Love, Me

by Tiffany White

Hell, maybe she was right.

  All he knew was that he wanted his old junker back, which was an impossibility. By now, it was a cube of compressed iron in some junkyard. The dark-haired vixen had consigned it there with one careless twist of her steering wheel.

  Fell asleep at the wheel—his foot. And while listening to one of his songs, she’d said. At least he could sing. Not like her—she didn’t sing; she made noise.

  He was fairly sure he knew what she’d wanted to talk to him about at the Farm Aid benefit. Fairly sure it had occurred to her that he could write her a hit. Imagine her wanting him to write a song for her. At least she hadn’t insulted him by pulling out her checkbook and offering him a check for fifty dollars again.

  Thanks to her, he couldn’t write her one even if he were crazy enough to want to.

  Oh, he’d tried, but every attempt in the past months had been a dead end. He’d tried making excuses to himself, but deep inside he knew the magic was gone. He couldn’t write.

  Not a note, not a word.

  For the first time since he’d started his career, he had writer’s block. And since he sang only the songs he wrote, that meant no career.

  There was a knock on the door of his dressing room and he called out that it was open.

  His assistant, Melinda Jackson, came in with the cold mineral water he’d requested. Drinking some before every performance had become a ritual.

  “How’s the house tonight?” he asked, taking a long swallow from the green plastic bottle of water.

  ‘It’s a packed house like it is every time you perform,” Melinda replied, her voice soft and wispy, unlike Chelsea Stone’s.

  He set the bottle aside and picked up his long, expensively tailored jacket. It was elegant in its simplicity. Dakota’s trademark was a quiet, seductive kind of onstage presence.

  Sequins like the custom-made Manuel jackets some country stars preferred would have been overkill.

  His tight jeans almost were.

  “How much longer?” he asked, buttoning his jacket. He wondered how the inexperienced opening act was faring onstage.

  Since they were playing the Opry, he’d advised than to go for broke. You never knew who might be in the crowd at the legendary country-music hall. He could still recall what it was like to be an opening act.

  Hell, it might not be long before he was an opening act again.

  “I’d say their act will wrap in about fifteen minutes,” Melinda answered, picking a piece of invisible lint off the shoulder of his jacket.

  He’d hired Melinda Jackson because she was the kind of ladylike woman he was used to. Too late, he’d realized she was as socially ambitious as his mother. Her possessiveness drove him crazy at times, but he kept her on because she was good at her job, even though he was sure the secretarial college she’d attended had been more like a girls’ finishing school.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know Chelsea Stone hadn’t gone to finishing school, he reflected. Or if she had, she hadn’t graduated. Chelsea was the sort to get expelled for being a bad influence on the other girls.

  It was hardly fair of him, he decided, to judge her when he was guilty of breaking rules himself; disregarding his family’s social code was the reason he wouldn’t inherit the Law banking fortune. Yeah, but while he might break rules, he told himself, he didn’t flaunt the fact.

  Melinda looked up at him with doelike eyes. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, I guess I’d better get backstage,” he said, dismissing her.

  She seemed about to say something else when a knock sounded on the dressing-room door. The door opened and Dakota’s drummer, Burt, took a step into the room, then stopped, blocking the entrance. “There’s a lady out here to see you, Dakota.”

  “Who is it?” Dakota asked, expecting a fan.

  “The lady says her name is Chelsea Stone,” Burt replied then winked. “And if you ask me, I believe her. She’s got some legs.”

  “That’s no lady,” Dakota grumbled, his stomach sinking. Now what?

  “What does she want?” Melinda asked, not bothering to keep the proprietary tone from her voice.

  “Tell her I’m not here,” Dakota instructed.

  “Tell her yourself,” Chelsea said, as she quickly ducked under Burt’s arm and forced her way into the dressing room.

  “What do you want?” Dakota demanded.

  His uncharacteristic rudeness got Melinda’s attention, and she turned to study Chelsea more closely.

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” Chelsea said, sweetly sarcastic and bold as hell.

  “I’m getting ready to go onstage,” Dakota said, losing control. He jammed his white Stetson on his head and glared at her from beneath its brim.

  “This won’t take long,” Chelsea assured him.

  “I’m waiting,” he said, tapping his boot.

  “I want to talk to you in private,” she said.

  “We’ve been over this before. We have nothing to say to one another, remember?”

  “I’m not leaving until we talk,” Chelsea declared, walking past him and sitting down on the love seat beside his dressing table.

  She glanced at a very interested Burt lounging at the door, and then pointedly at Melinda, who stood practically at Dakota’s side. “In private.”

  Dakota clenched his teeth, stared at the ceiling for a long minute, then sighed. With a shrug, he nodded for Burt and Melinda to leave them alone.

  “You want me to call Security?” Melinda whispered, turning her back to Chelsea.

  “He’s a big boy. I bet he can take care of himself,” Chelsea retorted.

  Dakota nodded and Melinda followed Burt out the door, closing it behind her reluctantly.

  “You must be crazy, lady,” Dakota said, taking off his hat and tossing it on the chair.

  She might be crazy, but she sure looked good, he thought. Sitting there on the love seat, she looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  Her pose was unladylike, of course.

  She had on a very short, silky, print dress. Her knees were spread wide apart and the dress pooled between thighs sheathed in black tights. She did indeed have “some legs,” as Burt had pointed out.

  Her feet were encased in red-and-black cowboy boots. He was certain they were the ones she’d bought the day she’d smashed his car. It would be just like Chelsea Stone to wear them simply to annoy him.

  His eyes traveled back up her legs past the red-and-white dress to the pièce de résistance—a black leather motorcycle jacket. It had enough zippers to make James Dean hard.

  “You’re not very good at taking a hint, are you?” he said.

  She got up and stood toe to toe with him. Sticking her hands in the pockets of her jacket, she said, “I’d be willing to pay… a lot… for you to write a song for me.”

  He wanted to hurt her for the attraction he felt.

  Lowering his lips to hers, he gave her a punishing kiss. It was insultingly thorough, blatantly sexual, and deliberately cruel. “What’d you have in mind?”

  He expected her to slap him, and was surprised by the sudden tears that gave her eyes a glassy sheen. Just as quickly, they were banished and her tough facade was back in place.

  He felt like a jerk.

  “Now that you’ve established you’re a bastard, despite your Southern-gentleman image, let’s talk currency—because that’s the only way I do business.” Her words were clipped, her voice icy.

  A knock interrupted the heated silence as they took each other’s measure. Burt called through the door, “You’re on in three.”

  “What’s your answer—will you write a song for me?” Chelsea persisted.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  It was an obvious brush-off. A flash of fire flickered in Chelsea’s eyes. “You do that,” she said, then, standing on tiptoe, proceeded to kiss him senseless, repaying him in kind with
a kiss that was insultingly sensual, boldly provocative and unmistakable in message.

  It said, I don’t give an inch.

  And I’m not impressed.

  CHELSEA WATCHED FROM backstage as Dakota began his opening song after the thunderous applause from the packed audience died down.

  It was a torch song, the lyrics all achy and filled with longing. Dakota looked as uncomfortable as hell.

  A satisfied smile played on Chelsea’s lips when halfway through his song, Dakota did something he’d never done before.

  He forgot his own lyrics.

  4

  CHELSEA STOOD LOOKING out the window of her suite at the Opryland Hotel. The view of the two-acre conservatory was enchanting. Last week’s appearance at the Farm Aid benefit, her first live performance since her throat surgery, had netted her an interview with “E Entertainment” and she was in an upbeat mood.

  Thankfully the interviewer had kept the tone of the interview light. When the woman asked her why she was in Nashville, Chelsea had hinted at her plans to take her career in a new direction.

  She hoped her fans would follow her, but it wasn’t something she could count on. Public interest could be very fickle. But if she could bring her old fans and win some new ones—she knew it was a big if—she could be back on top again.

  The phone rang.

  It was Tucker.

  “The interview with ‘E’ went great,” she informed him. “How did your gig go last night?”

  “The sound system wasn’t the best, but the crowd didn’t seem to notice,” he answered. “When’s the piece going to run?”

  “I’m not sure. The interviewer said it would probably air in about two weeks. So, where are you headed next?”

  “Somewhere in Iowa, I think.”

  “Good,” she told him. “You’ll have time to write letters. Do you have the address here?”

  “I always know where you are, babe. How about Dakota? Does the poor bastard know you’re in Nashville?”

  “He knows.”

  “And?”

  “And he said he’d think about it, just to get rid of me.”

  “But you’re going to try again, right?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, good luck, babe. I’ve got to run. The band’s waiting to go out to breakfast.”

  “It’s two in the afternoon.”

  “You’ve been off the road too long—that is breakfast time.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot.”

  She hung up on his “See you, babe,” and stood by the phone for a moment, remembering the camaraderie that was part of being on the road. But she had no time to be blue, she reminded herself. There were suitcases to be unpacked.

  And a mind to be changed.

  Dakota Law would write her a signature song.

  When she began unpacking her last suitcase, she came across her mail. She’d scooped it up in her hurry to catch her flight to Nashville. She sorted through it quickly and set aside a small package and a greeting-card envelope.

  She opened the small package first and laughed at the ceramic oddities inside. Tucker had picked up the habit of sending her dumb salt-and-pepper shakers from wherever his band played. Putting the package aside, she opened the card. It had a teddy bear on the front.

  She smiled. She loved teddy bears. When she’d run away from home her old brown bear had been the only thing she’d taken with her.

  She opened the card and read it.

  Roses are red,

  Violets are blue.

  Don’t let Dakota

  Get to you.

  Love, me

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING Chelsea made the next move in her campaign to convince Dakota to write a song for her.

  He was performing at his club, Dakota Country on Music Row. Chelsea arrived just before he began his last set and prayed that he wouldn’t spot her in the audience. She was determined to see him after the performance, sure that if she could get him alone long enough to plead her case, he’d be convinced that writing a song for her was his idea.

  Chelsea sat at a table as far away from the stage as possible and lowered her head as Dakota strode onstage. When the lights dimmed and Dakota began to sing, Chelsea forgot about being as inconspicuous as possible. She listened breathlessly, and ached and cheered along with the rest of the audience. When the set ended, it took her a moment to remember her reason for being there.

  She paid her tab and made her way toward the hallway that led to Dakota’s private domain. When she’d entered the club she’d been surprised that the walls were not covered with ego-enhancing mementos of Dakota’s stunning career. There was only one picture of Dakota in the foyer; the rest of the wall space was given over to posters of other performers. Autographed posters of Dwight Yoakam, Tanya Tucker and Billy Ray Cyrus were hung outside Dakota’s dressing room.

  Chelsea hesitated outside the door and listened.

  “Can I help you?”

  Chelsea froze, then took a deep breath and turned.

  “It’s you again!” Dakota accused, recognizing her.

  “I wanted to talk to you…” she began.

  “Look,” he said, his gaze traveling over her, “I don’t care how short that red spandex mini is, the answer is still no.”

  “But-”

  “Stay away from me,” he warned, pulling his white Stetson down over his cold blue eyes as he went into his dressing room. The door slammed behind him.

  So much for his telling her he’d think about it, Chelsea realized, but she remained standing in the hallway. Her plan of attack hadn’t allowed for a door being slammed in her face, but she had no intention of leaving.

  She was raising her hand to knock on the door when she heard Dakota begin strumming his guitar. She listened as the strumming went on in fits and starts. With each new start, Chelsea could sense that Dakota was becoming more and more frustrated.

  Suddenly he cursed and played a loud, dissonant chord. This was followed by the sound of his guitar hitting the wall. Breaking strings twanged, and then there was silence.

  Playing a hunch, Chelsea entered the dressing room without knocking.

  “Tell me the truth, cowboy,” she challenged. “Is the reason you keep refusing to write a song for me because you won’t or you can’t?”

  Dakota’s head was buried in his hands. “Go away.”

  “Answer the question and maybe I will.”

  There was a long pause. “Okay, I can’t. Are you satisfied?” he mumbled.

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I thought you were leaving,” he said, looking up at her.

  “I said, maybe I would.”

  “Do you try to annoy people, or is it just a natural talent?”

  “What I’m trying to do is get you to write a song for me,” she said, ignoring his rudeness.

  “Well, now you know I can’t, why don’t you be a good little girl and run along,” Dakota replied, nodding toward the door.

  “A good little girl? You must be kidding.” She took a seat, crossed her legs, and dangled her red high heel flirtatiously.

  “Let me guess,” she ventured. “You haven’t announced a tour date because your album is going to be late… am I right? And I annoy you because it reminds you of your problem.”

  “You are my problem.”

  “What?”

  Dakota unfolded his lanky frame and picked up the ruined guitar. “You heard me. You are my problem.” He tossed the guitar in the trash.

  “What are you talking about? Just because I asked you to write me a song? You’ve got bigger problems than not being able to write me a song. If you can’t produce an album, your record company will toss you out on your rear.”

  “You’re the reason I can’t write,” he said, snagging her dangling shoe and handing it to her.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “I got to you, huh?” Her smi
le was saucy, her wink sexy.

  “No, you got to my car.”

  She threw her shoe at him. “Will you quit about your stupid car. It was an accident. It was unfortunate, but frankly, don’t you think you’re just a little bit obsessed about that clunker. It’s toast. Get over it.”

  “I wrote all my hit songs in the back seat of that car,” Dakota said flatly.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I wish I were,” he answered with a resigned sigh.

  “Aw, come on. This is an act. You’re trying to make me feel guilty, that’s all,” Chelsea said. What a ridiculous idea that his ability to write hit songs was somehow tied up with an old heap she’d wrecked months ago.

  Dakota looked directly at her. “I haven’t written a hit song in months. I haven’t written a song in months. Not even a chorus… a refrain. Nothing, since you smashed my car.”

  He was serious. She’d wrecked more than his car; she’d wrecked his life—and gone skipping off as if nothing had happened. But how could she have known?

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course, I am.”

  “You’re sorry because I can’t write a song for you, is that it?” He picked up her shoe, then knelt down to slip it on her foot.

  The words Prince Charming came to mind, but she dismissed them. Her career might need rescuing, but she didn’t.

  “If you were really sorry,” Dakota said, when he saw that she wasn’t going to be baited, “you’d help me get past my block.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that since I laid eyes on you…” He threw up his hands in a gesture of utter frustration.

  “You know you’re being superstitious about your car. You can write. It’s only your mind playing tricks on you. Maybe you should try hypnotic suggestion or something.”

  “Nope. You caused it, you’ll end it. I just have to figure out how.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? You’re agreeing, just like that?”

  “Sure, why not? I need you to write a hit for me. If you can’t write, I’m out of luck. It’s in my best interests to help you get over your writer’s block.”

  Dakota actually laughed.