmth of his hand on hers. His eyes switched to a way too playful look, and when he twitched his mustache and smiled, she decided to order another beer to cool off.

  But the first one had already caught up with her. She needed a bathroom. She removed her hand from under Tyler’s, excused herself, and headed for the powder room. D’Anne felt his eyes on her as she walked away, tried not to react, but added a slight slink to her steps.

  Tyler called out, “You behave yourself, hear?”

  By the end of the first set, D’Anne had finished her second beer and started on a third, making frequent trips to the ladies room as a result. The guys played great and had the crowd worked up and ready for more. D’Anne joined in, hooting and howling from the bar. My boys, she claimed more than once to total strangers. Tyler saved his best songs for the second set and she knew how the audience would go crazy when he sang “Star Spangled Heart.” The thought put
a sloppy smile on her face.

  Leaving the stage, Tyler got hung up with an attractive young woman. A wave of jealousy caught D’Anne off guard. Her smile disappeared, replaced by a pang in her chest. She ignored it, drank more and pretended she didn’t give a damn.

  Ricky-Bob and Bear rushed by, making nods and mumbles as they headed out the front door to light up. She locked eyes with Bear, saw his smile, and used her thumb to press on her front teeth as a reminder. He screwed up his face, but fished in his shirt pocket for the bridge of faux teeth, and placed them in his mouth. She nodded her approval.

  J.T. approached the bar and made a half-hearted attempt to smooth things over between the two of them. “Why don’t you let me buy your next beer?”

  “Thanks, J.T.” She didn’t want to refuse his peace offering. “If I have anymore, I may just float right out of here, but what the hell.”

  He smiled and motioned to the bartender. She thought some twice-removed type of apology might have just occurred. And the funny thing was, she was willing to settle for that. Now if he’d been one of her sons, she’d make him put it in writing and recite it to a crowd. Maybe the road was loosening her up. Or maybe it was just the beer.

  J.T. joined her for a few sips, didn’t say another word, quickly became distracted with a pretty waitress a few tables over, and drifted away.

  An older gentleman, sitting a couple stools down, spoke up. “You his mother?”

  D’Anne fumed. She chug-a-lugged the rest of her third beer, set the empty mug next to the fourth, looked at the geezer and did a girlie version of a belch. “Nope,” she said. “I’m just the driver.”

  “Good,” the old fart said, when he moved closer. “I thought designated drivers weren’t supposed to drink?”

  From across the room, Tyler’s wandering eye saw a white haired cowboy idling up to Dee. It ticked him off. He excused himself from the overly enthusiastic music fan, strode across the room and planted himself behind Dee at the bar. “I’ll have a beer,” he said to the bartender and made an evil eye at the geezer.

  Dee turned around on her stool and leaned back with her elbows on the bar, way too relaxed. She had a lopsided look about her, like she’d thrown back one too many. He smiled and shook his head. “I cain’t take you anywhere.”

  She sputtered a giddy laugh like he’d said the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

  The jukebox blared a hardcore country song and made it difficult to hear.

  Since it would be impossible to carry on a conversation, he figured what the hell. He stared the old guy down while claiming his lady. “You wanna dance?”

  She snorted and laughed again. “I don’t know how to do that stuff.” She loosely pointed toward the dance floor.

  “Come on, I’ll teach you.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her into the crowd. “Now this here’s the Cowboy Cha-Cha, just watch my feet.”

  Tyler extended his left hand, D’Anne placed hers flat on top of it. She stood beside him with his right hand resting on her right shoulder. She reached up to hold on to his fingers. He led her through the basic cha-cha as a warm up, having to duck his head in order to count the beat into her ear. Once she grew comfortable with the one-two-cha-cha-cha and he knew she was ready, he pulled a trick on her and pivoted in the opposite direction, switching his hand to her left shoulder.

  “Hey, how’d you do that?”

  “Oh hell, I’ve got all sorts of tricks up my sleeve.” He winked.

  “You do?”

  “Hell yeah.” He liked it when she acted innocent as a schoolgirl.

  Before she could say another word, he twirled her, first one way, cha-cha-cha, and then the other…cha-cha-cha.

  “Wheee,” she said, watching the floor.

  He stretched out his arms and guided her in front of him and made a cowboy bow, then she quickly curtsied. He drew her in against his chest.

  Dee relaxed and smiled at him and Tyler felt proud of his swift maneuver on the dance floor. Not as rusty as I thought. Once they had settled in to the rhythm of the pretty Alan Jackson song, Dee put her arms on his shoulders and let him take hold of her waist. She bent her head forward to watch his feet, cha-cha-cha, and he looked down onto the top of her head.

  “You’re just an itty bitty thing, ain’t you?”

  Dee looked up and smiled, just missing a cuff to his chin with the crown of her head. He pulled her a little closer, held her a bit tighter, cha-cha-cha.

  “Your boyfriend gonna mind you dancin’ with me?” He tilted his head toward the bar to point out the silver haired fox.

  “That bastard told me I’m old.” She glared over her shoulder at the man. “Thought I was J.T.’s mother.”

  Tyler threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you how much you two look alike.”

  “It’s not funny.” She kicked his boot. “He hurt my feelings.” She glanced up, looking humiliated. His heart pinched a titch. “It goes along with what I said earlier about men overlooking women of a certain age.” She stumbled and went back to watching his feet, mimicking his movements.

  “Well, I’m lookin’ at you,” he said.

  Her lashes brushed her cheeks before she boldly stared up at him. “That’s because you can’t get it up.”

  Yeow! She’d struck like a rattler. Tyler quit dancing and let go of her. “What did you say?”

  Silence.

  Dee had said the words, as casually as if talking about the weather, wielding a blow so hard into his solar plexus he had to catch his breath. She hadn’t a clue how much it hurt. And with judgment skewed by too many beers, she obviously didn’t give a damn. That’s what he got for warming up to another woman. Nah, never again.

  He gave her a you-shouldn’t-oughta-said-that look while biting his tongue to keep from calling her an uncomplimentary name. Working hard to be a gentleman while seeing red, he walked to the stage for his second set.

  Tyler decided to lead off with his hard driven, rockabilly song, “Women Ain’t Worth It, Why Bother.”

  What did I just do? A total body cringe almost sobered D’Anne up. She ran to the ladies room and splashed cold water on her face, hoping to wash away the self-righteousness as she cursed herself. Stupid woman. Oh my God, what made me say that to him? He’d gotten too close and she couldn’t stand it. Something about Tyler White made her want to go yelling and screaming into the hills for shelter. Well, she’d pretty much made sure he’d never want anything to do with her again after that insulting comment. She studied her face in the mirror. Shame and embarrassment stared back.

  “And then…there was none.” D’Anne said to herself, suddenly realizing how she’d managed to alienate every single one in the band in less than two weeks time. She cursed herself under her breath again. Stupid broad. How will I ever make it up to him?

  She stomped back to the bar and ordered black coffee and a water chaser. She covered her eyes with her hands and wished she could take back the last five minutes. Tyler didn’t deserve that from her. He’d been a proper country gentleman from the get-go and this was how she repaid him? With a swift kick where it hurt? She took a sip of steaming coffee and burned her lip. “Shit!”

  “You okay, honey?” The old codger asked.

  She flashed him the palm of her hand. “Back off, buddy. I’m on the rag.”

  Someone from the audience sent drinks up to the band. A pretty waitress delivered four glasses filled with brown liquid. After finishing what, in D’Anne’s opinion, was a decidedly rowdy and misogynous song, Tyler downed his shot in one swig. He made a drinker’s “aah” sound and thanked whoever sent it up. He started strumming and picking the next song, another up-tempo ditty that told a raunchy country boy adventure tale.

  A few songs later a second round of drinks were delivered. Tyler hoisted his glass, “Here’s to patriotism,” he said, and slugged another one back while the audience cheered.

  J.T. took the cue, and began a marching beat on his snare drum. It was time for “Star
Spangled Heart.”

  As it had since the first time he sang it, the song inspired the audience into standing, removing their hats or ball caps, and saluting or planting their hands over their hearts. D’Anne watched the magic on one of her trips back from the restroom. The gray fox left her alone after her slam. Now all she cared about was making up with Tyler.

  How could he be her ally when she’d insulted him? He was the only other one that knew about the money. It was imperative to keep him as a friend. And the kicker of it all, she really liked the guy. D’Anne ordered another coffee and more water. From now on she planned to rein in her tongue and avoid alcohol altogether.

  After the last set, Tyler reached for the shot Bear never drank. “You mind?”

  Bear nodded and Tyler downed a third whiskey. Still smarting from Dee’s remark, he glanced toward the bar at the lady that had him all mixed up and plenty angry. She sat there prim, looking mighty appealing in skintight black Wranglers and boots, yet lethal as poison. No one would ever believe she had such a razor-sharp tongue from the looks of her. J.T.’s second shot sat untouched and Tyler reached for it without asking and downed it.

  J.T. had just finished packing up his drums and putting his cymbals inside their leather case. He looked at Tyler and motioned with his head toward the bar where Dee sat. “You trying to drink her young?”

  That did it. Tyler grabbed J.T.’s shirt, swung him around and smashed him against the wall, knocking the air out of him. Between the whiskey and his medicine, Tyler had started to feel a bit lightheaded. Anger helped drive his blood pressure back up. He stared into J.T.’s surprised, black eyes. “Listen, you smart-mouthed SOB.” Tyler felt a tap on his shoulder and turned.

  “Come on now, Ty, settle down,” Bear said. The big guy stood a safe distance away and scratched his head like he was fishing for the right thing to say. “Use your words, not your fists,” he added, mimicking Dee’s phrase.