Lyric and Lingerie (The Fort Worth Wranglers Book 1)

by Tracy Wolff

  She picked up a copy of the in-flight magazine and handed it to him. “You can use this instead.”

  Heath took it, but only long enough to put it back into the seat pocket in front of her. Then he eased back into his seat and just looked at her. He would have crossed his foot over his opposite knee—it helped with the laid-back image—but the confined airplane accommodations didn’t allow for comfortable movement. And neither did the Lyric-and-lingerie-induced erection he was still sporting.

  “Fine, so you don’t want to talk about the dress. Or your work. Or anything else going on in your life right now. So why don’t you tell me what I did to piss you off all those years ago?”

  “That pretty much tops the list of things I don’t want to talk about.” Weariness eased across her face as she sank back into her chair. “Why are you so hung up on what happened twelve years ago, anyway? It’s not like it matters anymore.”

  “It matters to me.” To be honest, he was a little surprised by just how much it still mattered. No, he hadn’t spent the last decade and then some wallowing in misery over their lost friendship, but he’d thought of Lyric a lot more than she believed he had. Especially in the first few years, when he’d reach for the phone whenever something really funny or weird or just plain worrisome happened, only to be sent straight to her voice mail.

  It had gotten so he hung up before he’d even finished dialing. Not because he didn’t want to talk to her, but because he’d known she wouldn’t answer. And then she’d changed her number, and he’d been drafted to the NFL. It hadn’t taken long before he stopped trying to call altogether.

  That didn’t mean he didn’t think about her occasionally, or wonder how she was doing. When they were growing up, Lyric had been more than just his friend. She’d been his confidante—the one person he could count on when he needed advice or a sounding board or someone to have his back. And then he’d slept with Harmony, and everything had changed. Between him and Harmony and between him and Lyric. At first, he’d fancied himself in love and had been devastated that Harmony was freezing him out. But as time passed and other girls caught his eye, he realized it was Lyric he really missed. Lyric he wanted to talk to when things were going bad … and when they were going good.

  Not that he planned on pouring all that crap out to her on a transpacific flight—how pathetic would that be? Still, he wasn’t going to let her make him out to be the jackass, either. Not when she’d been the one to walk away from him.

  He reached over and slapped a comforting hand on her knee, right below where the duct tape ended. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Yes, I can tell. Clearly you’ve wasted away without me.”

  “I didn’t say that. But I did think about you … sometimes.” And this was where she told him that she’d thought about him too.

  He waited and waited and waited.

  But instead of telling him that she’d missed him too, Lyric reached for the magazine she’d just handed to him and buried her face in what he was sure was a fascinating article about US tax law.

  He counted to one hundred—twice—and had just about given up when she finally said, “Yeah, well, I didn’t think about you at all. At least, not unless a Wranglers game was on and I couldn’t find the remote control.”

  Ouch. That stung a little bit—not the actual words, but the ring of honesty he heard behind them. She really had gone off to college and forgotten all about him.

  Suddenly angry—and heartily sick of playing the role of persona non grata after close to thirteen long years—he demanded, “Can you explain to me what the hell I did that was so bad? Yes, I slept with your sister. But it wasn’t like I was just going for a notch on my bedpost. I really cared about her. Hell, I thought I was in love with her. And after the best night of my life, after I told her how I felt about her and the night we spent together, she sucker punched me in the stomach.” Absently, he rubbed the spot as he remembered how Harmony had slammed the door in his face after slugging him. How no amount of pleading had gotten her to open it again. “Your sister has a right hook that’s worthy of a heavyweight title.”

  Lyric smiled to herself and murmured something under her breath that sounded like damn right.

  Closing his eyes, he rubbed a hand over his face. He must be more tired than he thought if he’d willingly pulled out that memory, especially after he’d spent a good portion of his college years screwing it away.

  “You didn’t do anything.” Her voice turned shrill and choppy with indignation. “That’s what you want to hear, right? That beautiful, perfect Heath Montgomery didn’t do a damn thing. So fine. I’ll play. Everything that happened was Harmony’s and my fault. It was all our—”

  “Honey, I just heard about your father. I’m so sorry.” Tre bustled right up to her, a box of tissues in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. There were several small, round disks floating at the top of the whiskey, but Heath didn’t take time to investigate. Her father? Tre knew her father?

  “The ground crew wanted to make sure that you’d gotten on board safely. Apparently there was a pool on whether you’d injured yourself or someone else, because Jack says he hasn’t seen a move like that since his cat accidently licked an electrical outlet.” Gingerly, Tre placed the tissues in her lap. “It’s important to stay positive. I’m sure your daddy’s going to be okay.”

  “What happened to him?” A frisson of alarm worked its way down Heath’s spine at the thought of anything happening to Mayor Bowman Wright, or BB, as everyone in San Angelo called him. Lyric’s dad had always seemed so strong, so indomitable, so able to conquer anything and everything that came his way. It was hard to imagine something happening to him, harder still to imagine San Angelo without him.

  “He had a heart attack a couple of hours ago. I was at a benefit dinner when I got the news. Hence the ridiculous outfit.” She gestured to the duct tape.

  “How bad was it?”

  “Bad. I don’t know much more than that. He’d just been admitted to ICU when Mother called, and now I’m stuck on this stupid plane imagining the worst.” She turned her head away, and if Heath didn’t know just how close Lyric’s apple fell to her father’s tree, he might have thought she was crying. As it was, he felt like a total heel for hassling her over something that happened a decade ago when her father’s life hung in the balance.

  “I just want to get home,” she continued. “I need to get home.”

  This time he could hear the tears in her voice, and when he placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his, he could see them burning little trails down her cheeks.

  “Excuse me, could I have some water?” Wranglers Jersey, oblivious as always, called from the seat in front of him.

  “Here, take this.” Tre shoved the glass of whiskey into Wranglers Jersey’s hand. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy right now comforting a passenger in her time of need.” He whipped a tissue out of the box and dabbed it across Lyric’s wet cheek.

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” Wranglers Jersey slinked back down in his seat. He must have taken a drink, because Heath heard the sound of spewing liquid. “Jesus, is this whiskey peppermint flavored?”

  “Oops. I forgot.” Tre shot Heath a look. “Peppermint Life Savers. They were as close as I could get to cherries and a paper umbrella.” He leaned over Wranglers Jersey’s seat. “Sorry about that, sir. The Deuce is a little kinky in his drink preferences, if you know what I mean. I’ll be right back with that water.” He patted Lyric’s head a couple of times before flouncing back up the aisle.

  For the first time, Heath realized his hand was still on Lyric’s face. He dropped it reluctantly back into his lap, but when she sniffled, he couldn’t resist lacing his fingers through hers.

  “He’ll be fine. Your dad’s a fighter. He’ll get through this.” He infused his voice with a certainty he was far from feeling. But what else could he do? When his father had died, Lyric had been there for him. She’d been the shoulder he cried on
, the sounding board for his pain, and the hand holder when words couldn’t express the grief he’d felt. The dim memory of the girl she’d been nodding attentively while he poured out his soul as they sat in the bed of his old pickup watching the sun go down drifted to the forefront of his mind, had him squeezing her hand just a little more tightly. He’d never felt closer to another living creature than he had that night—before or since. No matter how much sex he’d had in the intervening years, he’d never been able to re-create those moments of perfect intimacy.

  “Mother says he’s in bad shape, Heath. What am I going to do if he doesn’t make it?”

  She sounded so lost. Which was weird, because if there was anyone who knew who she was and where she was headed, it was Lyric Wright. From the time she could walk, she’d blazed a path brighter and straighter than any rocket ever could. And she’d done it all with a single-minded focus that hadn’t left room for anything else.

  Even when she was little, she hadn’t cried much. If she got hurt, she’d picked herself up and moved on. If someone made fun of her, she’d tied them in knots with her crazy intellect until they were the ones everyone was laughing at. So when she did cry, when something hurt her enough to break through the layers of protection she had around herself, it had always turned him inside out.

  Tonight was no different, even after all the years that yawned between them. Seeing her vulnerable, watching her cry, was ripping away at a part of himself he hadn’t thought about in years, a part he’d been certain had disappeared about the same time Lyric and Harmony had booted him out of their lives. Finding out that it was still there—that he still cared—wasn’t comfortable, but it was nothing compared to watching Lyric cry.

  Part of him wanted nothing more than to pull her onto his lap and kiss the hurt away. To stroke and to soothe and to promise her that everything was going to be okay. But there were two problems with that plan.

  One, he didn’t know how things were going to turn out, didn’t know if her dad would be okay, though he really hoped he would be—and not just for Lyric’s sake.

  And two, if he tried to hold her like that in the mood she was currently in, she’d probably smother him with the plastic-covered pillow tucked into the seat pocket in front of her.

  Which left only one thing for him to do—at least if you understood that he couldn’t just leave her broken up like this. He had to go old school—way old school—and pull out the one thing that used to make her laugh no matter what. It was lame and he really hoped Wranglers Jersey didn’t hear him doing it, but what was a little humiliation in the face of making Lyric smile again?

  In his best Kermit the Frog voice, he said, “It isn’t easy being green.”

  Who didn’t love the Muppets? Considering he hadn’t done the impression in at least twenty years, he figured it wasn’t all that shabby.

  Lyric must have agreed, because the corners of her mouth lifted tremulously. But all she said was, “Kermit the Frog hasn’t worked on me since I was ten.”

  “That’s too bad. I’ve been working on my version of ‘Rainbow Connection.’” Heath grinned at her. “I’m sure Tre would love for me to go all Kermit-turned-lounge-singer and rock this place.”

  “No doubt. Just be aware that he has duct tape.” She picked at the same thread on her skirt. “And he’s not afraid to use it.”

  She closed her eyes and sank back against her chair with a heavy sigh. He wanted to talk more, to find out what she’d been up to for the last few years, but she looked totally wiped. Better to let her sleep for a while—it would make the flight pass more quickly for her. Besides, it’s not like he wouldn’t get the chance to talk to her again.

  When he’d needed her all those years ago, she’d been there for him. A lot had happened in the ensuing years, but none of that mattered to him right now. Nothing did, but repaying the favor and helping Lyric … whether she liked it or not.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  Lyric came awake abruptly, her head smacking hard against the back of the seat as consciousness invaded like a conquering army. For a second, she couldn’t remember where she was or what she was doing. But when she turned and saw Heath sitting next to her, still asleep, it all came back to her.

  Her father’s heart attack.

  Sitting next to her arch nemesis for the longest eight-hour flight of her life.

  The ridiculous duct-tape dress.

  She shot a quick glance down, hoping and praying that the damned dress debacle had just been a nightmare of epic proportions. No such luck. She was still wrapped up like a burrito from Taco Bell. It was a miracle she’d managed to sleep at all. Especially considering the fact that her bladder was currently singing “Anchors Aweigh.”

  For a second, she glanced longingly down the aisle at the lavatory, then let that pipe dream go. Even if she could make it back through the cabin, there was no way in hell she was capable of spreading her legs wide enough to do more than pee all over herself. Which was so not going to happen. She’d already had her quota of humiliation for the day.

  After stretching as much as the duct tape monstrosity would let her, she turned her head and looked at Heath. He was sleeping, but even in repose he radiated a kind of charisma that was hard to overlook. It was the same charisma that had captured her attention on the playground all those years ago. The same charisma that had made her love him, had made her give herself to him, when he’d never thought of her as anything more than a friend.

  He moved a little in his sleep, banging his hurt knee against the seat in front of him as he did. He moaned, the faint grooves by the side of his mouth—made by his perennial smiling—turning down a little as he grimaced in obvious pain. For the first time, she wondered just how badly he was injured. Heath was tough—West Texas cowboy tough—so for him to let that much pain leak through, even asleep, it had to be pretty horrible.

  He shifted again, and another flash of pain crossed his face. Absently, she reached up and brushed a soft hand down the side of his face in an effort to comfort him. He turned toward her at the contact, his cheek settling perfectly into her slightly cupped palm. She started to jerk away—shocked by the casual intimacy of both her gesture and his own—but doing so would wake him up and that seemed churlish, especially considering the comfort he had brought to her earlier.

  If she was honest with herself—and she usually was, though at the moment she was having second and third and fourth thoughts about doing so—she’d have to admit that the reason she’d slept so well was because Heath was beside her. It seemed crazy, considering everything that had passed between them, but it was the truth nonetheless. Her mind had been going a million miles a minute, even after the vodka, but Heath’s proximity—not to mention his abysmal Kermit the Frog impression—had her relaxing despite herself. The way he’d talked to her, listened to her, reminded her of the way things used to be between them, back before she’d gone and messed it all up by falling for a guy who was in love with her sister.

  Old tears sprang to her eyes, mingled with the new ones already there. Dashing them away with her free hand, she turned toward the aisle just as Tre came down it and stopped in front of her.

  “Wonder Woman awakens.” He extended a warm, damp washrag toward her in a pair of tongs. “I thought you might like to freshen up before we land.”

  “I would. Thanks.”

  He winked at her. “Can’t have Wonder Woman smelling like the Hulk, now can we? The ripped clothes and green cast to your skin are bad enough, don’t you think?”

  The barb didn’t sting the way it would have only a few hours before. In fact, she found herself smiling at Tre as she handed back her washcloth. She was going to miss him. Sure, he might be the flight attendant equivalent of the Marquis de Sade, but he’d been good to her throughout the trip, making sure she had everything he could possibly provide. Not to mention the fact that she would have been completely up the creek without his quick thinking and fashion know-how. No fut
ure flight attendant would be able to compete.

  “Oh, wow. Let me get that drool—it was a long nap.” With a wicked smile, he pulled a white napkin out of his vest pocket and dabbed at the corner of her lip. She was just grateful he hadn’t licked it before he swiped. Tre had the mama hen routine down. If the mama hen was just a touch rabid …

  Above her head, the fasten seat belt sign blinked on, followed by an announcement from the captain asking them to stay seated for the short remainder of the flight. A major storm system was affecting the Dallas–Fort Worth area, and they were going to be coming down straight through it, which meant the turbulence could get rough.

  At his announcement, the last of Lyric’s sleep-induced lethargy dissipated, and the sick feeling that had taken up residence when she’d first gotten her mother’s phone call grew to monstrous proportions. Though she still had another short flight from DFW to San Angelo, setting down on the mainland made everything seem so much more real. As long as she wasn’t here, as long as she was just thinking about making it here, she could get away with not thinking about what was waiting for her. But now that she was a few bumpy minutes away from landing, there was nowhere to hide.

  The reality of her father’s situation, along with the knowledge that she really might be too late, came crashing down on her.

  Which, she supposed, was better than the plane crashing down, she told herself as they hit their first air pocket and dropped quickly. The dip must have brought them into the storm, because seconds later they started to shake like Bibb lettuce in a salad spinner.

  In front of her, the Wranglers fan’s hand shot up and grabbed the seat in front of him so tightly that she would have sworn his knuckles had gone right past white and were now turning blue. His girlfriend started to whine a little, and all around her people gasped and muttered uneasily. A part of Lyric wanted to reassure them with a definition of turbulence and the statistics that proved there was a very low chance of anything happening to the plane. But years of always saying the wrong thing had taught her that sometimes she should be seen and not heard. She glanced down—then again, not seen would work pretty well for her right about now too.