Cowboy, It's Cold Outside

by Lori Wilde

  He opened the Twitter app on his phone, discovered indeed half the world seemed to be weighing in on his character. God, didn’t people have anything better to do than stick their noses and opinions in other folks’ business?

  Then he saw what the Internet trolls were saying about Paige and his blood boiled. Calling her ugly and fat and undeserving of his attention. Cruel vicious tweets that made him want to track down the culprits and smash their heads in. God, he prayed Paige did not get on Twitter.

  His cell phone rang, and Deet’s number flashed onto the screen.

  Cash: Getting a call. Talk later.

  Emma: K.

  He hit Accept on Deet just as Jill set down his coffee. He gave her a brief smile, but she tossed her head and tipped up her nose and pivoted away with a “Hmph.” He supposed he would be getting a lot of that today.

  “Hey, Deet,” he greeted his manager, moved his chair around so he was sitting with his back to the wall and could see both entrance and exit into the coffee shop.

  “What the hell have you been up to, buddy? You’re trending on Twitter. ‘Danke Schoen’? For real?” Deet chuckled.

  His manager’s laugh was a lively sound that pissed Cash off. He was still mad over those tacky tweets about Paige. “People are assholes.”

  “Hey, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

  “Have you listened to those recordings I sent you?” Cash asked, cutting off any more discussion of the social media fiasco.

  “Actually, that’s why I’m calling.”

  “Well . . .” Cash held his breath. He knew the songs were the best work he’d ever done.

  “I listened to them when you sent the recordings on Thursday afternoon, listened numerous times, and I loved every single song.”

  Yes! Cash pumped his fist. All right!

  “But . . .” Deet’s voice came out rough and prickly as tire spikes. Roadblock.

  Cash’s gut twisted. He knew that tone. It wasn’t good. “Tell me.”

  “I sent it over to Sepia on Friday morning, and opened my email with their feedback . . .”

  The hairs on the back of Cash’s neck rippled. “They don’t like it.”

  “They liked the music itself,” Deet said. “What they didn’t like is that it’s not your brand.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re known for your Southern soul, breakup, loose-footed rambler sound. Jazzy Hank Williams with a millennial mind-set is how they pictured selling your solo career.”

  “That piece of marketing crap is an insult to me and Hank,” Cash snarked.

  “What you turned in is some kind of lovey-dovey male version of Faith Hill. And it’s not just the lyrics. The sound is a complete one-eighty from what you produced with The Truthful Desperadoes.”

  Cash recited a string of well-chosen curse words.

  “Not my words,” Deet said. “Straight quote from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Horse’s ass is more like it.”

  Jill put his breakfast in front of him, narrowed her eyes at him, and walked away. Cash glanced around to see that most everyone in the place was watching him as if he was the most interesting thing that had ever crawled into Perks.

  “The execs think you’ve fallen in love. They want love-adverse Cash. That’s why they gave you a solo contract. They were hoping for post-Simone, your-cheatin’-heart kind of songs.”

  He cursed again.

  “Tough break,” Deet said.

  “You know those songs are the best thing I’ve ever written.”

  “They are.”

  “But they’d rather have some derivative, recycled crap from The Truthful Desperadoes than the best work I can produce?”

  “It’s all about sales and marketing, Cash. You know that. Money talks, everything else walks.”

  “So where does this leave me with the contract?” Cash asked.

  “Nowhere.” Deet grunted. “They’re dropping you.”

  Deet’s words hit him like a blow. Cash’s worst fear was upon him. Being without a contract.

  “There’s nothing you can do?”

  “Personally, I think Sepia is in financial trouble, and that’s the real reason they’re not willing to take a risk on your new direction. Think of it as a golden opportunity to explore options. This is your open window.”

  Cash took the news. Inhaled. Exhaled. Fumed. “Okay. Great. Fine. We’re done with Sepia. Let’s go wide. Send it to everyone.”

  Deet hesitated.

  “What?”

  “Another recording label is going to have the same problem with the songs that Sepia has. They’ll have to rebrand you. Start from scratch building a new audience for this sound. And that means they’re going to want you to take an offer far inferior to what you’re used to getting. If you’re good with a seventy-five percent pay cut, okay.”

  “These people have no creative vision.”

  “Of course not. They’re suits and bean counters.”

  “So what are my options?”

  “Bottom line? Create something that matches your current brand, or go indie with the current project. You already produced a demo. Put it up yourself.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you’re not interested in representing me if I go with this new sound?”

  “Let’s not jump the gun,” Deet said. “My best advice if you want to stay on top? Dance with the one who brung you.”

  Cash read between those lines. Deet would indeed drop him as a client if he went indie. Unbelievable. They’d worked together for over a decade. It was a cutthroat business, he knew that, but he couldn’t help feeling gut-kicked.

  “You think I’m a has-been.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.” Cash gritted his teeth. He needed to get off the phone before he said something he couldn’t take back.

  “I know this is a blow, but if you stick with your original sound you’ll come out of this smelling like money.”

  Without eating a bite of his breakfast or waiting for the check, Cash left a twenty on the table. He started for the front door. Several people moved toward him, beaming and breathless, pens and scraps of paper and napkins clutched in their hands.

  Autograph seekers.

  It never ended.

  He grunted, pivoted on his heels, and left them hanging. Walked out the back exit of Perks and into the alley that ran behind the old buildings on the square. Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was rude enough to come after him.

  No one followed.

  Thank God for small favors.

  He rubbed his eyes. The coffee hadn’t done much to chase off the ragged feeling of sleep deprivation—it has been an insane twenty-four hours—but the caffeine had left him edgy and buzzing.

  Even in the cold air, he felt overheated and rolled up the sleeves of his jacket. He walked down the alley, grateful for the anonymity it provided. No one else back here. No fans. No paparazzi. Just a curious little crow who sat on a wooden fence that ran the length of the alley, studying him with dark yellow eyes.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked the crow in a surly tone.

  The crow gave a curt caw, flapped his wings, and flew over Cash’s head, bombing him with droppings as he went past.

  “Son of a biscuit eater.” He muttered his grandfather’s favorite curse words and a sweet, horrible sense of longing washed over him. He missed his grandparents more than he thought possible. Why were all these old emotions coming out? Why now?

  Grunting, he picked up a dried leaf from the ground and used it to scrape the crow poop off his shoulder, and thought of the book Paige had read to her preschool class.

  Everyone Poops.

  Apparently, it seemed, on him.

  Sepia was dumping him. Even though every musician with a recording contract knew they were always at the whim of executives and they could be gone in a breath, he still couldn’t believe they’d actually dropped him. Not for those songs.

 
; He clenched his jaw, cracked his knuckles. Jackasses.

  How could they not want the music he’d written after meeting Paige? Those heartfelt songs that surged up from the root of his soul and had practically written themselves. He’d stepped out of his own way, let the music come through, and he was certain they were the best songs he’d ever created. Might ever create.

  If Deet and Sepia couldn’t see that, and support him in his change of direction, then Adíos, amigo.

  Fresh start might be a good thing. Get rid of everyone and everything in his old life. The thought both exhilarated and terrified him.

  But what if he went on that limb, took the gamble, and he failed? What if following his heart, following the song magic that flowed effortlessly from him whenever he was with Paige, killed his career?

  What then?

  Lorena’s dying words whispered in his head. Don’t let love lead you astray. Not ever. Was that what he’d done? Allowed love to lead him astray?

  What should he do? Trust his heart or listen to his manager and Sepia and stick with what worked? Avoiding love had served him well for thirty-one years. Why mess with what worked?

  But had embodying the role of lone, rambling cowboy musician really served him well?

  On the career front, maybe, but when it came to relationships? He’d messed up every relationship he’d ever been in.

  A deep ache rocked him to the core. He’d missed out on so much.

  He scraped a hand over his chin, scratchy with stubble. Maybe he should grow his beard back. Maybe then he would feel more like his old self.

  But did he want that?

  He had a hard choice to make.

  Gulping, Cash crossed the street, turned right on the square, and kept walking. A handful of people were on the streets, going about their early Saturday morning business, but no one seemed to notice him dodge into the alley again.

  He wished he had something to cover his face, a hat and sunglasses. He’d left both in the Land Rover parked in front of Perks.

  He passed the buildings he and Paige had gone into the night before looking for her grammie. Despite the circumstances, he’d had fun. Had a feeling he could always have fun with her.

  What was he going to do about his rapidly expanding feelings for Paige? And what could he get her for Christmas that showed her just how much she meant to him? Gifts were much more his style than words.

  What gift said I love you but I’m not ready to say it yet?

  Jewelry? Perfume? Food?

  Too general. He needed something special. Something fitting. Something just for her.

  He thought of her and the things she loved. Pepperoni pizza. The color pink. Books. Christmas. Children. Dancing.

  He stopped in the middle of the alley, and realized he was standing in front of the building that was supposed to have been a yoga studio. On this backside of the building, underneath a big For Sale banner, someone had spray-painted in pink neon a giant heart and block lettering . . .

  LOVE IS THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING.

  In a flash of inspiration, Cash understood what he must do.

  Chapter 20

  Dissonance: Harsh, discordant, and lack of harmony. Also a chord that sounds incomplete until it resolves itself on a harmonious chord.

  At noon Fritzi nosed Paige awake with the urgent message, Gotta pee, lady, get out of bed.

  Rats, she’d overslept. She had to be at the theater in an hour to get ready for the Saturday matinee.

  Groggily, she pushed herself up off the bed, and the memory of the previous night swept over her like a West Texas windstorm—Grammie going missing, making love to Cash, Simone’s appearance and dire warning.

  “Hang on, hang on,” she said, pulling on jeans underneath Cash’s T-shirt she was still wearing sans bra, and throwing on a coat to cover it up. “Here we go.”

  She clipped the leash to the dog’s collar, slipped into her shoes, and headed outside.

  The minute she opened the door, half a dozen voices, all taking at once, pelted her.

  “Ms. MacGregor, what’s your relationship to Cash Colton?”

  “What kind of kisser is Cash?”

  “Who is the elderly lady in the ‘Danke Schoen’ video?”

  “Is it true you were robbed of your life’s saving by a con man?”

  “How long have you and Mr. Colton been an item?”

  “Are you and Cash having a three-way with Simone Bishop?”

  Six people with cell phones surged toward her, recording and snapping photos of her mouth hanging open. Fritzi barked furiously.

  Shocked at the influx, Paige backed up, yanking Fritzi along with her, and slammed the door shut. Locked it.

  Holy snow leopard! What was that?

  She plastered a palm over her chest, felt her rapidly pounding heart. What was going on? And how had those people known about all those things? And what the frack was that about a three-way?

  Fritzi hopped on the back of the couch, stared out the window at the people gathered on her deck and, with a quivering upper lip, growled low in his throat.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I don’t much like them either.”

  Fritzi hopped down, whined, did his I-gotta-pee dance.

  Yeah, and she had to go to work. No hiding out. She was going to have to face those annoying gnats clustered at her door. She didn’t know what had happened to cause them to gather, but she knew the source.

  Cash Colton.

  “You ready to run the gauntlet?” she asked the poodle.

  He barked.

  “No? Me either. But what choice do we have?” It’s not as if she could slip out a back door, unless she wanted to end up in Lake Twilight.

  “Here goes.” She picked Fritzi up, looped his leash around her arm. Hitched her purse on her shoulder. Braced herself. Opened the door. Ignored the onslaught. Locked the door. Straightened. Turned.

  Saw she was surrounded. Fritzi trembled in her arms.

  “Out of my way,” she said, her tone clear, succinct, brooking no argument.

  “How long have you been seeing Cash Colton?” asked a whip-thin woman with intense eyebrows. She stood so close that she was almost touching Paige. A Shakespeare quote blitzed through Paige’s head: lean and hungry look.

  “Back off,” she growled.

  The woman stood her ground, recorder thrust into Paige’s face. Around them, the others crowded in. Had to be paparazzi. No legitimate media here.

  Was this related to Simone Bishop’s wee hours of the morning visit?

  Ugh.

  “What are you people doing here?” she asked, then immediately regretted engaging them in conversation.

  “You haven’t seen the YouTube video?” asked Ms. Lean and Hungry.

  Paige shook her head.

  A twenty-something guy wearing a Life in Hell T-shirt called up the video on his cell phone, stuck it in her face, volume cranked.

  It was the scene from Ye Olde Book Nook from the night before where Cash was singing to Grammie, and then kissing Paige.

  “It’s going viral,” Life in Hell Dude explained. “Cash Colton kissed you and now you’re a star.”

  Not hardly, and if this was what it was like to be a star, give her anonymity any day of the week. She cradled Fritzi against her side, sank her fingers into his fur, and drew comfort from his warmth.

  “If you haven’t seen the video, you probably haven’t seen this either.” Another guy, this one older, and more down-at-the-heels, held up his phone.

  It was a still shot from a long distance away in the dark. But she could clearly make out the deck of the turquoise houseboat. And underneath the porch light were Cash and Simone Bishop. Caught in an embrace.

  Kissing.

  Betrayal shattered Paige like a silver hammer rapping against fragile crystal as her brain translated what she was seeing.

  Not long after he’d been making love to Paige, Cash had been kissing Simone.

  The YouTube video of Cash singing “Danke Schoen”
to Grammie and kissing Paige in the middle of Ye Olde Book Nook created a sensation, not just in Twilight, but in the bigger world beyond. Spurred by technology and social media, everyone knew about it.

  Paige thought her humiliation over Randy had been seismic. Ha! In comparison, that was a mere blip on the Richter scale. No one other than her family, friends, credit card companies, and law enforcement had known of her silly shame.

  This case, however, was an epic, earth-shattering 8.9.

  It seemed the entire world rubbed their hands with glee at her flaws and faux pas. Complete strangers had an opinion and felt free to comment on her life. On Twitter, people called her fat and stupid and ugly. Others were on her side and vilified Simone Bishop instead. Some loved that Cash had been caught kissing two women in one night. Others dubbed him a tool, a douchebag, and other, less savory nouns.

  After Paige escaped the paparazzi on her doorstep, she’d fled to the loft at the Twilight Playhouse, taking refuge in the dressing room with the ghost of John Wilkes Booth and Fritzi. She didn’t know what to do with the poodle since she wasn’t about to take him back to the houseboat with those jokers hanging around.

  She took her cell phone from her purse. It had been pinging nonstop with texts. The last text bubble on the screen was from Kiley Bullock.

  Traitor, the text said, followed by a good-natured smiling emoji. Cash was supposed 2B all mine.

  That made her smile, but she was in no mood to wade through all those texts, plus she had to get into costume. She was about to power off her phone when it rang.

  It was Flynn.

  Hoping to convince her cousin to come get Fritzi, Paige answered. “Hello.”

  “Caught on camera!” Flynn gloated. “Not only is Cash sweet as pie singing to Grammie, but clearly he’s sweet on you.”

  “Uh, did you miss the part where he was also kissing Simone Bishop?”

  “What!” Flynn exclaimed.

  Paige filled her in.

  “That dirty rat!”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.” It was what she’d been telling herself. “I don’t know his side of the story. The photo might even be Photoshopped.”