Lyric and Lingerie (The Fort Worth Wranglers Book 1)

by Tracy Wolff

  Lyric and Lingerie

  Katie Graykowski

  Copyright © 2016 by Katie Graykowski

  All Rights Reserved.

  Formatting by Anessa Books

  No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.

  Lyric and Lingerie is a work of fiction. All characters portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead

  Table of Contents

  Lyric and Lingerie

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  Other Books By Katie Graykowski

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  Thirty minutes ago, life as Dr. Lyric Wright knew it had come to a screeching halt. Which was saying something, since her idea of life in the fast lane was pretty much limited to a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, a cold Shiner Bock, and an extra-large telescope.

  Despite the fact that she’d been required by the SETI Institute to not only read, but memorize, several sections of the US Disaster Preparedness Plan, she hadn’t been prepared. Not for this.

  Not at SETI’s satellite-launch party, when she’d been doing her level best to keep seventy-year-old Dr. Danzinger’s age-spotted hands off her ass and his myopic-but-hungry eyes somewhere north of her cleavage.

  Not when she’d gotten the phone call telling her that her father was dying.

  And not now, as she stood in the security line at the Honolulu airport, waiting her turn at legalized groping while other passengers took surreptitious—and not so surreptitious—glances at that very same cleavage.

  Not that she blamed them. Her slinky black dress and mile-high heels weren’t exactly typical travel apparel. Then again, an emergency trip to the mainland had been the last thing on her mind when she’d hatched the plan to channel her inner sex goddess at the fundraiser in the first place. It had all been part of the scheme her twin sister had come up with after one tequila shot too many, a scheme devised to make her ex-fiancé come crawling back after dumping Lyric for Mistress Kailana, the Hula-Dancing Astrologer.

  Just the thought of the woman had Lyric rolling her eyes. She could understand the hula part—who couldn’t? But what kind of scientist actually fell for an astrologer? Especially when that scientist was one of the top astronomers in the world?

  It was enough to make her scream—or it would be if she didn’t have much more dire problems at the moment. And if it wouldn’t have amused, or terrified, the gawking, chattering crowd of tourists and TSA workers currently congregated at Security Checkpoint Number Two. Not a single one looked as desperate and undignified as she felt. Then again, none of them were flying to the mainland in a glorified handkerchief.

  As she tugged up the bodice of the skintight, strapless dress—something she’d been doing about every twenty seconds since she’d put the damn thing on—a Honolulu TSA officer wielded a security wand like a matronly fairy godmother trying to turn Lyric from a slutty version of Cinderella back into a baggy-T-shirt-wearing scientist.

  If only she’d had some pixie dust, she could have skipped the whole airport experience altogether and flown home under her own power. Or better yet, a Star Trek teleporter—faster, cleaner, and no cavity searches.

  As the wand swiped across her breasts, the thing suddenly went crazy—the red lights blinking like she’d won her way out of Contestants’ Row on The Price is Right.

  “Any metal in that dress?” the round-faced Hawaiian woman asked as she tried really hard not to look down the front of Lyric’s dress. In all fairness, Lyric’s double Ds made that a real challenge. Or so Dr. Danzinger had told her.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m wearing a corset under this dress.” One made of so many metal stays and steel rods that she felt like her breasts were in maximum security lockdown. Not that she was going to tell that to the TSA agent. She feared the mere mention of rods of steel could land her behind bars of iron. The last thing she needed was to be accused of plotting to blow up the Honolulu airport with her lingerie.

  Time ticked away as the woman slid her hands down Lyric’s sternum, following the lines of the corset. Lyric would have glanced at her watch, but it was waiting patiently in a bowl on the end of the baggage-scan belt, along with her teeny-tiny purse. Leaning closer—careful not to knock the shorter woman in the head with one of her boobs—she continued, “I know this is your job, but I’ve had a family emergency and I really need to get on the American flight to Dallas.”

  The TSA agent eyed Lyric’s strapless cocktail dress. “Uh-huh.”

  “No, really.” Lyric swallowed convulsively and forced out the words she had spent the last half hour trying desperately to forget. “My father just had a heart attack. I left a work benefit and came straight here. I need to get home. The flight leaves in just a few minutes.”

  The woman didn’t respond, which only made Lyric feel more desperate and more vulnerable. She hated both feelings almost as much as she despised the way her voice had shaken when she’d spoken, so she shoved her fear for her father deep down inside herself. Held her head high. Threw her shoulders back. And did her best to ignore the fact that one of her boobs had just attempted a jailbreak.

  Madam TSA continued her very close inspection of the skintight black Lycra. It was like she was searching for a hidden compartment full of dynamite. Lyric could have told her that was a ridiculous idea—it wasn’t as if she could squeeze one more thing into this dress. But the woman must have finally figured that out, because she gave up on Lyric’s boobs and moved lower—to hover over her hips. With the amount of concentration she poured into the job, Lyric could only presume the agent was evaluating the prospect that Lyric had bathed in lighter fluid before she’d struggled into her Semtex-coated Spanx. Little did the woman know, Lyric wasn’t wearing Spanx—or any other underwear—flammable or otherwise. Panty lines were so Mistress Kailana.

  Still, as the ridiculous examination continued—the woman starting all the way back at her head and slowly working her way down again—Lyric had to bite her tongue to keep from pointing out that the only weapon at her disposal was her rapier wit—something that was entirely too sharp to bring out at a TSA checkpoint.

  Behind her, two other agents strip-searched Lyric’s red-soled, leopard-print shoes, in the event she’d somehow managed to hide C-4 in the pencil-thin heels. She could have told them the only thing lethal about those shoes were the brutally high arches and the pinky-toe-squishing insteps, but somehow she didn’t think the agents would appreciate her sense of humor. As they dipped a small cloth in some clear liquid and ran it around the shoes, she shook her head. If she actually were a terrorist, would she pick the most expensive shoes she’d ever worn to blow up the world? Not even close.

  Besides, if her mother had been here to see the molestation of the Loubies she’d sent
Lyric as a why-don’t-you-ever-dress-up-to-impress-your-boyfriend present, the TSA would have needed riot gear. Lyric sucked in a deep breath at the thought. And at the sudden understanding that her mother would go ballistic when she heard that Rob the Knob was history. Lyric didn’t even want to think what would happen—to any of them—if Daddy wasn’t there to talk Mother off the ledge.

  With one final sweep of the cloth, the shoes were given a clean bill of health.

  After feeling Lyric up—which, sadly, was the most action she’d had since Rob’s stars had aligned with Mistress Kailana’s—the agent finally decided that Lyric wasn’t about to explode.

  Slipping her feet back into the pinky-toe-squeezing, blister-inducing torture devices, Lyric hobbled gingerly toward her gate, just as the booming voice overhead said, “Final boarding call for American flight 7149, nonstop Honolulu to Dallas.”

  She hobbled faster. The fifteen minutes security had spent frisking these ridiculous shoes—and her—was going to end up costing her the chance to say good-bye to her father.

  Desperate now as she watched the gate agent close the door that led to the tarmac, Lyric kicked off her shoes, grabbed them on the fly, and ran flat-out for the gate. Reaching it just as the attendant finished locking the door, she brandished her boarding pass like a dagger to his chest. “Wait! That’s my flight.”

  “It’s too late. The plane’s leaving.”

  “You don’t understand. I have to be on that plane.”

  The man shook his head. “You don’t understand. The door is already closed. You’ll have to wait for the next flight.”

  Her heart slammed against her ribs as the panic she’d held at bay for the last hour refused to stay vanquished one second longer. “My father is dying. There is no next flight for me.”

  His face softened, and he sighed. He didn’t reach for the door, didn’t offer to stop the plane, but she knew she almost had him. Clearing her throat in an effort to get rid of the frog that had taken up residence there the moment she’d heard the fear in her mother’s voice, she leaned forward, catching his eyes with her own. “Sir, do you have children?”

  His cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look away. “Yes. I have two.”

  “And how would you feel if they didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to you because they were two minutes too late for the last flight out?”

  For long seconds, he didn’t say anything. But then he reached behind him and opened the door. “You’d better run. And if anyone asks, tell them Bobby let you through.” She glanced down at his nametag. It read Jack, but who was she to argue?

  Lyric raced out the door, her hands clutching her breasts to keep them from giving her a black eye—or worse, knocking her out cold. She got to the plane just as the ground crew was starting to roll the staircase away from the plane door.

  “Stop.” It was an order, not a request, as she bounded up the stairs two at a time. On a leap that was part ballet and part grand mal seizure, she hurtled across the three-foot space between the stairs and the still open plane door.

  The ominous sound of fabric ripping tore through the air at the same time her toes caught on the bottom edge of the doorframe. She had one brief moment to regret the impulse that had made her think she could give her ballet-dancing twin sister a run for her money—right before she face-planted on the shiniest penny loafers she had ever seen.

  As she lay there contemplating what she could do for an encore, a breeze wafted over her bare ass and she looked back to see six inches of her dress hanging off the storage cupboard next to the door. Since the dress hadn’t had six inches of fabric to begin with, this was particularly concerning.

  Not only had she swan dived into airline infamy, but her dress had ripped to kingdom come. Definitely not her best day.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  Before she could figure out how to regain her feet—God knew regaining her dignity was not an option—clapping rang out above her. Praying for the universe to swallow her whole, Lyric looked up and saw two members of the crew staring at her with a mixture of horror and awe.

  Clearly the universe was too busy to bother with her measly problems.

  The male flight attendant was the first to regain his voice. “I give it a seven and a half.” He turned to the pilot. “What does the Russian judge say?”

  The man turned sparkling blue eyes on her and said in a West Texas drawl that reminded her too much of her father’s, “A five if she’s sober and a ten if she’s drunk.”

  Lyric clambered to her feet. The pilot’s eyes grew wide, and she was sure she heard him whisper to the flight attendant, “I change my vote to an eleven,” right before he turned and dived into the cockpit.

  “Nice shoes, Wonder Woman. Is there a dress to go with them?” With a roll of his eyes, the flight attendant turned and yanked open the drawer beside him. “This calls for duct tape.” He eyed her. “Lots and lots of duct tape.” His drawn out s’s were as snotty as the look on his face.

  When she didn’t immediately move—the last few minutes of her life gave a whole new meaning to shock and awe—he threw up his well-manicured hands. “Honey, I don’t know what you’re waiting for? If you’re trying to impress me, you’re one Y chromosome short of a love connection. Although, that corset is impressive. Is that Agent Provocateur?”

  Lyric glanced down, then jumped back and threw her hands up to cover herself. Nice to know he’d noticed the corset and not the bare breasts hanging out the top of it.

  What the hell was she supposed to do now? Three degrees in astrophysics had never prepared her for a situation like this. Was there even a protocol for how to react after flashing the flight crew?

  A part of her—the logical scientist part—was screaming at her to shove her tits back in her corset, but at the same time her ass was hanging out mooning the world. She wasn’t sure which was the priority. Thank God she’d sprung for the full Brazilian bikini wax. For seconds that seemed like hours, she couldn’t do anything but stare at him with her best deer-in-the-headlights impression—mouth open and eyes wide.

  “Well?” he prompted again, professionally arched eyebrows bouncing off his hairline. “Let’s get this show on the road. I have to finish preflight.” He looked her up and down. “And you need to stow your um … belongings.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Lyric finally limped down the aisle to her seat, looking like a candidate for the Home Depot version of Project Runway, her not-so-lucky-Loubies still clutched in one hand and her purse in the other. Who knew? She could have saved the two hundred dollars she’d spent on the corset and bought a roll of duct tape instead. Thanks to Tre, the flight attendant with delusions of couture, she was now the proud wearer of a one-shouldered tube dress in duct tape silver. Or as Tre had called it, Luminous Steel.

  He’d thought her problems were solved, but Lyric wasn’t so sure. Tre had pulled the tape so tightly that she now had a uniboob of epic proportions, plus he’d taken a full inch off the hips she’d already gone two weeks without carbs to get.

  Still, while she was grateful for Tre’s fast thinking, she had a feeling sitting was going to be a problem. God knew walking was. Maybe she could just lean against the seat and hope for the best. Seat belts were highly overrated.

  As she worked her way down the aisle, her mincing steps moving her a whole two inches at a time, she drew an awful lot of attention. She tried not to make eye contact, but then again, so did everybody else. Except for an old guy in a garish Hawaiian shirt that she couldn’t help but envy. Not in a million years would she have ever guessed she’d be lusting over neon frangipani.

  For a second, she thought longingly of the emergency fifty she’d tucked in the top of her corset before this whole nightmare of an evening had started. She’d offer it to him in exchange for the shirt, but God only knew where the money was now or what she could use to access it. Federal regulations had made even nail clippers illegal, and it was going to take the Jaws of Life to cut her
free from this getup. She didn’t have a clue what she was supposed to do if she had to use the bathroom halfway between Honolulu and the mainland.

  The old woman caught Lyric staring at her husband and glared daggers at her. Clearly, the look of longing on her face was more obvious than she’d been aware of. As the woman elbowed her husband in the side, Lyric considered explaining her desire was for the shirt not the man. But after a second, she decided that would only make her sound like an even bigger lunatic than she already looked, and to be honest, she was afraid one more incident would have Tre tossing her ass back onto the tarmac.

  She settled for smiling brightly at the woman, whose glare only intensified. Giving up, Lyric jerked her gaze up and away from the unhappy couple, then immediately regretted it. With the cabin lights on full blast and the darkness outside, the windows were perfect mirrors—and she couldn’t help but catch sight of her reflection in the one closest to her.

  One look had her longing for the good ole days of corsets and Dr. Danzinger’s drool, when the only thing she’d had to worry about was looking like a slutty version of Cinderella. Right now she looked more like a walking advertisement for BDSM. She could see the YouTube video caption now: Bondage on a Budget. She winced. Make that a really low budget.

  Her mother was going to be mortified. In her mother’s mind, this debacle just might trump her father’s heart attack. Livinia Angleton Wright was equal parts Jackie O and Hitler, and she’d drilled four things into each of her four daughter’s heads: a lady always looks her best, smiles in the face of adversity, never raises her voice, and supports her husband—well, partner. Since the family was fifty percent sure that Lyric’s cousin Sue was a lesbian, Mother was attempting forward thinking. Unfortunately, her mindset started in the 1950s, so she had a lot of ground to cover before normal was within reach.