by Miles, Ava
There was this desire inside him to hear her laugh and watch her clutch the dashboard as the truck Georgia had rented for him hit the deep crevices. Together they could race away from everything that was bothering him, at least for a day.
“You’re crazy.” Exasperation was becoming her normal tone of voice when he was around. She blinked up at him through the sexy frames. “You want me to go off–roading?”
“You know, for someone who’s smart, you repeat what I say an awful lot. There’s a great off–roading site not far from the campground. Come on.” He forcibly pulled her off the bed. She resisted, but he was stronger.
“That’s because most of what comes out of your mouth defies rationality.” She tore off her glasses and looked down her nose at him—even though he was a foot taller. “No thank you. Unlike you, I do not possess a death wish.”
She had a point. He didn’t seem to care much about what happened to himself these days. Even less so after what had happened to his father.
“Okay, how about I give you an advance on your salary?” he asked, hoping she could be bribed with money even though he felt bad for bringing it up. “That’ll help you pay some bills faster, right?”
Her mouth worked as she was thinking, her eyes downcast. “All right, but I want fifty percent of my salary upfront.”
It was a paltry sum to him, but he loved to negotiate. So he countered. “Twenty.”
“Thirty.”
“You really are going to have to meet my friend, Rhett Butler Blaylock. He’s a poker player, and I’m beginning to think you might be good at the game.”
“I don’t believe in gambling.”
“Why am I not surprised?” he responded, loving that prim tone.
“So are you going to give me my thirty percent or go off into the woods in your Freudian truck by yourself?”
Ah, she’d resorted to Freud. Suddenly he had the urge to kiss her and show her how wrong the psychiatrist was about him feeling inadequate.
“You win,” he said, and as if on cue, his stomach growled. “I could use a sandwich. It’s getting close to lunchtime.”
“I’ll make something. But you have to promise me no crazy antics,” she said, her mouth pinched.
“Haven’t you heard? I’ve turned over a new leaf.”
“Right.”
He winked. “Be ready in twenty.”
“I can’t wait,” she said drolly.
***
The shiny red truck had gigantic tires and a gun rack. She wrung her hands together. If Myra hadn’t just called about another whopping hospital bill, telling her again how sorry she was for talking to that reporter, she wouldn’t have given into his bribe. Wasn’t she the girl who never went over the speed limit?
Plus, spending time with Rye socially was unprofessional. And deep down, she had to wonder if he’d suggested the outing for some more PR buzz. The fact that a cluster of photographers was milling around and talking to Georgia was a pretty strong tip off. The whole thing stank, but she needed the money.
Well, no one who knew her would believe she’d be in a relationship with Rye Crenshaw, so it was no skin off her back. And she could set anyone who did straight once she returned to Kansas.
Her hands clutched the bag holding their lunch as Rye exited the bus. He was wearing lethal–looking black sunglasses and looked about as delicious as her dark chocolate cupcakes.
“Damn Georgia and Clayton,” he muttered, waving to the press. “I should have known they’d use this outing for a photo op.” Rye took her arm and led her to the truck, which was parked behind their bus. “Smile, now. You can frown when we get inside.”
Smile? “Like you didn’t know.”
“This time I didn’t. I promise.”
The passenger door was too high for a normal person to reach it. At this rate, she’d need a stepping stool. “I can’t even get in. How big are those tires anyway?”
“I’d guess the standard forty nine inches. And quit your whining. Aren’t anthropologists supposed to be open to new experiences?”
“I’m not whining.”
Her mouth dropped open as he gave her a boost, one of his hands curving around her waist while the other slid under her bottom.
“Grab the handle.”
Suspended in midair, she could do little else, the bag with their lunches in it still clutched in her other hand. “I like activities that don’t cause brain damage.” Or accidents. Like the one that had ended her parents’ lives. Being in an out–of–control car scared her more than anything.
He pushed her into her seat, and she immediately reached for the seatbelt, tightening the strap until it cut into her chest. Her breathing was already shallow and it only worsened with each inhale.
“This is going to be fun,” he said, sliding in next to her.
She lurched as he shot the truck forward. “I hope so,” she prayed. And squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe it would be better if she couldn’t see.
“Look, try and relax, and open your eyes for crying out loud. You’re going to be sore if you stay that stiff. It’s like riding a horse. You need to go with the flow. How about I let you listen to NPR? I heard you listening to it this morning.”
She nodded mutely and reached for the dial. They drove a few miles until he finally turned onto a dirt road that looked like it had been created for the Lollipop Guild’s go–carts. And ahead there was a series of mammoth–looking hills. She clutched her seat belt and grabbed the dashboard, preparing for the worst.
“Well, at least there aren’t any trees,” she said, trying for a silver lining.
“I thought that might be too much for your first time. There’s a great site outside Little Rock, Arkansas that’s heavily wooded and has some death–defying hills. We play there in a few weeks. We can go if you take a shine to this.”
Her lungs seemed to collapse as he hit the gas. “You’d have to pay me a lot more for that.”
“Good. I love negotiating with you.”
She cried out as he jerked the truck to the right, heading for a rut in the road. The car shuddered when it struck.
“Do you have to drive this aggressively?” she asked, and her voice was soft, like she didn’t have enough energy for more volume.
Yeah, fear had a way of stealing that.
His loud and wicked laugh was her only response. The car lurched forward when he pressed the pedal to the floor. “Oh, yeah! Let me show you how this is done, honey. God, I needed this.”
With NPR droning in the background about the environmental concerns of ozone depletion, Rye certainly showed her. They dipped, jarred, and flew, spewing dust and dirt with each turn of the wheel. His arms showed off impressive muscles as he clutched the steering wheel, navigating the deep depressions in the earth like a demented NASCAR driver.
Her heart beat like Morse code. Adrenaline spiked as she gazed out the passenger window, which was smeared with her fingerprints . She squealed when he veered sharply, weaving off the narrow, Lilliputian road.
She could hear the deep rumble of his laugh over the ringing in her ears. Her eyes clenched shut again, and the contents of her stomach felt like a snow globe shaken by an overzealous five–year–old.
She wasn’t sure how long he raced them around—it could have been five minutes or an hour. He suddenly slammed on the brake, causing the seatbelt to cut into her chest. She grabbed the dash with two hands and looked over at him with wide eyes, panting.
“Are you okay?”
She shook her head in the negative.
“You do look a bit peaked. Here I’ll come help you down. I’m hungry.” He grabbed their lunch and hopped out of the truck.
Of course he was. He was like those people who could eat a chili dog after riding a roller coaster, whereas she just wanted to throw up. Not that she ever went on roller coasters. After all, you never knew when something could go wrong.
He opened her door and had to climb up and unlock her seat belt for her. Her hands were frozen agai
nst her chest.
“Hey, now. It’s gonna be all right.” His brows knit together as he cradled her to him and jumped down. “You okay?” he asked.
The hot air hit her flushed face, her knees trembled, and she suddenly sank to the ground. “Not really.”
He knelt beside her. “This isn’t your usual nerves, is it? What’s wrong?”
“My parents…they died in a car accident.” Her throat felt thick. She wasn’t sure why she was telling him so much. If anyone asked about them, which was rare, she usually just said they were dead. Never how. She hated to remember that day.
His face fell. “And I was driving like a lunatic. Christ, Tory, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything?”
The pressure in her chest was pulverizing. “I didn’t think it would be this bad, and I needed the money.”
The arm he wrapped around her was gentle. “Next time just ask for an advance. I would have given it to you anyway. Shit, I feel awful.”
“We’re a pair. I can’t handle crazy because of what happened to my parents and you do it for that very reason.”
His mouth twisted. “Can you stand?” His hands helped her up, and she leaned against him for a moment as her legs trembled.
Pulling away, she stood on her own two feet. “I feel like an idiot,” she whispered.
His finger tipped up her chin. “Don’t. I’m deathly afraid of flying. I’m telling you that to make you feel better, but you’d better not tell a soul.”
“Really?” she muttered, watching his ears turn red.
“Yes. I don’t even do concerts across the pond. We do live events and broadcast them. More marketing. Now why don’t we sit a spell? Then I’ll call Clayton and have him come pick you up.”
His regard helped smooth out her breathing. “Thanks, Rye.”
“No problem. Now let me give you a boost into the truck bed. You’ll be more comfortable sitting there.”
He lowered the tail gate and helped her up. Then jumped up beside her. It was weird, having her feet dangle so far up, so she scooted until her back was pressed against the side.
Rye pulled out a Dr. Pepper, which he promptly chugged. Then he handed her the water bottle. The food was quickly arranged between them. She held her sandwich in her lap, needing to let her stomach settle more before eating.
“I like the quiet,” Rye said finally. “Everything feels far away. It makes me miss my home in Dare River. This sandwich is incredible, by the way.”
The first makings of a smile touched her mouth. “It was my grandfather’s favorite. Ham, spicy mustard, and sharp cheddar”
Rye turned and raised a knee, letting the other dangle. “When did he pass away?”
She leaned back, grateful the burn of tears wasn’t as strong as it used to be. “On Valentine’s Day, of all things. He wanted to die at home, so we had a hospice nurse. He slipped away in the evening. I remember watching my neighbors go off for a romantic evening in fancy clothes, chocolates and balloons in their hands.”
“I’m sorry.” He paused for a moment. “Did he enjoy NPR like you?”
“No, but he tolerated it. My grandma was a devoted listener. After she died three years ago, he kept it on all the time. He was lost without her. We both were. When he got sick last year, he tried to hold on.” She had to sniff when her nose started to run. “He didn’t want me to be alone, but he wanted to be with her too.”
He cleared his throat. “Sounds like a good man.”
Being reminded of her fear today, and of how her parents had been taken, had made her raw inside. She fiddled with a potato chip bag to keep her hands busy. “He was, especially at the end. Didn’t want to be a burden. He was so upset the house hadn’t sold before he died. But like he always said to me, life is a long series of sucking it up when things don’t go your way.”
“He sounds like my Granddaddy Crenshaw,” Rye said after finishing off his sandwich.
There was a smile on his face that hinted at affection. “Is he still around?”
“No, he passed away three years ago.”
So he knew his share of loss too. Funny how little he resembled his bad–boy country singer persona now. He was like her, another human being who’d experienced the loss of a loved one. “What was he like?”
He rubbed his neck, almost as if chagrined. “Larger–than–life, funny—brave.”
“Why brave?”
His gaze tracked off to the horizon. “Well, he was from a pretty traditional family, but he stood against them to be his own man.”
“And you respected him for it.”
He tucked his knee closer to his chest. “Yes, it helped me do the same when I had to. He supported my decision to strike out on my own.”
A light bulb went on, and with it a spurt of compassion flooded her heart. “Your family didn’t like you going into country music, did they?” It explained his refusal to talk about them.
“Ah…” His jaw clenched, and she knew he felt exposed.
“It explains why you can’t go home and see your Daddy.”
His face closed up like an old beach house after summer. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
Her image of him was evolving even as they spoke. This was no charming but superficial man—there were depths to him that people rarely saw. “I hope this family problem turns out okay so you can go see your father. Still no word?”
“No,” he said, his voice measured, almost like he didn’t want to say the word. “You’ll remember I’m…not very trusting about private matters, so back to your grandpa. What was he like?”
Since changing the subject meant so much to him, she didn’t press the issue. “He loved to read. Laugh. Take chances.” She paused. “I bet you two would have gotten along.” A strange realization, but true.
Rye stuffed his garbage into the bag. “Well, we both like ham sandwiches.”
“You were separated at birth, I’m sure.” Tory rolled her eyes, the joke lightening her load somehow.
“You’d better eat something. I’ll go call Clayton.”
No, she decided, she could suck it up. “It’s okay. I should be able to drive back with you. I’m tougher than I look.”
His smile started out slow but continued to grow until it filled his whole face, making his eyes twinkle under the brim of his black cowboy hat.
“Don’t I know it, but I promise to drive real slow on the way back.”
She picked at her sandwich while they sat in silence. After eating at least eight bites, she tucked the leftovers into the bag.
“I’m ready,” she said.
He jumped down and plucked her off the truck. After setting her on the ground, his hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and there was comfort in the connection. His body cast a long shadow, shading her from the sun. And a familiar tingle of awareness spread through her. Needing to break the spell, she flicked up his cowboy hat playfully. Rye’s brows rose as she pulled away.
“Better get me back. I have your supper to prepare,” she said as if to remind them both.
“Right,” he drawled and helped her back into the truck.
She clicked on her seat belt as he turned the key. But instead of gunning the engine like he had before, he eased forward like he was pushing a sleeping baby in a stroller.
Her eyes tracked to the speedometer. “Twenty miles per hour, huh?”
“I promised you a safe ride back.”
A couple of cars passed them along the main road, some honking in frustration, and while his mouth twisted now and again, he didn’t speed once—a gesture that felt like the first makings of friendship.
It had been a long while since she’d felt that kind of consideration.
Our house’s got cracks licking up the side,
Squeezing the life outta the people inside.
Don’t wanna live in a glass house no more.
Nosy neighbors peering in from the outside.
Put on a show.
Like a mannequin in Ms. J
enkins’ country store.
I can’t take it no more.
Ignore the pain,
There’s nowhere to hide.
There’s cracks in the glass house,
Licking up the side.
Rye Crenshaw’s Number One Hit, “Cracks in the Glass House”
Chapter 6
The first two weeks of June rolled by in a blur as they covered the upper Eastern seaboard and then cut across the south. Rye sang in a new city every night or every other night, depending on the travel distance, sleeping in a hotel room once in a blue moon. Before too long, he fell into this tour’s rhythm. Each tour had one, he’d discovered, and he was happy to learn that the defining feature of this one was food. He’d called his good friend, Rhett Butler Blaylock, to thank him for suggesting he hire his own tour cook. It was something he was going to do from now on, though he couldn’t imagine finding a better one than Tory.
Her food was magical, and it seemed to affect his mood. If he were tired after a late concert, breakfast had him feeling bright eyed and bushy tailed. If he were cross because he was worrying about his daddy, dinner made him feel peaceful before he went onstage. And her sassy and delightful company only added to his enjoyment of her food.
Sure, he’d had to work out more, but then again, he’d always loved feeling that particular burn.
When he strolled into the kitchen en route to Dallas and eyed the fried chicken sizzling in the cast iron skillet, he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Creamy scalloped potatoes covered with cheddar cheese and steaming corn dotted with butter already stood waiting on the counter. It was going to be another incredible meal—something that never failed to raise his spirits.
“Hey,” he said.
Tory jumped. “You scared me.”
“Sorry. Dinner about ready?”
“Yes.” She forked the chicken off the skillet and set the pieces on a plate lined with paper towels.
Rye carried the corn and potatoes over to the booth and sat down. “We don’t play until tomorrow, so the band and the crew are going out tonight. Dallas has one of the best cowboy bars around. Georgia rented it and has invited some locals. Come celebrate with us.”