Lyric and Lingerie (The Fort Worth Wranglers Book 1)

by Tracy Wolff

  She pressed down on the button a couple times, but nothing happened. Finally, figuring there were more ways than one to handle the situation, she turned the volume knob all the way to the left. The sound level didn’t change appreciably, so she tried again. Still nothing. Beside her, Heath was laughing his ass off as the chorus came on.

  “No wonder he called it Cherry Cherry.” He wiped the tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks.

  Eyes narrowed, she hit the eject button. She designed satellites for a living. She could damn well conquer this radio. The stereo whined as it ejected the disc, and blessed silence finally filled the car.

  She sighed in relief. “Thank God. I hate that song.”

  At that exact moment, the car hiccupped, coughed, and then—with a particularly violent shimmy—the engine died.

  “What happened?” Lyric demanded.

  “I don’t know.” Heath turned the keys in the ignition, trying to get the engine to turn over, but nothing was happening. He pumped the gas pedal a couple of times and turned the key again. Nothing. “Personally, I think the more appropriate question is what did you do?”

  She was getting damn tired of that question being leveled at her. Especially since Heath channeling Tre was a scary sight. “I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who bought a lemon.”

  “She’s a cherry, not a lemon.”

  “Seriously?” Lyric rolled her eyes at him. “Pop the hood. There must be a loose wire or something.”

  “I will, as soon as I find the damn doohicky. It’s not where it’s supposed to be.” He felt around under the dash.

  As he angled his body down to feel under the seat, his elbow brushed against the CD that was still resting at the mouth of the CD player. It slid back in, and as “Cherry Cherry” started to play from the beginning, the car roared to life.

  They froze and looked at each other. “You don’t think …”

  “Of course not. You’ve obviously been reading too much Stephen King. This is not Christine’s younger, sluttier, disco sister.” Lyric cocked her head to one side and shot him a look.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Indignant now, she jabbed a finger at the eject button. Once again, the CD slid out. Seconds later, the car gave an angry groan, and with a very loud backfire, it died once again. She tapped the CD and it floated back into the player. The beginning of “Cherry Cherry” started again, and the engine roared to life. She ejected it and the car died. Okay. Demon possession—especially of inanimate objects—was impossible. Then again, most people believed that humans were the only intelligent beings in the universe … she rolled her eyes. On the whole, Homo sapiens wasn’t afflicted with broadmindedness. Gingerly, she touched the dash. Was this car the unholy vessel of some crazed Neil Diamond fan?

  Oh my God. She sat back. She was obviously losing her mind.

  “Okay, that’s it,” Heath exclaimed, pushing the CD in one more time. “If you want to get to San Angelo this year, forget God. Neil Diamond is our copilot.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Lyric peeled her legs from the seat and tucked them under her. Still, he had a point. If it meant getting to her daddy, she could handle four hours of “Cherry Cherry.” Maybe. As long as she didn’t spend too much time wondering about what it was that made these seats so damn sticky.

  Heath rolled down the windows as he pulled out of the airport parking lot. They were between storm clouds. “No wonder the guy smoked so much pot. He had to be stoned to put up with this much Neil Diamond.”

  Was it her imagination, or did the volume go up?

  “Sorry.” Heath glanced around like he was looking for the spirit of Cherry Cherry. “Nothing personal.”

  The car hiccupped, but the volume went back down. “Thanks, Cherry,” he said as he pulled out onto Highway 71.

  “You’re not actually talking to the car, are you?” Lyric demanded. “It can’t hear you, you know.”

  “You sure about that?” Heath asked with a raised brow. “Because I’m not.”

  “You’re being absurd. There’s obviously a loose wire somewhere under the dash.” The car wasn’t possessed … okay, it might have a small crush on Neil Diamond.

  “Hush,” Heath told her as the dome light flickered above their heads. “She didn’t mean it, Cherry.”

  Lyric sighed disgustedly and started to formulate a snappy comeback, but she was distracted by the ringing of her phone. Knowing very well who it was, she glanced at the caller ID anyway. Saw Harmony’s name. And declined the call before her conscience could get the better of her.

  Did she want to know what was going on with her father? Absolutely. Especially when the not knowing was a burning ache deep inside of her. But at the same time, what if Harmony was calling to tell her he hadn’t made it? That her daddy—their daddy—was dead? She wasn’t ready for that yet.

  If she was too late—just the thought had her hands shaking—then she would find that out when she walked in the door. And if she wasn’t—please, God, don’t let her be too late—she would deal with it then, and not one second before.

  As Heath pointed the car toward San Angelo, she tried to relax, but the music made it difficult. As did the way he kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She knew he wanted her to look at him, but she refused to. After all, this was the man she had spent the last twelve years despising. The man who had cracked her heart wide open with a few careless words. She needed to remember that, remember what it felt like to be broken like that. Otherwise she was going to have another whole host of problems—problems that began and ended with the fact that even after everything that had passed between them, Heath Montgomery still made her heart go pitter-pat.

  Which was ridiculous. Bizarre. Absolutely suicidal. Yes, he’d been totally charming from the second he lowered that paper on the airplane and realized the duct-taped idiot sitting next to him was her. Yes, he’d protected her from his crazed fans. Yes, he’d chewed her out of that damn dress. And yes, he’d even managed to secure this damn car, despite the run on rentals the Austin airport had experienced while they were dealing with her dress, and was now driving hundreds of miles out of his way to make sure she got home to her father safely.

  But that wasn’t enough.

  She couldn’t let it be enough, no matter how much her Southern manners were grating on her conscience. She wasn’t a masochist after all—duct-tape dresses notwithstanding—nor was she an idiot. Lowering her guard with Heath, letting him charm his way back into her good graces, would make her both. After all, the Deuce was known for his ability to maneuver even the most stalwart virgin out of her panties in less than five minutes. Since she wasn’t wearing any, it would take him no time flat. He’d never met a pair of breasts he didn’t like or a heart he couldn’t break. And after her latest love-life debacle with Rob the Knob, Lyric just didn’t have it in her to take the chance.

  She quite simply didn’t have anything left to give.

  Another arrow of pain licked through her, and once again she shoved it right back down where it had come from. She had enough to worry about right now without taking on anything extra, and Heath was definitely extra. He was like the gift-with-purchase lipstick at the Lancome counter—not what she’d originally gone in for, not even a color she’d wanted, yet somehow it fast became her favorite shade.

  Willing time to go faster—willing this drive to go faster—Lyric rested her forehead against the passenger-side window and stared out into the bleak grayness of the storm. With all of its driving rain, flashes of lightning, and tree-bending winds, it was a perfect reflection of her mood and the temper tantrum part of her really wanted to throw.

  “Are you cold?” Heath asked after a few minutes, talking loudly to be heard over the chorus of “Cherry Cherry.” He nodded toward the backseat. “I might have a sweatshirt in my bag, if you want to cover your legs with it.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure? Beca
use I don’t mind. You can have whatever—“

  “I’m fine, Heath. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okaaaaay,” he said after several long seconds of silence. “Do you want to call your mom? Or Harmony? Check on your dad’s condition?”

  “I really don’t.”

  Now she could feel the weight of his stare even with her head turned in the opposite direction. She didn’t want to justify herself to him, but— “If my daddy’s dead, I don’t want to know about it … not yet.”

  No matter how cowardly-lion it made her, she just couldn’t face it. Not now and not over the phone. If she didn’t talk to her family, there was still hope. And right now, hope was all she was living on. She rubbed her temples. Well, hope and the violent need to find Neil Diamond and stab him in his “cherry cherries” for writing this damn song.

  Heath’s big, warm hand settled on her knee. Sparks, hot and completely inappropriate, shot up her leg at the contact. What kind of pervert was she to be experiencing sparks when her father was so sick? It took every ounce of self-control she had not to shove his hand off her knee. Or bang her head into the glass window it rested on.

  “It’s going to be okay.” His tone was that of a preschool teacher comforting a four-year-old.

  “Define okay.” God, she really was a snippy bitch—and getting snippier by the second. She couldn’t help it. Her old college roommate, Tiffany, had said that emotional stress always brought out Lyric’s inner Cranky Pants. Since Tiffany had been the manically perky cheerleader type, Lyric’s inner Cranky Pants had become her whole persona that entire semester. Now, not only had Cranky Pants taken up residence, but she’d brought Crazy too. Which meant that if Lyric wanted to get to San Angelo in one piece, she needed something to do besides sit here thinking about everything that could go wrong for her father.

  As the chorus to “Cherry Cherry” rang out for what seemed like the millionth time—it turned out the song was on a never-ending loop—she knew exactly what to do to pass the time. If she could build a rocket at the age of nine out of nothing but fireworks and a Coke bottle, she could damn well figure out how to make Neil Diamond stop singing.

  She shoved her phone back in her purse. Prying her legs up from the seat, she unbuckled her seat belt and attempted to slide onto the floorboard, but she kept sticking to the seat. After repeatedly peeling her shirt and boxers from the leather, she grabbed the shirt hem, wound it around her hand, and looped it in a knot at her waist. In a maneuver that was part stop-drop-and-roll and part turtle-stranded-on-its-back, she ducked under the dash. Her position—head, neck, and shoulders on the floorboard, while her torso and legs flailed around on the seat—gave the double benefit of muffling the music a little and gave her access to the wires that ran close to the radio.

  “Are you okay?” Heath demanded anxiously. “Is the pot smell getting to you?”

  “It’s not the pot that’s getting to me. I’m just looking for some wires that will—” She cut herself off in mid-sentence, because she was going to say “stop Neil Diamond,” but she didn’t want to offend Cherry again. Not for one second did she believe the car was actually a sentient being, but she’d read Christine, and on the off chance that Stephen King had something there, she figured it was better to be safe than sorry. “I’m hoping to find an answer to the pressurized carbon situation we’ve got going on here.”

  Heath looked at her like she was speaking in tongues. But that was nothing new—she’d spent her whole life having to explain herself, one way or the other.

  “You know,” she said, jerking her head toward the stereo, “pressurized carbon. It makes …” She trailed, leaving him to fill in the blank.

  “A mess?”

  “Diamonds,” she finally told him, exasperated. “Pressurized carbon makes diamonds.”

  “And you hope to find some under the dash? I only spent eight grand on the car. It might be flashy, but I don’t think it’s diamond studded.”

  Seriously? Lyric rolled her eyes. How many hits had he taken on the football field through the years anyway? She almost asked him, but she didn’t want to make Cherry Cherry mad. They seemed to have bonded.

  “I don’t want diamonds. I want to stop …” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh my God, it’s another one of those fill-in-the-blank questions.” He hummed along with the chorus of “Cherry Cherry.” “I do better with multiple choice. Like … you want to stop—blank. A. Global warming, B. Poverty, or C. Those misguided souls outside of the US who keep referring to soccer as football. D. All of the above. E. None of the above. FYI—if you choose E, none of the above, it’s a deal breaker. That soccer thing really bugs me.” He did that one-eyebrow-up thing. “See how it works?”

  Before she could answer, Heath went from humming to mouthing the words. Lyric shook her head. It looked like she was in this all alone. He had obviously fallen under Cherry Cherry’s spell and crossed over to the dark side.

  “Want me to leave you two alone so you can sign her hood?” Neil Diamond made her snarky.

  “Don’t be a hater.” He started bobbing his head with the beat. She couldn’t help wondering if there was a twelve-step program for Neil Diamond groupies. If so, she was signing him up. Would Neil sing them the Serenity Prayer?

  They spent the next hour driving in relative quiet—except, of course, for good old Neil. Heath grooved along with the beat as Lyric did her best to figure out how to stop the torture. But every time she came close to solving the problem, Cherry would whine or sputter or squeal. Once, she even whistled. Lyric was close to giving up when the car slowed and they pulled off the road. The engine died.

  “Why are we stopping? I didn’t do anything.” She poked her head up. “Cherry, I swear I didn’t touch anything.”

  “I’m hungry and this is the only restaurant I’ve seen for the last twenty miles. Good ole Dairy Queen—Texas stop sign. I’ll just run in and get something. What do you want?”

  “Nothing. I’m good, thanks.” The thought of eating literally turned her stomach, but at least the music had stopped. It was kind of like musical chairs—they could only move when the music was on.

  He looked like he wanted to argue, but in the end, he just shrugged and climbed out of the car. She kept working, determined that when he turned the car back on, “Cherry Cherry” would play no more.

  He was back ten minutes later, carrying a huge bag and two Butterfinger Blizzards. “That pot really got to you, huh?” She sat up as he unloaded his bounty.

  “It’s not all for me.” He handed her a grilled-chicken sandwich. “I got a separate container of mayonnaise for your fries. And a couple packets of mustard so you can have mayo on one end of the fry and mustard on the other. I know.” He nodded to her. “Condiments should never mix.”

  She froze. “You remember how I like my fries?”

  “I remember everything about you.” His matter-of-fact tone went straight to her heart. He was charming and didn’t even know it … bastard. “It doesn’t annoy you?” Rob the Knob had refused to let her eat fries in his presence.

  “Not at all.”

  She shifted uncomfortably as she realized that somehow, the conversation had become about a lot more than fries. Despite her best efforts, the barriers she’d worked so hard to erect between them started to crumble a little.

  She tried to look away, but Heath wouldn’t let her off the hook that easily. His eyes caught hers and held. In their depths, she could see the boy he used to be. The easygoing charmer who’d always made her feel important no matter how clumsy she was. Something Rob the Knob, or any other man she’d cared about through the years, had never been able to do.

  The tears she wouldn’t let herself cry for her father welled up in her eyes, and she blinked a few times, determined to make them go away.

  The intense look on Heath’s face turned to alarm. “Shit, did you want onion rings?” He rummaged around in the bag for a second. “Here, you can have mine.”

  She laughed despi
te herself, then grabbed a ring and popped it in her mouth. How could she have forgotten how easily he made her smile? Too busy hating him for not loving her, she supposed.

  The thought was a punch in the gut, the same old longing rising up inside of her. She tried to shove it down, but it didn’t work. At least not until Heath turned the ignition on, and “Cherry Cherry” once again blasted through the speakers.

  For once, she didn’t mind. It looked like Neil Diamond got the way to groove her, after all.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  As he made the turn off the highway, Heath glanced at Lyric. “We’ll be in San Angelo in a few minutes.” His worry for her had compounded in the last two hours since they’d stopped at Dairy Queen.

  She didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if that was because she hadn’t heard him from her spot under the dash or if she was ignoring him—something she’d been doing pretty much from the second he’d offered her his onion rings outside of that Dairy Queen a hundred miles back—or if she’d retreated too far into herself. She’d even given up spouting off useless facts.

  “Lyric?” He tried again.

  Still no answer.

  He glanced over at her, trying his damnedest not to look up her boxer shorts—just like he had for the last hour, ever since she’d shifted so that her torso was under the dash and her long, long, long legs rested against the back of the seat.

  “Lyric!” This time he put his hand on her bare thigh—purely in an attempt to get her attention. But her skin was warm and silky, and he had to fight the urge to run his fingers up under the loose hem of the boxers he’d bought her. Only the knowledge that this was the wrong place and definitely the wrong time made him behave.

  Still, he couldn’t resist lightly rubbing his thumb back and forth across her inner thigh. His touch obviously got her attention, because a muffled thud came from under the dash, followed by a groan. He grinned. She wasn’t as immune to him as she wanted him to think.