Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3)

by Lauren Landish

  “Spit it out,” Katelyn says, pointing a sharp finger at Shay that tells her ‘not now’ like she could read her mind.

  “Can I photograph y’all? Not for the blog, but just because. Like portraits. It’s not my primary work, but I think it could be something really special.”

  There’s a half-beat of silence where I think it’s the stupidest idea ever before they explode.

  “Yes!”

  “When?”

  “Now!”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  I don’t even know who’s asking what, but somehow, I answer, “My place? We could go now and get some cool moonlight shots. And the cabin is cute, especially the kitchen. It’s cheery and vintage.”

  Before I’m even done talking, they’re getting up, gathering their things, and shoving me toward the door. I manage to squirm my way over to Unc first.

  “Thank you so much for tonight. I think I needed this, needed them.” It’s the truth, and though hard to admit, I hope he can see that needing others isn’t such a bad thing. It’s not a weakness, it’s simply human nature. I kiss him on his sandpapery, scratchy cheek, and he smiles.

  “Go have some fun, Willow. I love you, girl.”

  “I love you too,” I tell him. But I turn back once more before I leave. “At two, you get out of here. I’ll be in early to do tonight’s cleaning and tomorrow’s prep. Sit down, pull beers, and don’t overdo it.”

  “Nah, I got it. Pretty sure I lost that bet anyway, so it’s my duty, fair and square.”

  “Nope. The blue T-shirt Coors Light and the green tank top Girly Beer might not have made it out the door, but they made it down the hall to the bathroom,” I admit with a grin. “You won.”

  His laughter is deep in his belly and so fierce, it makes his eyes water. “Shit. I don’t know how I missed that. All right then, add a deep clean to the bathrooms to your opening list in the morning.”

  “Men’s room. They never go to the women’s for a hookup.”

  It had started out so well. Simple and sweet, even.

  We’d pulled up to my little house en masse, my little Subaru and a few trucks. Katelyn, the wedding pro, did everyone’s makeup and hair while we played around with various poses and setups.

  I took individual photos of each woman, both planned images and candids of us talking, laughing, and having fun.

  Rix sitting on the kitchen table, one boot on the chair and one folded up. She looked stunningly bad ass, glaring into the camera as she complained that she didn’t know how to do this. When she saw herself, she’d laughed and I’d captured that expression too. The dichotomy of her hard and soft edges is beautiful.

  Sophie had been the opposite, an easy model full of poses and expressions. “I used to pose for paparazzi in my city life Before James, and even now, when we go to the World Finals, the press will follow him. I’ve gotta be able to pull out my A-game when needed.” Her shots had been gorgeous, her dark hair curled and her eyes sultry.

  Allyson had been more comfortable with over the shoulder looks rather than facing boldly head-on into the camera, and the pose had highlighted the sculptural qualities of her shoulder blades in her strappy tank top and the shape of her eyes as she stared into the camera at an angle.

  Shayanne had plopped herself on the couch, ultimately upside down with her crossed feet in the air and a wide, open-mouthed laugh that showed her youthful exuberance.

  Katelyn had surprised me the most. She seems sweet, maybe a little softer like me, but when she’d found her comfort zone, she’d gone right into it. Her smile had been seductive and foretold of secret depths to her, giving layers to the photos beyond her beauty.

  I’d even let them take a few of me, a true rarity. Photographers rarely flip around to the other side of the camera, I find. Or I don’t, at least not in a way that exposes the real me. Bits and pieces can convey one thing, but with a frame full of my entire being, there’s nowhere to hide.

  And that’s when things went crazy.

  Or crazier.

  To be fair, that might’ve been helped along by the box of wine in the fridge, along with my entire stash of bark-thin chocolate.

  Somehow, my idea of a fun photoshoot to capture tonight in print has turned into something much . . . sexier.

  “It’s fine. Not like we haven’t seen each other in swimsuits at the pond,” Shayanne argues. Oddly enough, she’s making sense, and I can see everyone else considering her idea of boudoir shots for the guys. “I’ll go first.”

  “Of course you will,” Rix says sarcastically.

  “No nakedness, right? I mean, I haven’t seen you all in swimsuits, and I’m not really looking for my neighbors to start telling folks I’m doing porn shoots over here. I’ll lose my rental.” I laugh, but I’m dead serious.

  “Definitely not,” Shay agrees, nodding vigorously. “Y’all don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I’ve got a famous photographer here willing to take expert photos of me and a half-decent buzz going on that makes this seem like a good idea. I’m taking advantage. YOLO!”

  With that battle cry ringing in all of our ears, she kicks off her boots and shoves down her jeans to reveal pink cotton panties with horses on them. She promptly swallows another guzzle of wine too, so I think she’s not as brave as she’d have us believe. Several of the women follow suit, me included—with the wine, not the stripping.

  “Hang on, I want my boots on for this.” While she pulls them back on, she asks the room, “Anybody got a hat?”

  Sophie runs out to her truck and gets a straw hat, plopping it on the back of Shayanne’s head. “Yass, girl, you got this.”

  “Damn straight.”

  And she does.

  Shay stands with her feet wide and her thumbs in the waistband of her panties as though there are invisible beltloops, and she rocks it.

  “Let me see,” she screams after several minutes, a few different poses, and about twenty sexy shots.

  We crowd around the tiny screen on the back of my camera. The general consensus is that Shay looks hot, and that seems to give the other girls the push they need.

  Rix ends up on the kitchen counter this time. Slouching in just a tank top and boy shorts, I already know this picture will need to be in black and white.

  “Hey, Rix, here. You need this,” Sophie says. She hands Rix an ice cube and waves around her chest.

  Rix laughs, dips the ice cube into her shirt, and in seconds, her basic black tank is covering some diamond-hard headlights.

  “Better,” I agree and start clicking away again.

  Allyson wraps up in a sheer curtain she finds in the linen closet and lies down in the grass outside. We’re quick and quiet for her shots, making use of the full moon on her skin, which gives her an ethereal, angelic glow.

  Sophie goes classic, leaning over the bathroom counter in her black lace bra. Katelyn added heavy cat-eye eyeliner to her lids and pinned up her hair, letting a few tendrils escape. In her reflection, she slicks red lipstick on her open, pouty lips. It’s very 50s pinup, especially with the dated tile of the bathroom.

  “I’m doing a bubble bath shot,” Katelyn says. She draws a hot bath, filling it up with half a bottle of bubbles, and we step out to give her privacy until she’s under the cover of the white foam. “Ready!”

  The bathroom is too small for anyone besides the two of us, but the girls stand in the tight hallway, encouraging her with much laughter and cheering.

  “Bubble, bubble, you’re in trouble,” a giggly voice whispers to Katelyn from behind me. I smile but keep shooting.

  Katelyn has her legs stretched up the wall, and the bubbles slide down their length from her crossed ankles. Her breasts are covered, but the illusion of skin through the tiny holes of air pockets is sexy in a subtle way.

  “Got it,” I say.

  “Your turn,” Shayanne says.

  “Oh, no. That’s okay,” I argue. “The other pictures were already a hard enough sell to my nerves.
Sexy shots are way out of my comfort zone.”

  “Join the club,” Rix says dryly.

  She’s right. This is one of those weird, wild experiences I’m never going to get the chance to have again, like Mom says. I need to let loose and live a little. I don’t have to do anything crazy, nothing uncomfortable, but pushing myself creatively means stepping out of the box sometimes. These women have done that tonight, letting me take their photos. It’s only fair that I do the same.

  Once the decision is made in my mind, my heart gets on board and starts racing. Fear, excitement, nerves, and giddiness war in equal measure.

  “Okay. What should I do?”

  Help. I need some guidance here. Maybe a divine intervention? Well, probably not that, considering I’m taking sexy photos.

  Actually . . .

  “Wait, I have an idea. But I’m gonna need some help and a moment alone.”

  Three, two, one . . .

  “What?”

  “Oh, my cheesus and crackers, what are you going to do?”

  “Uh . . .”

  I can’t hold the straight face any longer and laugh, my chosen words having their intended effect on the women.

  “Not . . . that. Whatever you’re thinking. I want to do a full silhouette shot, but it means I need to get the lighting just right or it won’t be silhouette, it’ll be naked-naked. And I’m not doing that.”

  Mission ready, Rix says, “Tell us what to do.”

  We get the lighting just right in my bedroom, do a few test shots with the camera on a tripod, and once I’m happy with the setup, I nod.

  “Get it, girl.”

  I swallow and close the door behind them. Though they’re on the other side of the thin wood, they don’t desert me, still talking me through it.

  “Think sexy thoughts,” Katelyn coaches.

  I strip down, tossing my work clothes in the hamper, then climb into the middle of the bed where we tested the light. “Breathe. In, two, three, out, two, three,” I whisper.

  I close my eyes, hit the remote button for the camera, and the timer light flashes. Right before it takes the shot, I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling so the camera captures my profile. I do it a few more times, praying each time that it’s working.

  Worst case scenario, I can delete them. Best case, I’ll have some hot images to remember a fun, crazy night with my new friends.

  This is definitely one of those experiences Mom is always telling me I need to have. But this one is just mine. Not the blog’s, not for my followers. But for me to pull out of my memory bank when I’m old and gray and smile at the wild child I was, if only for one second.

  When I feel like I’ve got the shot, I pull fresh clothes on and open the door. Excited eyes meet mine. “That was terrifying,” I gush. “I’m so glad I did it.”

  Suddenly, we’re all hugging, bonded through some strange thread of friendship forged under unusual circumstances.

  “Finally,” Shayanne huffs. “I’m a hugger, but Bobby put the fear of Baarbara in me if I didn’t let you hug me first.”

  “It’s okay, I’m a hugger too. Everybody needs hugs, and every day needs hugs.”

  Shayanne smiles, and I can tell she likes Mom’s theory.

  “Not to break this up, but . . . I gotta go,” Katelyn suddenly says, holding up her phone.

  I can see the screen where she sent a close-up of her cleavage, just an extreme close-up of the line between her breasts. Out of context of this evening, you might not even know what it is. Beneath the picture is a reply that simply says, Home. Now.

  Everyone laughs, but Katelyn is nearly bolting for the door as she shoves her makeup into her purse. “Anybody riding home with me had better get in the truck. Mark’s waiting on me.”

  “It’s fine. Hurry home like a good wifey,” Shayanne teases her, her laughter growing at Katelyn’s whirlwind exit. To me, she rolls her eyes. “You get used to them.”

  Confused, I ask, “What do you mean?”

  The grins tell me there’s a lot more to this story. “Well, some folks think Mark is bossy. And that’s true for sure, but it’s definitely something she enjoys. She sent that picture on purpose because she knows how to push his buttons just right.”

  “Oh.” I have no response, my brain blank. After a second . . . “Oh!”

  The women laugh, and shortly thereafter, we wrap up the evening.

  “I’ll go through the images and send them to you. Tonight was . . . fun.”

  It’s the lamest description, but it’s all I can come up with because I truly had a good time tonight with them. I felt accepted, welcomed, a part of something bigger than myself.

  And it did keep me distracted for the evening from the one thing I thought I’d be thinking about nonstop . . . how Bobby’s meeting is going.

  I consider sending him a text, maybe a sexy selfie like Katelyn did, and even go so far as to pick up my phone. But instead of opening the camera, I open my photo files and find that the last two shots are of me sleeping blissfully. Bobby must’ve taken these, I realize with a smile. I look . . . happy, worn out from our lovemaking, and smiling even in sleep.

  I flip through my last several shots, finding several of Bobby—him on stage, him driving his truck and singing with the radio, him against a backdrop of green trees.

  After a few minutes, I do open my camera and take a close-up, off-centered shot of my smile.

  Click.

  I post it to my blog with a caption that reads, Happy. I found home.

  I fall asleep before the first heart or comment comes in.

  Chapter 19

  Willow

  “He’s going to be here any minute. Get that table set, boys.” Mama Louise’s instructions are nothing to argue with, and Mark and Luke hustle a little faster around the table with the glasses and silverware.

  “The sign’s crooked on the right. Cooper?” I’m not sure how she expects the little boy to fix the sign that’s hanging three feet above his head, but like the rest of the guys, he’s on it. He pushes a stool over, climbs up, and makes the needed adjustments.

  “Better?” he asks, looking for approval.

  Mama Louise looks over her shoulder. “Perfect. Good job problem solving.” I see her smile as she returns to her cooking.

  She’s amazing, in charge of everything and everyone without breaking a sweat. She’s sweet and kind, warm and welcoming, but I get the sense that she’d beat you at your own game if you tried to pull one over on her.

  “What can I do to help?” I ask, having finished my assigned job of slathering butter on the biscuit tops and sliding them into the pre-heated oven.

  Mama Louise scans the room, looking for something, and gives me a new job. “Stand over here by me and help me with this chicken. This bowl is the egg wash.”

  I listen to her intently, not wanting to get a single thing wrong. After several minutes, I realize that everyone else is watching her closely too.

  The guys are hiding small smiles and the girls aren’t bothering, smiling widely as they continue setting serving platters on the table. Sophie and Katelyn look on the verge of happy tears.

  They must really love Mama Louise’s fried chicken.

  Shayanne calls out, “Say cheese!” and before I can react, she takes several pictures of Mama Louise and me, floury hands and all. “Perfect!” Coming closer and proving she knows me better than I’d think, she gets right up on our hands and takes a close-up shot too. “And one for the blog. Caption, bwak-kwak-kwak. I’m delicious.”

  “Uh, that’s my phone. How’d you unlock it?”

  She looks at the phone in her hand like she has no idea how it got there before giving me a smirk. “I got skills, girl.” She shrugs it off, and I don’t bother asking again because she won’t tell me, anyway.

  “Do those skills involve finishing up the lemon meringue pie?” Mama Louise muses.

  Chastised, Shayanne sets my phone on the counter and grabs a lemon out of a bowl. Zesting for her life, she assu
res everyone, “Yes, they do.”

  Mama Louise and I finish frying the chicken and washing up as we hear a truck outside.

  “Hit the lights,” Cooper yells.

  In the dark, Mama Louise holds my hand in hers. Her skin is rough and slightly wrinkled from her years in the sun, but her palm is soft against mine. I can hear her whispering under her breath, “Please, please, please . . . let that boy get this. He’s worked for it, and everyone deserves to hear his gift.” I think she’s praying, not talking to me.

  This moment is huge—the moment Bobby’s whole life changes, his dream comes true, and his family doesn’t have to worry anymore.

  I’m thrilled for him, excited to witness this moment in his evolution. The instant he becomes The Bobby Tannen, something he’s worked for and wanted for so long.

  I have a mental image of him standing on a huge stage, bright lights aimed up at him, and screens framing him with super-sized versions of that roughly gorgeous face. I try to insert myself into the image, standing in the wings, waiting for Bobby to look my way. But the picture won’t come into focus no matter how hard I try. He’s there, crystal-clear and sharp, eyes turned to the audience with his arms spread wide. And my place blurs more and more, people bustling around me and through me as though I don’t exist.

  It hits me that no matter how much he says he loves me, this might also be the moment he’ll leave me behind.

  I try not to cry. After all, I understand. I want good things for him, and this opportunity is everything.

  But there’s still a sliver of me that doesn’t want to be invisible again. For the first time ever, I like being visible . . . to these people, to this town, and most of all, to Bobby. That doesn’t have to change, though. I can still be me—Willow Parker, photographer, blogger, bartender, and niece. Louder and prouder, back straight and eyes unblinking, I can keep going as this new and improved version of myself.

  Bobby Tannen’s girl, a label that once sent a jolt of shocked offense through me, suddenly seems like the one I’ll miss the most when I lose it. There’s no way I’ll be his girl once he hits the road, filling stadiums with screaming women, and becomes insta-famous.