by Miles, Ava
Rye knew Kansas had a reputation for being rural, but seriously. His stomach growled. God, he was rank, but he was star–ving! Grateful the wind wasn’t behind him, he prayed the waitress would have seasonal allergies and a plugged nose.
He pulled the cap lower, hoping he could pass for an innocent college student with his jeans and black T–shirt. He snorted. Innocent he wasn’t.
The door chimed when he eased it open, and he nudged the doorstop down with his foot. Maybe fresh air would help. The air conditioner blasted more of a tepid tropical breeze than a meat–locker chill anyway. He sighed, even over eau de skunk, he could pick up the heavenly odors of garlic, onions, and grilled meat.
The middle–aged waitress gave him a once–over like a bad private investigator keeping tabs on her target. She was wearing a gold uniform with a monogram of clouds and a halo under her name tag. Myra. He nodded a greeting and shuffled forward. “I’m just gonna head to the men’s room to see if I can wash off this skunk’s stink. It got me in the parking lot.”
Her nose twitched, and then her face scrunched up. “Oh, good heavens!” She bustled over, pressing a white lace handkerchief to her tired face like he had cholera or something. “That darn thing. We’ve had two customers sprayed this week. Bill can’t catch it, and I hate to see it shot. I watched Pepé Le Pew growing up.”
A cartoon was stopping her from getting rid of it? Well, didn’t that beat all?
“Don’t bother to try washing it off. It won’t help,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. God, he must be the unluckiest son of a bitch on the planet.
“It sure is rank.” She shifted on her feet, the handkerchief morphing like a sock puppet as she breathed through it. “Umm… We were about ready to close. Our cook’s cleaning the grill.” Her eyes darted to the kitchen.
Her voice had the flat, articulate cadence of a TV anchorperson. People in the Midwest teased him about his slow drawl, but he was simply too lazy to finish pronouncing the end of most words. He hoped he could tone down the Southern in his voice tonight, though. The last thing he needed was for this situation to end up in the tabloids.
“I’m sorry to put you out, but I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t starving. I couldn’t get here any earlier.” He kept his head down, looking at her white shoes. Her right shoelace was untied.
“All right, but only because our skunk got you.”
Whew. “Wonderful. What do you recommend, Myra?” Rye eased into a cracked fake red leather booth.
“Why don’t I see what our cook can whip up for you? Tory’s awfully inventive.” She bit her lip as her nose wrinkled. “She’d be more inclined if you smelled better. We used Febreze on the last person. It works as good as tomato juice and isn’t as messy. Do you mind?”
Might as well give it a try. “Sure. Go ahead.”
She disappeared around the counter, and then popped back up with a blue bottle. He’d been sprayed with a few things in his life, but this was new. The things a guy did for a good meal. He stood up and forced a smile as she edged toward him slowly, like the smell might be contagious. She pinched her nose and went to work, the handle cranking. Mist filled the air, making him cough. She was thorough, he’d give her that. Now Rye was covered in Febreze and skunk. Things couldn’t be peachier. He’d have to burn the clothes.
Myra’s eyes were watering, so at least he wasn’t the only one suffering. Setting the bottle down, she flexed her hand. “That’s better. Amazing what this stuff can do. I keep it around the house. Wait, I got some on your face.” She took her handkerchief and wiped his cheek like he was a kid. He jerked his head back, his eyes meeting hers for the first time.
Her own narrowed and then popped open as wide as the silver dollars his granddaddy used to give him for Christmas. “My God! I’d know those long–lashed eyes anywhere.” Her pale, heart–shaped face transformed. “You’re Rye Crenshaw! You had a concert tonight. I wanted to go, but I couldn’t find anyone to cover my shift. There were some tickets available last minute because of what happened last month.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Rye fought back a growl. Like he didn’t know some of his more conservative fans thought he’d crossed the line and were dumping their tickets.
“I’m sorry. I know I screwed up,” he muttered.
Hadn’t he practiced saying the words every morning since The Incident? Georgia, his manager, had written them in bold red letters on yellow legal paper and taped it to his bathroom mirror in the tour bus. They’d made an official announcement about the drunken man harassing him, but the media kept running those pictures of the disadvantaged kids crying over and over again. So, he kept apologizing—even though it burned his ass each and every time.
Myra lifted the blue bottle in her hand. “This would…ah, make a funny commercial. Maybe you could become a Febreze spokesperson.” She shrugged. “It would be a family item. Might help restore your reputation.”
Like hell. He and Georgia hadn’t figured out how to turn the tide of negative press, but he doubted an air freshener endorsement would do it. If Corona, a brand that suited his bad boy image to a T, had decided he was too much of a liability, why would some hygiene–concerned wife and mother buy this Febreze stuff because of him?
“I’ll mention it to my manager.” He lied to be polite.
His stomach gave a hungry gurgle.
She looked at his belly like there was a monster about ready to break out. “I’ll get Tory.” She scurried off toward the swinging kitchen door, her sensible shoes squeaking with each step.
He took a seat again.
A woman with jet black hair peered through the glass hole in the door just before Myra sailed into the kitchen. He caught whispers of heated conversation and then the door slammed open, smacking the wall, and a petite woman charged toward him with a hand towel over her nose. She had on faded jeans with a hole in the knee and a smudged white apron over a red T–shirt. Her big eyes peeked out at him from under a messy pageboy haircut.
“We close at midnight, and it’s…” She lifted her wrist to look at her watch. “Exactly seven minutes to—not enough time to make you something. I don’t care if you’re that infamous singer everyone’s talking about or what. I don’t even listen to country.” She studied him for a moment. “You don’t look anything like your picture.”
Rye’s mouth lifted at the corners. “That was the idea. Look, I’m sorry you’re about ready to close. Tonight hasn’t been a party for me either.” He lifted the damp, Febrezed T–shirt clinging to his chest, hating the flowery, skunky smell of it. “I didn’t do anything to your skunk.” He dug out his wallet and thumbed through it. “I’ll pay you five hundred dollars to stay open and feed me.”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and she put her hands on her slim hips. “You think throwing your money around here will get you a meal?” Her gaze zeroed in on the red mark on his neck.
He didn’t cover it with his palm like some embarrassed teenager, but defending himself seemed a good idea. “Some fan decided to make a spontaneous audition for Bram Stoker’s Dracula after tonight’s concert. Sunk her teeth into my neck before I knew what hit me.”
Stories made people comfortable, so he pretended he was giving an interview. He’d charm the pants off Barbara Walters to get a meal tonight.
“Security went crazy, dragging the woman away kicking and screaming. Luckily she didn’t break the skin, or I’d have to worry about rabies and communicable diseases. Can you imagine? After that, I burned rubber and came here. According to Yelp, you’re the best diner in town. Over a hundred reviews with a 4.5 rating. Impressive.”
She didn’t look amused—or like she believed him for a second. He did have a reputation with the ladies, after all.
“Nevertheless, it’s late, and I’m tired. I’ll need more incentive than that.”
Myra, who had trailed out after the spunky chef, gasped. “Tory! What has gotten into you?”
“I like your spunk, and the reviews on Yelp did say a meal here is worth every penny. What would you say to a thousand?”
Her eyes fluttered before narrowing again. They were as green as his favorite beer bottle and almond–shaped. So, she hadn’t thought he’d agree to up the ante. Wasn’t that interesting?
“That works,” she replied.
The amount was over–the–top, but it would be good PR. Stories like this tended to get out. His people could spin it into something good. He was helping out some ladies who’d served him a great meal.
Myra clutched her hands, muttering something he couldn’t make out.
Rye counted out ten crisp one–hundred dollar bills. “So, what can you make me?” He caught the shake in Tory’s fingers before she shoved the money into her pocket.
She crossed her arms in a cocky stance. “What do you like?”
Oh, did he have some inventive responses to that one. “I’m a meat and potatoes kind of guy, but after Myra’s praise for your intuitiveness, I’ll take whatever you want to make me.”
She started tapping her tennis shoe on the linoleum. “You like chicken fried steak?”
He gave her a smile. “Yes, Tory, I do. Thanks.” How had his life gotten to the point where he was casually spending a grand on a meal at a greasy spoon?
She turned and walked past Myra, who was shaking her head like a disapproving schoolmarm. “Not a word,” the pixie said.
Still muttering to herself, Myra poured him a glass of tea, which he immediately sweetened. Then she picked up her dishrag and started scrubbing the stainless steel counters by the cash register, keeping at it until Rye could see her reflection in them. As he waited for his food, he flapped his damp shirt against his chest, hoping it would air dry. The stickiness against his skin was cold and uncomfortable.
Fifteen minutes later, he heard a shout from the kitchen. Myra raced back and came through the doors moments later with a heaping plate. She smiled when she set it in front of him.
“I hope you like it.”
The chicken was fried to perfection, all golden and crisp. Rye closed his eyes as the smell and steam wafted up to him, taking a moment to be grateful. Food always pleased him, and tonight he needed the comfort of it more than usual. He cut into the chicken fried steak, eyeing the buttery mashed potatoes and creamed beans. The first bite was just as advertised. Heaven. He fought the urge to gobble the whole plate up like a hog. Some things were worth savoring. The food was incredible, but then again, he’d always thought diner food had something on those snooty five–star restaurants where his mama used to drag them.
He ate slowly as his belly warmed and filled. The noise in his head—like New York City at rush hour—faded away. If he didn’t know better, he’d say there was something special in this food. He hadn’t been this calm and focused since The Incident.
Myra hurried over with a pitcher of tea and refilled his glass. He dumped in half a cup of sugar and stirred.
“Someone’s got a sweet tooth.” She grabbed his empty plate. “Do you want lemon meringue pie or carrot cake for dessert?”
Rye leaned back against the booth, sated. “If it’s as good as the meal, how about a slice of both? I nearly licked my plate.”
“Sure thing. Tory might be sassy, but she’s a damn good cook. She’s just more stressed than usual. Her grandfather died four months ago, and she’s trying to make things work with the hospital bills, mortgage, and school. That’s why she pushed you for more money for the meal, I think.” She grimaced. “I wanted to tell you as a way of apology. She’s a good girl.”
“It’s no problem.”
Myra slid his newest CD out of her apron and shyly extended it toward him with a pen. “I was listening to your music earlier tonight since I didn’t get to go to your concert. Would you autograph it for me?”
He studied the cover. Cracks in the Glass House showed him swinging his guitar like a nine iron at a glass house covered in spider fractures. They’d taken a hundred pictures of him before declaring they had the winner. Personally, he couldn’t tell why this one was any better than the ninety–nine others.
“I’d be happy to. What would you like me to write?”
“For continued courage.”
He tapped the ballpoint on the table. “You having a tough time too, Myra?”
Her face turned red. “I have two kids in college and another graduating next year. Always seems to be another bill in the mail. That’s why I understand Tory. She’s a survivor. Sometimes I wish I had her courage.”
“I’ll bet you have more courage than you think,” he said as he signed the CD.
Myra touched the case reverently after Rye pushed it toward her. “About what happened in Nashville…” she whispered. “Those of us who love your music know the media is blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I hope you find a way to deal with the bad press. Your music inspires us.” Her face beamed like soft lamplight. “I’ll get your dessert now.”
He watched her go, his fingers gripping the table. How could he undo that moment of idiotic recklessness? If he hadn’t pushed the man aside, the guy would never have fallen. Yes, there had been reason enough for his moodiness, but it wasn’t any of People magazine’s business. He never talked about where he was from and his life before country music, and it was that life that had risen up to kick him in the nuts once again. And break his heart. Oh, Amelia Ann.
His career was all he had left, and right now he needed some positive publicity, and he needed it pronto.
Strategies rolled around in his mind as Myra brought him dessert. The lemon meringue had to be about four inches tall. This meringue melted like cotton candy in his mouth, and the tangy lemon filling made him think za za zing, lifting his spirits again. Then came the carrot cake. The cream cheese frosting coated his tongue, and the cake—loaded with raisins, shredded carrots, and nuts—hit his taste buds like a flavor bomb. His eyes fluttered shut, and he groaned, chewing slowly. God, sometimes food was as great as sex.
The cake crumbs called to him, and he swiped them up with the last trail of frosting before pushing his plate away. He couldn’t remember eating anything that good since he’d been at his Granny Crenshaw’s house.
And all from the hands of a cranky, down–on–her luck cook.
“Down–on–her luck,” he muttered.
An idea started to piece itself together like the first verse of a song. Why leave everything to Georgia or fate? He could kill two birds with one stone. Eat well and improve his image.
“Myra, could you have Tory come on out?”
“Sure, Mr. Crenshaw. I’ll be right back.”
She left before he could tell her to call him Rye. Or how he planned to thank Tory for the incredible meal, which was worth every penny of the thousand dollars she’d negotiated, just like Yelp had said.
***
Tory scrubbed the grill in furious strokes, ignoring her aching muscles. God, she hated cleaning it, and twice in one night royally sucked.
And all for that stinking redneck—literally. She didn’t care what Myra said. Febreze might be magical stuff, but it did not completely obliterate skunk smell.
The grayish dishwater coated her hands and soap and grease bubbles danced and popped across her skin. She closed her eyes, hoping to relax. Her head was too full, her thoughts like a sprinter racing relays from one mark to the next.
She couldn’t ignore the facts anymore. She was on a one–way path to bankruptcy. The thousand dollars would help, but she’d give Myra half. Her family was having troubles too.
What was happening to her? Part of her couldn’t believe she’d hit the guy up for more money, but seeing him throwing the bills around like they w
ere Monopoly money had set her teeth on edge. Why were the most undeserving the most successful? Seriously, every major media outlet had covered Rye Crenshaw’s attack on that man, at an event for children, no less. Myra swore up and down the man had been inebriated, just like Rye had said in his official statement. Like she knew.
Deep down, Tory knew it wasn’t just Rye’s presence that had set her off. Another hospital bill had arrived in the mail yesterday, and the tight–knotted terror of that number at the bottom of the page had overwhelmed her. Her grandpa hadn’t had supplemental insurance, so Medicare hadn’t covered everything.
Scrubbing faster, she told herself she’d get through. Maybe she could pick up a second job. She curled over the sink, making her lower back twinge. When? Now that the semester had ended, her time at the diner began at breakfast and, after a short break in the afternoon, she was back until midnight. With her student loans and the mortgage to the family house she couldn’t sell, the bank wasn’t about to give her any more money. She’d have to take out another credit card, and pray she could handle the payments and horrible interest rates.
“Tory?” Myra called when she came through the door. “Mr. Crenshaw wants to see you.”
“Isn’t he finished yet? I’m beat.”
“I know, dear. I need to get home too. He’s just had his dessert. I think he just wants to pay his compliments.”
She was gone before Tory could reply. Finishing off the grill, she wiped her hands on a faded blue dish towel. There were new black streaks across her apron, but what did she care?
Her knees hurt like she had a sprain when she trudged out of the kitchen. Even though he sure seemed to like food, he was fit, built. Broad shoulders. Firm chest. The ball cap looked strange on him after the pictures she’d seen of him in a cowboy hat, but she liked it. Without the cowboy getup, he was attractive—someone she would have looked at twice in a bar. His ash blond goatee framed some seriously chiseled lips. God she must be exhausted to be thinking like this. He was the last person she’d ever go for… And Lord wasn’t it funny that she’d even think of that—it was hardly like he’d go for her either.