“Pictures,” Emmy said, leading her to the step and repeat wall. A drape of royal blue fabric, their logo—a cowboy hat with a hatband covered in crowns—and “The Three Kings” repeating every few feet. She, Emmy Lou, and Travis took at least a dozen pics before she noticed her father. He was angry in his own way. He didn’t scowl and yell. No, his cheeks turned red, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, and the muscle in his jaw locked tight. Like now.
When the cameras stopped and people started saying their goodbyes, she made her way to her daddy’s side. “You okay?” she asked, smiling up at him.
“Krystal,” Mickey Graham said, sneaking up from behind. Like the snake he was.
Her daddy squeezed her hand in warning.
She nodded, then sucked in a sharp breath. “Mickey,” she said, refusing to look at him.
But her mother pulled him around, into her line of sight. “Oh, sugar, isn’t it nice that Mickey stopped by to see the show?” her mother asked, watching her closely.
Krystal didn’t say a word.
“I’ve always been a fan, you all know that.” Mickey’s aw-shucks twang was too much. How had she ever dated him? Thought she cared about him?
“Of course you have.” Her mother was still smiling, still watching. “It’s been quite a night. First the whole drug bust, then Jace Black, and now, you.”
Why was one of her mother’s friends taking pictures? Holding up her cell phone. Was she recording this? Whatever. If she ever fully understood the way her mother’s mind worked, then she’d have reason to worry.
“You know, that Jace Black is all over the place right now. Have you heard him sing?” her mother asked.
Mickey stiffened at the mention of Jace’s name. Maybe she’d find a way to like Jace after all. He was sure as hell easy on the eyes. And, when he’d looked at her, there’d been nothing but warmth in his light brown gaze. Nothing like the way Mickey was looking at her now.
“Never heard of this Jace Black till tonight,” Mickey said to her mother, his posture defensive. “My manager didn’t mention anything about him when he said you’d called.”
“Me call?” Her mother rested her hand on her surgically enhanced chest. “Sugar, I never make phone calls. I have people for that.”
“Well, someone called,” Mickey said, glancing her way. “I thought it was too good to be true—me opening for you all. Especially after what happened between us, Krystal.” He stepped closer, his hand reaching for hers. “But at least I can say what I’ve wanted to say for a while now.”
Krystal stared at her hand, caught in his clammy hold, and fought for control. Mickey couldn’t be their opening act. And her mother—what was she thinking? The urge to scream at them, to yank her hands away, almost choked her. But she wouldn’t cause a scene—no matter how perfectly her mother had laid her trap. Instead, she bit into her lip so hard she tasted blood.
Everyone was staring at her, waiting. Even Emmy Lou looked nervous. So she managed to say, “There’s nothing to be said.”
“Maybe not for you, Krystal, but I have a lot to say.” His gaze bounced between her, her mother, and the camera.
She had to leave. Now. She gently but firmly withdrew her hand from his. “You’ll have to find someone who wants to hear it.” And she left the room as quickly and calmly as possible.
Jace
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Acknowledgments
Anyone who knows me knows football isn’t one of my passions. My research for Brock meant pestering friends, family, and countless hours studying JJ Watt’s diet, training, and…JJ Watt (Brock’s character inspiration). It’s a tough job but I stuck with it. So, to those friends and family members who endured my questions, thank you!
Big thanks to my mighty writer tribe. From writer retreats, plotting sessions, Zoom meetings, late-night texts, and frequent pep talks, y’all keep me going when I’m pretty sure I have no business being a writer. Teri Wilson, Makenna Lee, Julia London, Molly Mirren, Jolene Navarro, Patricia W. Fisher, Jodi Thomas, Marcia King Gamble, Storm Navarro, Allison Collins, Frances Trilone, and Candace Havens—you guys are the best!
And, as always, to my cowboy and my kids and my parents: thank you for enduring hours of conversation about fictional people and supporting me while I follow my dreams.
About the Author
Sasha Summers grew up surrounded by books. Her passions have always been storytelling, romance, and travel—passions she’s used to write more than twenty romance novels and novellas. Now a bestselling and award-winning author, Sasha continues to fall a little in love with each hero she writes. From easy-on-the-eyes cowboys, to sexy alpha male werewolves, to heroes of truly mythic proportions, she believes that everyone should have their happy ending—in fiction and real life.
Sasha lives in the suburbs of the Texas Hill Country with her amazing and supportive family and her beloved, grumpy cat, Gerard, the Feline Overlord.
Connect online:
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sashasummers.com
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Song for a Cowboy Page 31