"I'm tired of being careful! I'm closing in on thirty years old! I want a life, Bernie!” Both Travis’ voice and temper rose as he paced back and forth across the living room floor.
"You have a life, and it's a goddamn good one! People would kill for your life! You're fucking Travis Steel! You can't just up and decide to go out like normal people!"
Normal. Travis didn't think he knew what normal was, anymore. He used to know. Back when he was a skinny kid from the hills of Tennessee, long on dreams and short on cash, singing at every two-bit local bar that would have him. Back when Sunday dinners were covered dish potlucks, eaten after services in the field behind the church. Where a man wore jeans because they were sturdy and stood up under a hard day's work, and not because they had some hot-shot designer's name stitched on the rear end.
But Travis had wanted more for himself than a life spent carving coal out of a mountain, or digging in the dirt. He'd wanted fame and fortune, a big house, lots of shiny new toys.
Be careful what you wish for, his mother's voice whispered in his head. You might just get it.
"Travis? Travis! Are you listening to me?” Bernie's voice crackled over the phone.
"Yeah, Bernie. I hear you. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
Bernie sighed dramatically. “Okay. I'll see what I can do about damage control. Just keep your head down from now on, will you? No more surprise appearances. You want Italian? Send for take-out and for God's sake, let one of the staff answer the door when it gets there!"
Click.
Travis flipped his phone closed and tucked it into his back pocket. He flopped onto the butter-soft, white leather sofa in the living room of his sprawling home in the hills of Beverly, letting his head fall back, staring at the vaulted ceiling.
It was times like this when he wanted to go home. When, more than anything, he wanted to be good ol’ Travis McGentry again, the nobody with empty pockets and a secondhand guitar; back when he could walk down the streets of Nashville without anyone batting an eye.
Now he was Travis Steel, the bestselling country singer on the planet. His face was plastered on album covers, posters, calendars, mugs, t-shirts, on television—he'd even done a bit part in that action flick, Warmonger. Hell, he had his own action figure that came with a guitar and karate-chop action, and his own line of cologne.
Travis seriously doubted that there was a soul in the U.S., Canada, the larger part of Europe, and most of Japan who wouldn't recognize him on sight. Bernie was right. He couldn't expect to go anywhere without causing a scene simply by showing up.
He had millions of fans across the globe, and yet there he sat, all alone.
Maybe he should get a dog.
No, Travis frowned, correcting himself. Maybe he should get a life.
There was one place he could go where people would welcome him without fawning over him, where the only camera in sight would be an ancient Polaroid that sat on a shelf in the hall closet covered in a thick layer of dust.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open and pushed three on speed dial.
"Hey, Mama. It's me. I'm comin’ home."
* * * *
"Bernie, I know, and I'm sorry. But I need this, Bernie. I need to go home for a while. It's too late, Bernie. I'm already in Tennessee. We just landed. I'm going to rent a truck and drive to my folk's place, and then on up to my daddy's cabin. Bernie ... Bernie, you'd best take one your stomach pills. I ain't coming back for a while, a month maybe. Bernie ... Bernie, I'm hanging up now. You take care. I'll call you when I get back in town. Bye, Bernie."
Travis hit “end” and looked at the phone, then tossed it into the first trash receptacle he passed. No more phone calls. No more headaches. No more demands. For the first time in years, Travis felt free.
He was wearing his oldest pair of jeans, plain old Levis, worn thin and shredded at the knees, and a red flannel shirt over a white tee. He'd dyed his trademark wheat-blond hair black, and had a ball cap pulled down low over his forehead. Aviator sunglasses and scuffed brown work boots completed his disguise.
Walking through the terminal toward Baggage, he kept his head down, making eye contact with no one. No use in tempting fate—so far, he hadn't been recognized and he wanted to keep it that way. Once he got home, it would be different. There he was still just Travis McGentry, Buck and Emmaline's oldest boy. He was Shelby born and bred, and in Shelby, that was all that mattered.
His bag came around on the carousel. It was a dull army green duffle that he'd bought as soon as he'd decided to go home and realized that his Louis Vuitton luggage would only attract unwanted attention to him. He grabbed it, slung the strap over his shoulder and headed for the car rental.
"Travis? Holy shit, is that you? What in the hell did you do to yourself?"
Travis’ head snapped toward the tall, lanky man who was leaning against the wall near the rental counter. The man's sandy hair was cropped close on the top and sides and long in back in an honest-to-Christ mullet, and his blue eyes twinkled in a face that time hadn't yet managed to reshape. Travis recognized him in an instant.
"Booger?"
The man laughed, free and easy. “Yeah, it's me. And here I was, worried that you might have forgotten me."
"Hell, no! What are you doing here?” Travis walked over with his hand extended. He found himself pulled into a bone-crunching hug that lifted him clear off his feet, instead.
"Your Daddy couldn't come—Alba's fixin’ to pop out a calf at any second. Your Ma asked me to come down and tote you back."
"Oh.” Travis cast a glance at the rental counter. “I was going to have Daddy rent a truck for me. Didn't want to do it myself because ... well, you know..."
"Boy, howdy! Your Ma drilled it into my head when she called me. Said nobody was to know you were here. Look, you don't have to rent a truck—you can use my old one while you're here. I bought a newer one last spring, a sweet Ford 250. She only had 75,000 miles and not a nick on her."
"Oh, man, that would be great. Thanks, Booger."
"Don't sweat it. Come on, now. If I don't get you home soon, your Ma's likely to be madder than a bee-stung dog. She'll get that big ol’ wooden spoon of hers and take it out on my hide."
Travis laughed, shifting the weight of his duffle from one shoulder to the other. Damn, it felt good to be home, talking to a friendly face who didn't give a rat's ass about when his next album was coming out or who was sleeping in his bed.
"So, you still riding stallions instead of mares?"
He stood corrected. “Booger! What kind of a question is that?"
"An honest one. You know how folk think in Shelby. Just a friendly warning to keep your head down, is all."
Travis felt his cheeks heat up, and ducked his head. “Understood. Look, Booger ... my folks don't know about—"
"Don't worry. I'm not going to say anything. Ain't my place to tell them."
"Thanks, Booger."
Booger led Travis to a dark blue Ford 250, splattered with mud, and sporting a gun rack mounted on the back window. Travis threw his duffle into the back and settled down in the front passenger seat for the long ride up into the mountains to Shelby.
* * * *
Home was a large, split-log cabin built at the turn of the century by Travis’ great-grandfather. Not much had changed about the place in the years that followed, aside from the addition of a generator, a tiny bathroom, and running water. It had only been during the past two years that Travis had a few luxuries—a new, more powerful generator, a big screen TV, satellite dish, and a washer and dryer—installed, and he'd had to fight tooth and nail with his parents to do that much. Not that his parents were against progress—it was the money he'd spent that they worried about. They knew Travis was well-off, but they just couldn't comprehend exactly how much money Travis had made, and they'd hated the thought of him spending a single nickel on them that wasn't necessary.
Hell, he'd offered to move them out to Beverly Hil
ls and set them up in a house with a maid and a gardener, and his daddy had nearly popped a blood vessel. Their protests came from a lifetime spent counting pennies and pinching them for all they were worth. To them, tomorrow was just a nickel away from starvation, and they wouldn't allow Travis to spend any of his “nest egg” on them. Eventually, Travis had won them over, but other than those few changes, the cabin stood as it had for the past hundred years.
Everyone was there: Ma, Daddy, Travis’ three younger sisters and four younger brothers, Aunt Alice, Ma's widowed sister, and Nana, Daddy's mother. It was a family gathering just like the ones Travis remembered—a loud and comfortable chaos.
Booger stayed for dinner, venison stew with fresh baked biscuits, followed by Ma's deep dish cherry cobbler.
Afterward, Travis sat back in his chair sipping at a cup of coffee, just enjoying being home.
Booger scraped the last of the cherry cobbler off his plate and looked at Travis. “So, Travis ... what's it like, being a big shot singer out in California?"
Travis shrugged. “I don't know ... busy, I guess. I spend a lot of time in the studio, recording, and I have to make all sorts of appearances. Bernie—he's my manager—says that you've got to keep your face in front of the cameras all the time, don't let anyone ever forget what you look like. Gets annoying, that's for sure. I like to sing and write songs, but I ain't much for yakking it up on those talk shows and whatnot."
"Yeah, but you get special treatment, right? Good tables in restaurants and such?"
Travis nodded. “There's that. You get to be on the sweet side of the velvet ropes, where everyone else wants to be."
"Sounds pretty fine to me,” Booger laughed, toasting Travis with his coffee mug. “So, why did you leave?"
"Yeah, well, it got to the point where I couldn't leave the house without getting mobbed. That's why I came home. I want to forget about the ropes and the fans and the hoopla for a while. Remember how to be me again.” Travis stood up and stretched, then kissed his mother and grandmother on their cheeks, shook his father's hand. “Where's that old truck of yours, Booger? I want to get up to the cabin before dark."
"It's already there. I figured you wouldn't be staying here since the bedrooms are full, so your daddy followed me up there and we parked it at the cabin. I'll drive you up."
* * * *
Travis spent the first few minutes of the drive to the cabin watching the scenery rush by. Autumn in the mountains had always been his favorite season. The trees were ablaze with color, from deep purples to fiery oranges and reds to brilliant yellows, and there was a nip in the air that foretold of quiet winters deep with snow.
After a while, he watched Booger out of the corner of his eye. Travis’ lips quirked in an amused smile—nothing had changed about Booger in the ten years Travis had been gone, including his haircut. He was still as skinny as a matchstick and twice as hot. Long, lean, and strong, his biceps bulged against the fabric of his flannel shirt as he steered the truck over the pitted, rough dirt road that wound up deeper into the mountains.
Travis would never describe Booger as handsome. His jaw was too sharp, his lips were too thin, and his ears stuck out like jug handles on the sides of his head. But when he smiled, when his cheeks hitched up in that shit-eating grin of his, and those blue eyes sparkled, well then, Jethro “Booger” Howery was downright adorable.
Not that Travis would ever tell him that. Lord, no. Not unless he wanted to fork over a few thousand dollars for a set of brand new teeth after Booger finished knocking out the ones God had planted in Travis’ mouth.
Booger had been Travis’ best friend throughout school and the last face he'd seen when Travis left Shelby. Booger was the one who'd driven Travis to the bus depot, and had loaded Travis and his guitar on the Greyhound to Nashville. Booger had never left Shelby as far as Travis knew. He took a job logging, like his daddy. That hadn't surprised Travis, but the fact that Booger had never married did. Most men in their neck of the woods were married right out of high school, if not sooner, usually to their childhood sweethearts.
Maybelle Atkins. That was the name of the girl Booger had been taken with when Travis left Shelby. “Hey, Booger? Whatever happened to Maybelle? I thought you'd be married to her with forty kids by now."
Booger snorted. “Nah. It didn't work out. She up and married Clinton Sawyer, from over on Potbelly Ridge. Got herself three little gap-toothed kids and another on the way. Me? I'm a tried and true bachelor."
"Well, ain't that something. You, who couldn't go more than two hours without getting laid—"
"Whoa. Didn't say I wasn't getting any. Said I didn't marry Maybelle."
"So, who is she?"
"Well, let me introduce you. Her name's Mary.” Booger cracked a smile and held up his right hand. “She's got herself five sisters, and they all know how to take care of a man."
Travis hooted, batting Booger's hand away. Same old Booger.
An hour later, just as the sun was setting behind the mountain peaks, casting the surrounding forest in deepening shades of purple, they pulled up in front of a tiny cabin tucked up tight in a grove of blue-green pines. A faded red, beat-to-shit pickup sat next to it. The pickup was sprinkled with bird shit and had one primer-gray bumper.
The men in Travis’ family had kept the small cabin for nearly as many years as they'd had the house. It was a get-away, somewhere they could go to fart and scratch their balls without the womenfolk a-huffing and puffing at them, as Travis’ daddy would say. Where they'd run and hide when they did wrong was his Ma's explanation. It was very small, just one room. No electricity, no telephone, no running water, and the only amenity was the outhouse. But the one thing it had in spades was privacy.
"Come on, I'll help you get settled in.” Booger turned off the motor. He was out of the truck and inside the door before Travis could say anything to the contrary.
The cabin smelled like old smoke and piss. The first thing Travis did was throw open the windows to air it out. Booger was already piling wood in the hearth, kindling the fire.
Travis noticed that someone had stocked the pantry shelves above the black, cast iron potbelly stove with canned stuff—beans, vegetables, tuna, and stew. There was a fresh loaf of home-baked bread, coffee, sugar, and a full case of beer.
Good ol’ Booger, Travis thought, smiling. The man knew Travis like a book, even after all these years. He'd known that Travis wouldn't have thought to bring food up to the cabin. Adding that to the sack of leftovers Ma had sent up with him would keep Travis from having to leave the cabin for a week.
Speaking of Booger, he'd stretched out on his back in front of the fireplace, forearms tucked under his head, ankles crossed, one foot tapping to a melody only he could hear. He was looking at Travis from under his eyelashes, studying him.
"Don't know if I like the black hair. And you're too damn skinny. I've seen more meat on a year-dead skeeter."
Travis blinked, automatically reaching for his head. “It's not forever. I had to dye it so that no one would recognize me. And I may not be fat, but I'm not anorexic, either."
"Son, from where I'm sitting it looks like you've got a north and a south, but no east or west."
"Since when do you care about stuff like that anyway?” Travis felt a little offended, although he couldn't put his finger on why. It was only Booger, after all.
"Didn't say I cared. Just pointing out the obvious, is all.” Booger turned his head away as if to stare at the dancing flames in the hearth.
Travis noticed that his foot began to tap faster, as if the music in Booger's head had picked up tempo.
"Well, what about you? You're as skinny as a rail, and still sporting a mullet, for chrissakes! It was already out of style ten years ago when you first got it."
"Betsy Hammond cuts it for me down at the Clip and Curl in Shelby. She says it makes me look like Billy Ray Cyrus."
Travis chuckled, shaking his head. “No way! He's got you by at least fifty pounds, and his hair is br
own."
Booger arched an eyebrow. “You don't see the resemblance?"
"Nope. Not a bit."
"I can sing as good as he can. Don't tell my heart, my achy breaky heart..."
"Booger, I hate to break it to you, but music ain't one of your God-given talents."
"Yeah? Well, I can do a mean Achy Breaky dance."
"I'll have to take your word on that,” Travis laughed.
"You should see my Tush Push."
Travis snorted. “Hell, Booger! That there's a picture I didn't need in my head,"
"Why? Something wrong with my tush?” Booger asked, looking affronted. He twisted, as if trying to get a look at his own behind.
Nope, Travis thought. There's not a damn thing wrong with that butt. It filled out the back of Booger's jeans perfectly. His laughter trailed off, his body tightening. Oh Lordy, what in hell is wrong with me? This is Booger, for God's sake—that settles it. I need to get laid as soon as I get back to California. It's been way too long, if thinking about Booger gives me a hard-on. Travis tore his eyes away, feeling his cheeks heat up. Walking to the small table under the window, Travis sat down, lifting his face and letting the brisk air that blew in cool his blush.
"It's nearly full dark, Booger.” Travis barely managed to squeak it out as visions of Booger tush-pushing—naked—continued to float through his head. His cock filled, refusing to behave, even though Travis kept reminding it that this was Booger he was fantasizing about. “Don't you think you ought to be getting on home?"
"Nah. I'll camp out here for the night. Don't want to risk scratching my new truck up trying to work my way down the mountain in the dark."
Shit! Travis swore silently. He couldn't insist that Booger leave—not after Booger had been kind enough to pick him up at the airport, drive him home and then up to the cabin, loan him his truck, stock the cabin with food...
It was going to be a long, long night.
He stood up, grabbed a couple of beers from the pantry shelf, tossed one to Booger and popped one open for himself. He drained it in several long swallows and reached for another.
The Sweet Side Of The Ropes: Enthralling Tales Of Male-Male Romance Page 5