Rhythm of the Road

by Autumn Jones Lake

  Damn, why does that bug me so bad?

  Logan’s chest rises and falls. Deep breaths. In and out. The silence goes on for so long my stomach goes into free fall.

  Finally, he answers, “She works for the club and the president needed me to help her with a project.”

  “What kind of project?”

  “Club stuff.”

  “She sure seems awful friendly with ya,” I grumble.

  He yanks out the envelope she’d handed him and opens it, pulling out a plastic gift card.

  “You think she’d give me a twenty-five dollar Starbucks gift card if I’d been busy fucking her all week long?” He shoves the card in my face. “I’m at least worth fifty.”

  Yeah, that would be weird.

  But the gift card isn’t my proof. Anya’s friendliness toward me isn’t either. Rooster is. He’s already shown me in so many ways that he’s an honorable man.

  “You’re worth a million.” Shame stabs me in the chest for the momentary frenzy of jealousy. I move closer and slide my arms around his waist. “Sorry,” I mumble, resting my cheek against his shirt.

  He doesn’t hesitate to hug me to him. “I didn’t know what to say about it over the phone. It was all club business. Nothing more.”

  Is this what normal people do? Talk stuff out? I’ve never had a boyfriend who didn’t love stroking up against my jealous streak.

  Not Logan. He recognized my jealousy for what it was and immediately snuffed it out with calm, straightforward reassurance.

  “You’ve had to watch me sing a love song with another guy several times and never, ever complained,” I whisper.

  “I get it. Believe me, I do.” He grips my shoulders gently and bends down to look me in the eye. “I’m not the guy who wants you worried and wondering all the time, okay?”

  “Okay.” I glance toward the clubhouse and wrinkle my nose. “She’s really pretty, though. Can you blame me?”

  He chuckles. “She is.”

  My eyes narrow.

  “Will lying about something obvious help you trust me?” he asks.

  I honestly consider the question before answering. It wouldn’t. Over time, I’d start wondering what else he was lying about. “No. It wouldn’t.”

  “Shelby,” he rasps. “Look at me.”

  He doesn’t say another word until I slowly lift my gaze to meet his.

  “You’re more than pretty. You’re everything. You’re mine. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  My phone buzzes and I groan. Rooster watches as I check the text. “It’s Greg. He wants me at the arena earlier.”

  For a second, disappointment clouds his eyes, but it passes quickly. “Okay. I’ll go grab your stuff so we can head there after breakfast.” He twists his fingers through my hair, tugging gently. “Shouldn’t take the bike and get you all windblown anyway.”

  “I like riding with you, though.”

  “We’ll have plenty of time to play, Shelby. Today’s a work day.”

  Something about his words reassures me so much, I’m not sure how to respond.

  Rooster

  Crisis avoided.

  Still, I had a really good opening to mention that the “project” I’ve been working on is setting up Anya’s budding porn empire. And didn’t. Again.

  Fuck me.

  If Shelby reacted like that to a girl handing me a fucking gift card, she’s definitely not going to take the news of my job description well. And what are the odds those dickhead radio DJs don’t mention that I was just there yesterday with a porn star?

  Pretty damn slim.

  Embarrassment still stains Shelby’s cheeks. It shouldn’t, though. As much as I never want to hurt her, I can’t deny seeing that little spark of jealousy light up her eyes only made me want to pin her against the truck and fuck her until she understood she’s the only woman I want.

  It’ll have to wait.

  “Stay here. I’m gonna grab Jigsaw.” I jog back to the clubhouse.

  Jigsaw’s right inside the door, talking to Anya. “Let’s go, brother.”

  He says a few more words to her and then follows me outside. “Damn, she and Shelby were hot together when they were hugging.” Jigsaw rubs his hands together. “Think they would—”

  “Do not finish that sentence,” I warn.

  “I’m not talking about filming it.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Come on. It’s not cheating if it’s another girl and you’re right there watching.”

  I turn my head slowly and stare at him. “For the love of fuck, mind your own business. And if you ever suggest something like that to Shelby—even as a joke—I will motherfucking gut you.”

  He takes a step back and raises one hand. “My bad. I didn’t realize threesomes were now off the table.”

  “Stop being an asshole.”

  His gaze drops to the truck keys in my hand. “We’re not riding together?”

  “I need to talk to her.”

  “Don’t you two yap enough?”

  “Why are you testing my patience today?”

  “Don’t I do it every day?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. “I need to explain what exactly I’m doing for the club before she hears it somewhere else.”

  The joker smile slips off his face. “Club business isn’t her business.”

  “Yeah, I get that. Except the two assholes interviewing her this morning are the same ones who interviewed Anya yesterday. You think they’re not going to remember me and have some commentary?”

  He roars with laughter and slaps my shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

  “Thanks, dickface.”

  Shelby’s waiting by the truck and smiles when she sees us. “I feel so bad dragging you out this early in the morning, Jigsaw.”

  “It’s fine. No amount of beauty sleep’s gonna help him,” I say.

  “Logan Randall, that’s not nice.”

  “He’s vicious to me, Shelby. All the time.” Jigsaw pulls a sad droopy-dog face that’s pure bullshit.

  “Aw.” She pats his shoulder. “I’m sure you’re totally innocent in all of it too.”

  He flashes a wicked half-grin at her.

  “Enough.” I wave him off. “Let’s go.”

  “I’ll follow you since you know where you’re going,” he says over his shoulder.

  Shelby cocks her head and stares at me.

  Motherfucking Jigsaw had to say it, didn’t he? Sad thing is, I don’t even think he did it on purpose.

  Shelby waits until we’re on the road to speak up.

  “What’d he mean you know where the place is? Did you check it out when I told you about the interview?”

  That would be an excellent excuse, wouldn’t it?

  But I can’t lie to her.

  “No, the girl you met—Anya. She had an interview with them yesterday and Ice asked me to go with her.”

  Please let that be sufficient.

  “Really? Is she a singer too?”

  “Uh, she’s in entertainment.”

  Shelby seizes on my bullshit answer immediately. “Entertainment? Is she a dancer or something? Does this charter own a strip club too?”

  If only.

  “No, but they do have a successful tattoo parlor. They have a wait list but I could probably get you squeezed in if you want some ink while you’re here.”

  Real subtle change of subject.

  “Rooster, you’ve seen every inch of me and know I’m ink-free. I intend to stay that way.”

  I glance over at her. “Really?”

  Her eyes glitter with amusement. “It’s totally sexy on you, but it’s not something I’d do.”

  Huh. “Is it frowned on in country music or something?”

  “Maybe a little. I don’t know. I haven’t come up with anything I wanna stick on my body permanently.” She reaches over and pokes my side. “Besides you.”

  “Same, chickadee.”

  “
Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “No.” I glance down at the intricate tribal pattern inked into my arm. Annoying, maybe, but not painful. “But I have a high tolerance for pain.”

  “Of course you do.” I can practically hear the eye roll in her voice. “Is that a deal-breaker or something for you?”

  “What? No.” I reach over and squeeze her leg. “Love all your perfect, smooth skin just the way it is.”

  She twines her fingers with mine.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “A little.”

  “Don’t be. Jigsaw and I will be right in the next room listening to the whole thing.”

  “Oh, great. What if I make a fool out of myself in front of Jigsaw?”

  “You’ve met him, right?”

  “You’re terrible.”

  But she’s smiling now, instead of fretting.

  I steer the truck into the parking garage, taking a ticket and tossing it on the dashboard. Jigsaw’s bike rumbles behind us, echoing throughout the parking garage.

  I’m so focused on Shelby, I forget about the two DJs about to ruin our morning.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Shelby

  I’m wound tighter than a cuckoo clock.

  The radio station’s small but clean and full of new equipment. Not as fancy as others I’ve been to but not shabby either.

  “Shelby Morgan, it’s so nice to meet you. This is Scotty and I’m Junior.” He pauses as if he’s expecting me to gush and say I’m a fan or something.

  “Thanks for havin’ me.”

  Scotty—or Slimy, as I’ve renamed him in my head so I can tell the two of them apart—leers down at me and offers his hand. Reluctantly, I take it. He brings it to his mouth, brushing his oily lips over my knuckles.

  Gross.

  Germs.

  I should’ve brought hand sanitizer.

  Next to me, Rooster growls.

  I snatch my hand back, giving it a quick swipe against my jeans.

  Junior—Jolly in my head—stares at Rooster. I guess I should be flattered. Apparently, I’m so dazzling they didn’t notice the four hundred and fifty pounds of bikers who’ve followed me into the studio. Jigsaw’s been studying the wall of photos behind us. But Rooster hasn’t left my side.

  “Weren’t you here yesterday?” Junior asks.

  “With the porn star!” Scotty cackles and thrusts his hips in the air. “Considering a career switch, Shelby?”

  Huh?

  “No,” Rooster growls. “Shouldn’t you start the show?”

  “So, what do you do, Mr. Biker Man?” Scotty asks. “Run a bodyguard service for porn stars and pop tarts? How can I get in on that?”

  That draws Jigsaw’s attention. He steps up to Scotty, conveniently blocking Rooster from killing the stupid DJ. “What’d you say ’bout my baby sister?” he says in a low, hollow voice that’s downright terrifying.

  Uncomfortable laughter rolls out of me. “Easy, big bro.” I pat Jigsaw’s rock-hard shoulder. “I’m sure Scotty just thinks he’s funny.”

  Junior slaps his partner’s chest. “Knock it off. Let’s get ready for her segment.”

  An assistant comes in and guides me into a seat across from the two DJs.

  Greg’s lucky he didn’t accompany me to this interview, or I mighta kicked his ass. I’m already hating it.

  “Good morning!” Scotty’s morning announcer voice is just as cheesy as I expected. “We’re proud to say the lovely Shelby Morgan has graced us with her presence this morning.”

  I lean in closer to the microphone. “Thanks for havin’ me.”

  “So tell us, Shelby, what was being on a show like Redneck Roadhouse like? That’s how you got your start, right?” Junior asks.

  “Well, technically I got my start at the local honky-tonk.” I let out a soft laugh that I hope sounds more warm and friendly than brain-dead.

  They take me through Redneck Roadhouse, thankfully avoiding some of the less-flattering moments. I doubt it’s to spare my feelings. More like they didn’t research much about me besides my cup size.

  “Rumor has it you’re very involved with the children’s charity Dream Makers,” Junior says. “Why’d you decide to do that?”

  The question tumbles over me like a bucket of bricks. I guess they did their research after all. But these jerks don’t deserve to hear stories about my beautiful baby sister. “They, ah, approached me when I was on Redneck Roadhouse, and whenever my schedule allows, I like to do what I can.” Good Lord, if I sprinkle any more Southern sweetness into my voice, I'll have to change my name to Sugar.

  “Isn’t that depressing, visiting cancer kids?” Scotty says in a dismissive tone. If he keeps it up, I’m fixin’ to jump this table and snatch him bald. “Is there a charity for teenage boys who want to lose their virginity to a hot chick? Now, that’s a worthy cause.”

  Junior lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “Sounds like something you probably still need to sign up for.”

  They banter back and forth while I sit there with a polite smile etched on my face, trying not to roll my eyes.

  “So, you’re on tour with Dawson Roads right now?” Scotty asks when they finally settle down.

  “That’s right. We’ve got a show in town tonight.”

  “What’s that like?” Scotty turns toward Junior. “That guy’s a stud. You ever see some of the hot babes he…dates?”

  Junior grunts in agreement.

  “Are you and Dawson…tight?” The inflection Scotty uses sounds more like he’s asking about the elasticity of my pussy than my relationship with Dawson.

  “Dawson’s been kind to me. The tour has been a wonderful learning experience,” I answer carefully. “I’m thankful for the opportunity.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Scotty says.

  Jerk.

  “Tell us about tour life,” Junior says, before Scotty can open his mouth again. “This is your first national tour, right?”

  “Yes. It’s been an adventure.”

  “Do you have any pre-show rituals you have to do before you go onstage?”

  “Well, I like to do a little yoga, meditate and center myself. I’ll do some vocal exercises. Mostly, I just like to stay calm and focus on the show.”

  “Are you a diva?” Scotty’s deep tone drips with sarcasm that grates on my nerves. “One of those singers who demands fancy artisan spring water from five-thousand-year-old caves and stuff?”

  I huff out a soft laugh. “Hardly.”

  “Nah, you’re a down-home Texas girl, right?” Junior teases. “Probably trying to get some sweet tea and lemonade.”

  “Well, days I’m singing I usually stick to plain water and a little hot tea with lemon.”

  “You don’t let loose after a show and down some shots?” Scotty asks, eyebrows crawling all the way up his forehead.

  “I’ve been known to knock back a paloma or two back home.” I force out another friendly, girlish laugh. “Maybe after the tour, that’s what I’ll celebrate with.”

  “What the heck’s a paloma?” Scotty gags. “Sounds super-girly.”

  “It’s tequila, grapefruit juice, lime juice, simple syrup and club soda. The unofficial drink of Texas.”

  “Oh, now I want one,” Junior says.

  Scotty leans in close to the microphone. “Does tequila make your clothes come off, Shelby Morgan?”

  What a waste of such a smooth baritone voice. I roll my eyes as he sits back in his chair and preens like the dumbest peacock in the flock, proud of himself for the cheesy song reference.

  “Not even if you were Joe Nichols himself,” I answer with a tart snap to my tone.

  “Is there someone special in your life, Shelby?” Junior says.

  I duck my head, trying to stop the heat spreading over my cheeks.

  “Aw, she’s blushing.” Scotty giggles like an idiot. “Is it Dawson? Oh, even better, is it a woman? There are no lesbian country singers, are there? What a shame.”

  How the heck did Greg thin
k this show would be a good move for me?

  “Is it hard being in a relationship when you’re on the road so much?” Junior asks.

  Nice try at injecting some normalcy into this stupid interview.

  “It is. But I’m incredibly blessed that he’s able to visit me with some frequency.”

  “That must bum your male fans out, no?” Scotty asks.

  “I guess.”

  “Rumor has it, you have an obsessed fan. Is that true?” Junior asks.

  And I thought you were the nice one.

  So far, I’ve done a good job of staring straight ahead and not checking to see if Rooster’s watching or not.

  As if he’s physically compelling me to turn around, my body shifts. He’s standing at the window staring at me with a whole lot of what the fuck burning in his eyes.

  That’ll be a fun conversation to have later.

  “My fans are lovely. I’m grateful to have them,” I say softly into the microphone.

  I’d have to be nuttier than a squirrel turd to risk pissing off the creepy letter writer just so these two can get their jollies off.

  Rooster

  “Rumor has it, you have an obsessed fan. Is that true?”

  What the fuck?

  The whole time Shelby’s been in there with those two jerks, I’ve been tense. Edgy. Ready to break down the door and crack their skulls together for the stupid shit they’re saying.

  Obsessed fan? Did they make that up to fuck with her? I’ve been stalking her social media like a fat kid waiting for the ice cream truck during summer break and haven’t seen any mention of it. I’ve even been checking that stupid gossip blog that seems to be obsessed with her love life.

  “What’s he talking about?” Jigsaw asks. “Shelby has a stalker?”

  “First I’ve heard it.” I take out my phone and check out one of her accounts. “She’s got a bunch of creepy fucks who follow her and send her weird DMs.”

  Jigsaw’s eyes widen. “Did you hack into her Instagram account?”

  “Hack is such an ugly word.” I shrug off the question.

  “Glad I won’t be in the truck with you two later,” he mutters.

  “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “I recognize this guy.” Middle-aged, sweaty, black polo shirt, khaki pants—he defines out-of-place at a country concert in the heat of the summer. “He was at the Wellspring show. I’m almost positive.”