She rolled off Tommy, clutching the sheet to her, peering closer at the art.
With a sinking heart, she saw a woman who really didn’t seem to know who the heck she was, even if it appeared to be the complete opposite at first glance.
The realization scared the hell out of her.
He reacted to her sudden remoteness, sitting up, too, bunching a blanket over his lower half. “I’ve loved you since the second I saw you. I waited years for you to realize that, and when you left for LA, I lost hope. I actually painted you so that hope could stay alive, but even then it died in me little by little. I even started dating a girl who’s sweet and understanding and tells me she’ll wait for me to come around sometime. Should she stop waiting, Cherry?”
She was speechless. She wasn’t used to real emotion, just the manufactured kind that would’ve translated well to the silver screen. But there was a tremble in her that she’d never felt before.
Cherry couldn’t move from her spot on the bed, watching that painting. She’d been looking for a certain type of man in her life—someone who would keep her financially and professionally secure, who would be her . . . well, if not a daddy, then close. She had chased that ideal for years, and Tommy had always been the wrong type for her. He’d always been too . . .
Real?
So what would he do when he found out that she had no idea how to return his affections, that she had been slammed and rejected outright by her mother and mostly ignored by her father? That she had never been able to function in any relationship unless she had absolute control of every aspect?
Tommy waited for a response. Waited some more.
Then he laughed, and it was cutting. “Silence. I guess that says it all, doesn’t it?”
She started to shake her head, to explain, but his ragged tone overtook her.
“You came here because you needed a place to crash, not because you cared about me. You needed someone who would do anything for you, even if you couldn’t give less of a shit about them.”
That wasn’t true.
Was it?
Her mind was scrambled, and she couldn’t think straight, so she reached out to him, operating in the only way she knew how, believing that if she touched him, he would go back to being the way she wanted him to be.
Cherry’s magic way with men—surely it would save her this time, as it had so many times before with the others.
He dodged out of her way. “Hell, Cherry.”
She pulled her hand back, knowing that something had turned between them. Knowing that something had just fallen out of the center of her.
When he laughed in a way that wasn’t at all amused, a shadow crept over her heart.
“Maybe I should thank you,” he said, shaking his head.
“For what?”
“For giving me what I needed.” He yanked the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around his waist. In a grating voice, he said, “I finally got a taste of Cherry, and much to my shock, I realize that I don’t need any more. I’ve had my fill.”
She flinched. Even when George Diluccio had hit her, it hadn’t hurt like this.
But Tommy didn’t stick around to draw out the drama. He left her in his room, as if he expected her to vacate on her own. Numb, Cherry didn’t go after him. His words had been too final, slicing into her and removing more of what she hadn’t even known was there.
Affection for the last man she’d ever thought was right for her.
She heard the front door slam, as if he’d dressed in the clothes he’d left in the family room and couldn’t bear to look at her even one more time.
And he didn’t come back that night. Cherry was pretty sure he’d gone to that girl’s house, and, stumbling, she finally left his apartment, feeling so empty that she had no idea how to fill herself back up . . .
***
Legend has it that Tommy Rhodes got rid of that painting one drunken night when he’d ended up just outside of Vegas at a saloon. During a poker game, he’d come up short, and all he had to offer was Cherry.
But losing her was the best thing that ever happened to Tommy, because he married the girl who’d waited for him, proving that somewhere in a corner of the lonely desert, happy endings did exist.
Even if Cherry, herself, had no hopes of finding one.
12
“I just might want to stay here forever,” Rochelle said to Gideon, sitting down on a large rock under an oak tree on the Bar DB Ranch and lengthening her jeans-clad legs in front of her.
Ahh. Peace and quiet for now. Buzz and Jonsey had invited her out here this morning, encouraging her to take a very early ride on the scrubby trails like she used to all those summers ago before the sun unleashed its full strength on the day. But her cousins were training horses in the cutting pen right now, leaving her and Gideon—the man she hadn’t been alone with since the cabana—out here by themselves.
He leaned against a nearby tree trunk, his hat low over his eyes, even though he was in the shade, too. Rochelle had told him he could wear his cowboy gear today since this leg of her book tour was over: the talk at UNLV had been yet another creeper-free success and the dean’s dinner was over and done with, leaving her some precious, wonderful hours to clear her mind and enjoy herself.
He shook his head. “You’re telling me you want to lay around doing nothing now, but once you’re back in the mansion, your fingers will be singing a different tune on that keyboard.”
She leaned back on the rock, giving her a different angle of Gideon. Hazy early-morning sun wrapped around the tree, shadowing him in his gray T-shirt and jeans. “Maybe I need an extended break.”
As if she knew the definition.
“Come on,” he said. “You’ll be writing on the road, going to your conventions, not remembering this little patch of nature at all. Mark my words.”
Nearby, their horses nickered, tethered to another oak fifty feet away. They were content out here, too. She’d almost forgotten how soul cleansing it was to be in the middle of nothing but big sky, high mountains, and scraggly trees. In fact, being back here and riding Old Dudley, the American quarter horse Jonsey had set her up with, she felt like she still had some summer cowgirl left in her.
She’d missed that girl.
Gideon had slipped a toothpick into his mouth, and he looked like that lawman of old, his boot propped against the oak, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. Ever since they’d had their cabana spree yesterday, the tension between them had seemingly evaporated: the rest of yesterday, he’d done his job guarding her at the university, and she’d done hers, then they’d turned in early.
Yup, no tension between her and Gideon whatsoever now. She was sure that was because they’d gotten each other out of their systems, as she’d suggested. Now that the sex was taken care of, he didn’t seem to be interested in her anyway.
He’d had his fill, and she wasn’t sure why he would want to eat from the same dish again. And hadn’t that been what she’d been after, too? A wham-boy-thank-you-toy reset? After all, it wasn’t like there was any kind of future between them. He was a Rough & Tumble guy and she was a worldly girl. He took local jobs so he wouldn’t have to travel; she thrived on the road.
Sex was all they’d had in common, and they’d done it well enough to satisfy them both for good.
Then why did her gaze keep wandering over to him? Why did her heart beat loud and clear in her ears every time she looked away before he could see her?
It’s still the afterglow, she thought. This one had just lasted longer than most.
Anxiety built in her at the notion of anything that might last with any man. Business relationships were all she did—all she’d ever really done. Even when she’d had sex the first time with Gideon, there’d been a purpose to it: to be broken in by a teenaged boy who had the reputation of knowing what he was doing.
He’d sure proven that last part yesterday, because she did feel more relaxed, like she’d been to the country’s best spa and had been pampered in all the right places.
She drew up her bent knee, hugging it until her side braid brushed it. “You think we’re ever going to be friends again?”
If he was surprised by her question, he didn’t reveal it. “Were we ever friends?”
“Yes, a long time ago. Or at least we were friend-ly until we weren’t.”
He took out that toothpick, didn’t seem to know what to do with the tiny stick, and then just held it. “I guess if you keep all your conquests on speed dial, then that could be considered friendly.”
Was there a harsh note somewhere in there?
“Generally,” she said, clarifying what she meant, “I stay on friendly terms with men after I’m intimate with them. I mean, maybe there are a few guys I see more than once when I pass through a city, if that’s what you call ‘friends.’” She smiled tentatively at him. “I’m not asking you to be on call, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He looked her over, his gaze skimming her yellow scalloped blouse, her Wranglers, the boots she’d seen yesterday in a strip mall window when they’d picked up a quick lunch before her theater department presentation.
Her skin burned from his perusal, but she wasn’t sure he’d meant anything by it, because he was back to gazing at the dry surroundings, the mountains hovering around them.
She felt a sting and tamped it down. “I only asked because I suspect you’re a lot like me, you know.”
“How do you mean?”
“We like our sex without strings. Friends with benefits—that’s how we relate.”
He gazed past her.
She leaned forward into his sight. “When I saw you in the Rough and Tumble all those nights ago, those dancing girls looked like they were being friendly enough to you. Did you sleep with any of them before?”
“Damn, you’re nosy.”
“Just asking.” She shrugged. “You can tell me anything because I’m not going to be in town much longer to remind you that you actually had a good conversation with me on the trail today. Out of sight, out of mind, right?”
He looked at her hard, as if she’d echoed something within him. Had she?
Then he shrugged, letting her know that he could take or leave this discussion. “If you really want to know, some of the same girls do come through Rough and Tumble every so often, and we get reacquainted when it’s convenient. I wouldn’t say they’re ‘friends,’ though.”
“Then we’ll hold special places in each other’s little black books, cowboy.” She grinned at him, making sure he knew that she wasn’t being serious. But when something screwed into her chest, she hugged her knee to her again.
“Jesus, Rochelle,” he said, “that’s cold.”
She’d been told that before, after cutting ties to other men, some of who had been looking for more than one-night stands with her. Not that she’d known this off the bat, because if she had, she wouldn’t have gone to their places at all.
He added, “You sound like Cherry.”
“God, I wish you’d never read the book.”
“You’re not one hundred percent alike, but are you denying any resemblance whatsoever?”
She sighed, wanting to talk about something else now, but he went on.
“Like you, Cherry’s home life gave her a harder casing than most, and she went into the world with her shields up. She could’ve even had a different ending for herself, if she’d wanted it.”
Rochelle didn’t meet Gideon’s gaze. Sometimes she wished Cherry’s story had ended differently, but she’d gone with the most interesting finale, the one that would make this book stand out, the one that made the most sense to her.
With a twinge of emotion, she realized that, like Cherry, she had already chosen her own ending, too, with no apologies. She liked being independent, having adventures, never being tied down.
So why did she give Gideon another sidelong glance just to see if he’d be put off by her philosophy?
Actually, he seemed reluctantly intrigued, and she decided she could handle that.
“Remember how, the other night, you told me you didn’t need to have a grand explanation for why you sleep with all your women?” she asked.
“I recall.” He laughed. “I’m surprised you remember our talk, what, with the state you were in.”
“My tequila haze wasn’t that bad.” Basically.
He shuffled his boots, as if he wanted her to plow on with the conversation. Was he getting uncomfortable? Truthfully, that’s when she usually did her best talking to another person, when she wasn’t the uncomfortable one.
“I, myself, actually have a reason for why I like to play the field,” she finally said. “Wanna know what it is?”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Gideon.” Now she did turn to him. “Let’s be honest here and admit that we’re both curious about how each other operates. And remember—I won’t be around long enough for it to matter.”
A beat of time, a second of wondering if he really did care.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
But he hadn’t walked off yet. Didn’t that say something?
So she continued. “After I left you seventeen years ago, I realized that I was never again going to sleep with a guy and feel inadequate afterward.”
“Great,” he muttered.
“I already told you that you weren’t the cause of that, Gideon.” She tucked a stray wave of hair behind her ear. “At any rate, I went back home absolutely determined to master the fine art of sex. I watched saucy movies when my dad wasn’t around—which was a lot. I read how-to books. So when I went off to college after that summer, I was busting at the seams to try out everything I’d learned.”
“I don’t think I want to hear this after all.”
Too late.
“And I did try . . . slowly at first. I still had some stage fright from my encounter with you.”
As if he’d completely given up trying to understand her, he tipped back his hat. “I don’t know whether I should be insulted by this conversation or learn from it.”
“Please, quick-draw—how many girls in your life have walked away dissatisfied with anything about you?”
“That I know of?”
“You’d be aware if any of them left unhappy. You even knew I was unhappy that first time.” She’d had the feeling that, yesterday, when they’d talked about this, he’d only been polite by not mentioning that she had been terrible at sex, and she waited for him to admit it now.
He didn’t. All he did was stand away from the tree and amble around it. He leaned a shoulder against the other side, looking as carefree as always. But why did it seem he was doing a practiced sort of carelessness?
“I suppose I haven’t had any complaints,” he said mildly.
She couldn’t imagine that any woman who knew any better would. “See. Told you.”
“Good for you, then, Miss Know-It-All,” he said in his smooth twang. Another thump of middle-of-nowhere silence came between them. Then he said, “I have to tell you that I wish I hadn’t set you on that path.”
“You mean sleeping with my share of men?”
He shrugged.
Was he fishing for a number for how many she’d been with? Well, it was enough to make a prude blush but not nearly enough to qualify her for the infamous Mustang Ranch Brothel.
But then she realized what he was really saying. “Are you wishing I could still be close to a virgin?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you don’t like that I’m the female version of you. Is that it?”
“That’s messed up, Rochelle.”
Was it? “I’d really like to know. Is it more exciting to pop
someone’s cherry or drink the wine of experience?”
“I’ve always been one for the sadder but wiser girl.” He smiled. “Except for that time with you.”
As if he’d said too much, he distanced himself from the tree, then from her, taking a few steps away, toward the horses. Her heart seemed to scamper off after him until she told herself to stop being an idiot.
It’d just been sex.
“Where’re you going?” she asked.
“I thought you wanted to take a walk around Rough and Tumble before the sun gets too high in the sky.”
Even though it was the world’s biggest pivot, it was true. She wanted to see what she hadn’t had time to reacquaint herself with during all the hustle and bustle. There was the haunted mining shack she’d always been fascinated with on the main drag, the nearest silver mining shaft that’d been boarded up for as long as she could remember, the pioneer graveyard, the church, the diner . . . All remnants of a past she’d left behind.
But there was one more biggie she wanted to cover before diving back into work at her mansion—she wanted to spend some quality time in the saloon, even if she hadn’t had the best of moments in there lately. Rumor had it that Howard Hughes, a huge part of her next book about his young starlet mistress, had taken drinks there once upon a time, and she wanted to know if that was true. She also realized that she didn’t want to make the same mistakes she’d made with Cherry’s book by ignoring input from the people who lived here. There might even be some old-timers whose fathers could have thrown down shots with old Howard in his better days.
Most of all, though, Rochelle wanted to be with Cherry before she had to leave, to look up at her painting and thank her for everything.
That’s why it was nice to still have Gideon with her—he’d make sure that people didn’t bother her in the saloon unless she wanted them to.
She got up from the rock, then walked toward Gideon, who had his phone out, reading the screen. He held it up as she approached.
Hot and Bothered Page 17