“Never heard of it. That a whiskey?”
“Yes. What do you recommend?”
He brandishes the bottle. “Koltiska. It’s a traditional Western liqueur. Fifth generation family’s secret recipes, distilled in Sheridan. You can try it with tea. They call that a TKO.”
She gathers that the generation count matters a lot here. “I’m more of a whiskey drinker.”
He pours a slug in a shot glass. “Try it.”
She tips it back. It goes down hot, smooth, and tasty. “Pour me one. Just over ice.”
As she waits, Maggie considers trying to find the article Sheila mentioned, the retrospective piece. They pop up occasionally, generate some interest in her and make money for the record company that traded her Flown the Coop, the land it stood on, and Bess for her albums, songs, and back royalties. Then the interest dies down. She decides her life is complete without reading the stilted prose of another hack rehashing her downward slide from the top of the music industry to drugs, mindless sex, rehab, and oblivion. The truth is far simpler, and far more complex than any of the journalists ever grasp.
The bartender adds another glass to a row on the counter and pours without pause. He slides it to her. “Run a tab?”
“I’ve got it.”
Maggie turns toward the bass voice. “No, that’s okay.” Pushy much? What is it with the men in Wyoming?
The big voice belongs to a guy who’s even steven with her five-foot-six-plus-boot-heels. He plunks a twenty on the counter. “Maggie, right?”
Had he overheard Hank introduce her to his teenybopper? “Um, yes.”
He waits, holding eye contact. Maggie takes in his red flannel shirt and overalls. He’s nearly as wide as he is tall, but not fat. Stocky. Muscular. Boulder-like.
She sips the Koltiska. It’s good. Different from Balcones, but she’s suddenly ready for things in her life to change. She imagines this is what it would taste like to drink out of a cold, clear mountain stream. “Thank you,” she says to the drink buyer.
“I’d know you anywhere.” His eyes grow squinty. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Maggie shakes her head. “I’m sorry—should I?”
“I met you in Minot. At the North Dakota State Fair. Back in 2002. My name is Rudy Simon.”
“Hello, Rudy. Wow, a long time ago.”
“You said you’d play a song for me. ‘Troublemaker.’ Then you didn’t.”
His words don’t stir any recollections, but she doesn’t doubt him. She played a lot of shows in 2002. She also drank a lot of Jack and Coke. “I’m sorry.”
A man in his sixties—or it could be his eighties, hard to say in dim lights and with his Santa Claus facial hair—is speaking into the mic. She can’t make out his words. When he finishes speaking, the musicians kick off a song. Maggie finds herself nodding to the upbeat tempo of old country. Really old—maybe the 1950s? She savors a sip of her drink, trying to place the tune, but she can’t.
“You still owe me that song.” Her benefactor’s voice is hard and flat.
Maggie pretends she doesn’t hear him. The musicians finish their number. Rudy doesn’t take his eyes off her. Before she can think of a reply for him, an enormous man bumps into Hank’s table. In the silence, four beer bottles clank, roll, and hit the floor. Everything in the bar seems to grind to a halt. Hank is on his feet so fast Maggie doesn’t see him move. One second he’s sitting. The same second he’s standing. He’s a head shorter and a feed sack lighter than the giant, but he’s up in the guy’s face, showing no fear, as if the guy is just another bull he knows he can beat.
All eyes are on the man and Hank. The men lean in, and it’s clear harsh words are exchanged. Hank pokes him in the chest three times. Gene and the two women are up, too, and everyone is talking at once. The larger man shakes his head, laughs, and exits the saloon. The silence ends, instrument strings are plucked and strummed. Eyes swivel away from the spectacle and conversations resume.
“A little excitement,” Maggie says, mostly to herself.
“That’s nothing.” The bartender points at the ceiling. “Original bullet holes, turn of the century. That was a little excitement.”
Maggie glances up. Sure enough. Bullet holes.
“About that song.” Rudy’s voice is close to her ear. Too close.
Maggie rises, her drink in her hand. It’s nearly empty. She drains it and puts the glass on the counter. The bartender raises a brow, and she nods. Her fingers are still around the glass as he refills it. She pulls a five from her jeans pocket and hands it to the bartender before Rudy can pay again.
“Sorry about the song. It was a hectic time.”
“That’s okay. You can sing it tonight.”
Maggie steps away. “I don’t perform anymore.”
Rudy glowers at her. The musicians strike up another tune. Individually, they’re fairly competent. Together, they’re a riot of joy. As much fun as it looks, it doesn’t tempt Maggie to join them, not one single bit. Writing and performing her music was her life. An obsession. Losing a career she loved so much, and along with it respect, cut deep. Like losing Hank had.
Maggie’s not wired for losing. Her relationship with her guitar and her music is a private one now, one she controls. She puts nothing on the line anymore that she can’t afford to lose. And tonight is the perfect example of why. She’d put herself out there for Hank again tonight, and now she’s watching him with a woman young enough to be his daughter, if he’d started procreating in middle school. Gross, but possible. Just like the relationship. Maggie tosses back her Koltiska.
Something makes her glance toward the doorway, past Hank’s cozy party of four. A male figure is silhouetted against the setting sun. He’s muscular, slim-hipped, taller and heavier than Hank. He takes off a Stetson, uncovering curly hair the color of sand. Sheila and her friend are eyeing him, too, again with the pointing. So rude. A flicker of anger courses through Maggie. Doesn’t that young twat know how lucky she is to be with Hank? As if Sheila reads her thoughts, she turns back to Hank. He shakes his head at her, then Sheila and her friend bust out laughing. Hank’s eyes flick to the doorway, then back to his date. He’s facing the guy, and he’s cataloguing his every move.
As he steps farther into the bar, Maggie realizes she’s seen him before. From the parking lot of the taxidermy shop. Ah, those red lips and unusual eyes. Chet. He’s close to Sheila’s age, from what Maggie remembers. Right now, that makes him perfect for her.
Maggie is buzzed. It’s time to decide. Take it slow, or slam the hammer down. Sober, she’s formidable, sexual. Across the line, she’s supercharged. Doesn’t care what she does—man, woman, inanimate object, her hand—as long as she gets there. All night long. She glances back at Hank and his child date. Back at Chet.
She nods at the bartender. “Make it a double.”
She has his full attention now and holds the glass toward him. He hits her again.
Taking the drink, she says, “Nice to see you again, Ruben.”
“Rudy.”
She doesn’t look at him. “Rudy, yes.”
She starts toward the entrance to the saloon. The swivel of her hips is a primal drumbeat. She watches Chet as the rhythm catches his attention. His broad smile is immediate, and Maggie knows he came here, alone, looking for her.
She stops in front of him and licks a few drops from the rim of her liqueur glass.
His eyes gleam. “I see you found the place.”
“I see you found me.”
“You’re hard to miss.”
The skin on her neck tingles from watching eyes. The liqueur courses through her. She reaches for his arm, runs her hand up it, squeezes. “So are you.”
“Oh, sugar, you don’t even know.”
“But I’d like to.”
“Drink up, and we can make sure you do.”
She drinks. Shivers. Hands him her glass. She glances at Hank. He’s turned his back, almost like he’s done it so he won’t have to see Chet
and her. Yeah, that’s how I feel, too, mister. She cozies up with Chet at the bar. He smells good, like someone she’d like to be naked with, and he’s funny. They order a round from the bartender.
When he brings the drinks, Chet says, “Keep ’em coming, Frank.”
She clinks her glass to his. “To new friends.”
“God, your voice.”
“What?”
“It’s killing me. Feminine, but road rough. Like sex against a brick wall.”
“Why, Chet, that’s the nicest compliment I’ve gotten all night.”
He moves in close so their breath mingles. “And I know who you are.”
“I’d be worried if you didn’t. We’ve met twice now.”
“No, I mean I figured out that you’re Maggie Killian. The singer.”
Maggie taps his breastbone with her forefinger. “Aren’t you the rocket scientist.”
Rudy’s nursing a drink a few feet away. He’s been scooting down the bar, closer, closer, until he’s elbow to elbow with Maggie.
Chet turns on him. “Give us some space, partner.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Which means I’m free to kick your ass if you get any closer to my girl.”
“She’s not yours.”
His shoulders bunch and an arm goes up. “That’s it, buddy—”
Maggie puts a hand on his raised and flexed forearm. Nice guns. “He’s an old friend. S’okay.”
Chet drops his arm.
Rudy nods at her, but he doesn’t speak to her again.
Two drinks later, Chet whispers to her. “I’ve had enough of hanging with my ex here. Wanna go somewhere private?”
She puts her bag over her shoulder. “Lead the way.”
He takes her by the hand and pulls her toward the door. She hooks the fingers of her other hand through his belt loops. She turns to get one more glimpse of Hank, hoping he’ll see what he’s missing. But he and his group are nowhere to be seen.
Icy needles prick her heart. Chet hauls her to him by her ass on the sidewalk by his truck. The burly figure of her old fan from the bar lumbers in the opposite direction. Chet rubs his whiskers up her neck. The best way to forget that Hank has left with Sheila is to drown herself in some young, sexy cowboy before she gets the hell out of Wyoming, so she dives on in, lips first.
Four
Chet struts back from the Bison Inn lobby toward his pickup, grinning at Maggie. His red lips are delectable. She can’t wait to taste them again. He waves a keycard back toward the tan stucco building. Two rough looking men and a woman whose cheeks and body scream meth appear from between some parked cars and fall in behind him. She’s in black. A skin-tight black shirt under a puffy black vest. Or are those sleeve tattoos on her arms?
Maggie points at them, but Chet misunderstands and blows her a kiss.
The woman—with spiky blonde hair, a skeletal frame, and square shoulders—grabs him by the arm, spinning him. Maggie gasps. What is going on?
Chet’s fists come up in a flash. He cocks an arm back, prepared to let it fly. As suddenly as he is poised to fight, he drops his arm. He wags his head side to side, no, no. Maggie watches, gaping, as the two men each take him by an arm, and he just lets them.
An oddly dressed woman steps into Maggie’s line of vision, maybe drawn by the possibility of a fight. Is that a tan leather skirt? And a fringed shirt? Not that she has room to talk herself, in her fringed vest and tank. She’s wearing her hair in two long black braids. Maggie rocked that look one summer on the road. The woman is behaving strangely, too, standing in a wide stance with her arms out slightly, like she’s ready to fight. But whatever she’s here for, she’s in Maggie’s way. She slides across the seat so she can see what’s going on.
The blonde slaps Chet hard across the face, so hard that Maggie hears it in the cab of the truck, even with the windows up. The blonde shakes her hand, bent over at the waist, holding her gut and stumbling around. She’s laughing.
The men release Chet and one slaps the woman a high five. She lets loose a combo of air punches and a high kick, then skips over to a group nearer the street huddled around a lifted Chevy one-ton with a home paint job in army green.
The fashion-impaired woman slips away, too.
Chet watches them for a moment. When he turns to Maggie, his head is down. By the time he’s in the truck, though, he’s grinning again, despite the bright red handprint on his face.
He swoops in to pin her against the passenger side window by the lips. Maggie gives back as good as she gets. The kiss is rough, but it ends after a few seconds.
Maggie nips his neck. “What was that about—offering yourself up for an ass-whupping?”
“When I’m wrong, I man up. I didn’t do right by her, once upon a time. I get it. Worse for everybody if I fight back. Plus, I have a tire iron in my truck bed. I could put a stop to things real quick with her brothers if I needed to.”
Maggie wonders if this is the ex-girlfriend they’d ditched in the Occidental. “So, you’re too young for me and you’re a man whore?” She slides her hand down his chest to the button on his jeans.
He laughs. “Neither.” He grabs her wrist. “Let’s save some of that for upstairs.”
“Party pooper.” Her hand retreats slowly.
He slides back to the driver’s side, shifting to make his jeans more comfortable now that he’s filling them out and then some. He starts the truck. “We’re parking in back.”
“Away from the woman you done wrong?”
“Away from everyone, beautiful. Where I can be alone with you.”
Five
Maggie wakes to a spinning bed. Predawn light is peeping through a window with wide-open drapes. Above her, a warrior on a pinto pony has a bow and arrow trained on a US Calvary soldier. Beside her, a hulking form with the comforter over his head is snoring like a wood chipper. He rolls, taking the covers with him. Maggie grabs for them, but she’s too late. She’s naked and exposed.
The window-unit air conditioner on her side of the bed is working double time. Without the sheet, she’s freezing. She wants clothes and the Excedrin in her bag. And a whole lot of water. Before she gets up, though, Maggie lifts the sheet. Last night is fuzzy, but she’s ninety-nine point nine percent sure she left the Occidental with the young cowboy she met in the parking lot of the taxidermy store. It never hurts to be sure. And if there’s even a chance it’s Hank, that changes everything.
It’s not. Hank, that is. The curly dishwater hair and muscular young body definitely belong to Chet. The fingernail scratches down his back belong to her. She trails her finger down one. That had to hurt. He groans and flips, quick as a cat, displaying an enormous morning woody. The details of their hookup come back to her. Sexually, they were a hell of a match. Several times. She aches in the right places, but it feels all wrong.
At this moment, Hank is probably spooning his sweet young thing, while Maggie’s freezing her ass off, God knows where, with her head splitting open from too much booze and her size extra-large mistake. A seriously delectable mistake, but with sobriety and thoughts of Hank, not one she has an appetite to repeat. Revenge sex only makes her feel better until it’s over. And it’s way, way over. Besides, if Hank doesn’t know—and he probably wouldn’t care—that she’s with Chet, then it isn’t even revenge. It’s just a one-night stand. The rule for those is no lingering, sexy mornings. They lead to misunderstandings and man-babies with hurt feelings.
Hurt feelings . . . like hers. Damn Hank. Damn his girlfriend.
She has to get out of here. This room. This place. This town. This state. Away from the pain of thinking about what will never be with Hank. Maybe it’s time to return some of Gary’s calls. He’s not a bad guy. He’s the right age, unlike the pretty boy beside her. Gary cares. He can help her get over Hank.
Her phone rings. She slithers off the bed. Chet snorts and turns back over in a violent flop onto his belly. She winces. If he’s not careful, he’s going to break his im
pressive pecker clean off. Her phone rings again, and she scrambles around naked on all fours, searching for it. She finds it under her panties.
Nice. Starting the day with dignity.
It’s Michele. She hits accept, grabs her bag, and slips into the bathroom. She shuts the door—no lock, or she would use it—and turns on the shower to cover her voice, but sets it to cold. She’s going to want the hot water for the vigorous scrubbing she plans to give herself. He’d admitted to being a man whore. She remembers insisting on condoms, but she couldn’t slip his whole body into one. So, yeah. Big-time shower.
Finally, she wipes the phone on a hand towel and whispers into it. “Hello.”
“What took you so long?” Michele’s voice is way too damn perky. “I thought you’d been abducted by a serial killer or something.”
“It’s really early.” She holds the phone out, noticing her arm is almost not long enough for her to read the time. Screw this getting-old shit. “Six a.m.”
“Seven here.”
“Still an indecent hour. But I’m not alone.”
“Anyone I know?” Michele’s voice is hopeful. This bright Michele is a recent phenomenon to Maggie. Ever since she’s known her, Michele has teetered between dangerous depression and mere deep sadness. Her husband was murdered, and getting over it has been hard. But she’s finally succumbed to the persistent attentions of Rashidi, now her boyfriend. But given her own dismal situation with Hank, Maggie is missing the old Michele this morning.
“No.” Maggie fills a plastic cup with water. She fishes the nearly empty bottle of Excedrin from her bag and takes three, finishing off the water. “But I saw him. Last night.”
Michele’s the only best girlfriend Maggie has ever had. Other women generally aren’t Maggie’s biggest fans, and vice versa. Michele is also the only person Maggie has ever told about Hank. Ever. That’s including the therapists in the many mandatory counseling sessions during rehabs one and two. Michele is definitely Team Hank. When Maggie showed Hank the door, she and Michele had the only serious disagreement of their entire relationship. Pretty amazing given that Michele is a writer, a best-selling and semi-famous one. She wrote the tell-all book that Sheila had mentioned the night before, the one about Maggie’s birth parents—her deceased artist mother, Gidget, and the very much alive former US senator Boyd Herrington, whose sister killed Gidget and tried to kill Maggie, Michele, and Michele’s daughter, Annabelle. As much as Maggie hates the spotlight, it’s a testament to her love for Michele.
Live Wire (Maggie #1) Page 3
