“Glitter?” Skye hissed, because really? The bourbon and hair, she could sort of understand, but glitter? Oh, please.
With eyes closed, her mom waved the cross pendant on her necklace over the mug. “No questions.”
Skye darted a look at Annika, who only shrugged.
After another minute more of chanting, her mom’s eyes flew open. “The rest of the ingredients we need from the day spa.”
All right. That sounded totally legit—not. Because what old-world magic didn’t require volumizing shampoos and nail polish?
Still, she and Annika followed her mom from the room like eager students. After stowing the trolley in a housekeeping closet near the ice machine, they descended in the elevator to the ground level. They’d only taken a few steps into the lobby when they were stopped in their tracks by none other than Granny June, five foot nothing and sitting astride her hot pink riding scooter, dressed in an emerald jogging suit and with a lowball glass of liquor in her hand.
Skye’s mom put her hand on her hip. “Aren’t you up a little late for an old woman?” The teasing line was said with a heavy dose of affection borne from forty years of familiarity.
Granny June hoisted her drink, the ice clinking merrily. “I can sleep when I’m dead. What are you kids up to? Skye, shouldn’t you be out with Pearl’s son right now?”
“Vince Biaggi is a dud. No more dating advice from you,” Skye said with a wag of her finger.
Granny June replied, “But his Facebook picture is so handsome!”
Skye’s mom stepped between them. “She’s listening to me now, June. We’re doing this my way, and I have just the spell to help her find the perfect man. All we need are a few final ingredients and we’re off to get those now.”
Granny June stood from her riding scooter with a spryness that belied her age and extricated a knobby wooden walking cane with a bejeweled handle from behind the scooter’s seat. “I’m in. Let’s go.”
What a motley crew they made, marching through the lobby, past wedding revelers and clusters of hotel guests, then down a flight of stairs to the basement level where the resort’s day spa was located. Skye’s mom waved her master-key fob at the spa’s main door, then led the way into the darkened spa, flipping on lights as she blazed a trail through the hair salon room and into the corridor of private massage rooms.
In the first massage room, her mom went straight for the row of aromatherapy vials on the counter. “A drop of lavender. Two drops of cedar. And, finally, the secret ingredient…” She hunched away from the group, but Skye swore she saw her spit into the mug.
Gross. But Skye couldn’t find it in her heart to mind. She was having a blast connecting with this side of her mom that seldom made its appearance anymore.
Then her mom was facing them again. “Skye, get a coin from your purse.”
Skye dug through her purse and found a quarter loose in the bottom of it. She held the coin out, but her mom shook her head. “Kiss it first.”
Her mom held out the mug. “Drop it in.”
Skye said a quick prayer as she released the quarter from her fingers. Bring my true love to me.
“Hold the mug and tell the spell what you’re looking for.”
Skye knew the answer without thinking. She cradled the mug in her hands and stared down at the brown, oily liquid. “A man with a solid career. And I’m not going to move away from my family in Dulcet, so he has to be local.”
“And handsome,” Granny June said.
“And Catholic,” her mom added.
It would be nice to meet a man who shared the religion she’d grown up in, but that was hardly mandatory, seeing as how Skye herself had long ago given up trying to follow the strict rules of the Church, much to her mom’s chagrin. “And a kind heart.”
Now that was mandatory.
Her mom gave her a side-eye, but Granny June gave a snort of incredulousness. “Think bigger. Sexier. You deserve it.”
She did deserve that. Funny how low Skye’s expectations had sunk over the years. “Someone handsome and daring, with dark, soulful eyes, and who makes my toes curl every time he kisses me. Someone who’s the staying kind, but that’s all right because he’ll be all the adventure and thrill I need for the rest of my life, and, most importantly, someone who loves me more than anything else in the world.”
Granny June gave a sage nod. “That’s more like it.”
Skye’s mom smiled. “Good. That sounds like a man I’d want for you. Now, reach in and find the coin. Don’t dry it. Just stick it in your bra, left cup, as near to your heart as you can.”
Skye dipped her hands into the cool liquid and did as she was told, though the coffee was sure to leave a permanent stain on her white lace bra. The wet coin was chilly against her breast, but other than that, she felt nothing new. No magic zings rippling through her. No swirls of glittery magic surrounding her like Cinderella’s fairy godmother had accomplished with her wand before the ball. Instead, she felt like the same old Skye Martinez—relationship loser, rebellion junkie, and Polished Pro’s assistant manager.
“What’s supposed to happen next?” Granny June said.
“We wait,” Skye’s mom said. “Your perfect man will come. You’ll see.”
Another silent moment passed, waiting … waiting. And then the doorknob turned. The door opened wide.
Skye and her mom whirled toward it, using their bodies to block the view of the spell ingredients scattered on the counter, while Annika pretended to fluff the doughnut-shaped pillow at the head of the massage table.
“We’re with housekeeping!” Skye called with a manic tone. “Just finishing up.” The last word died on her tongue as she took in the interloper.
A tall, broad-shouldered man filled the doorway, all muscle and tawny skin and dark, smoldering hotness.
“Oh! Didn’t expect to see anyone. I, uh…” He scratched his head, tousling his inky-black hair in the most adorably sexy way. “I’m Enrique. I’m new at the resort, and I have my first massage client scheduled for the morning, so I wanted to get set up.” His attention slid to Skye. There was no mistaking the heat in his eyes as his gaze swept over her. Then his lips curved into a hint of a lopsided smile, just enough to reveal a dimple on his right cheek. “I think I’m going to like this place.”
Skye’s mom nudged her in the ribs with a whispered, “It’s working.”
That was fast.
Skye’s body lit up with the all-consuming thrum of adventure and drama—her own personal call of the wild. Except this time, there wouldn’t be any negative consequences or shame brought onto her and her family, no repentance needed. This thrill was mother-approved. Skye was going to find a sweet, sexy local man to settle down with and then she wouldn’t ever be tempted again to run off in search of trouble. She’d have everything she needed right there in Dulcet—in her home and in her bed, forever.
She reached out her hand to Enrique, dizzy and breathless with the realization that tonight’s little spell was the first step in making all her dreams come true.
Chapter Two
Four weeks later …
Of course there was a mechanical bull. There always was.
Gentry Wells peered out across the bar at the bull from backstage at the Hitching Post Bar of Briscoe Ranch Resort, minutes before show time. Smoke streamed from the bull’s nostrils, and its beady eyes glowed red. The pissed-off expression was in discord with the crass appreciation etched on the faces of the men who’d gathered around the arena to watch a long-legged blonde in cut-off shorts straddle it and hold on tight. A few seconds later, Gentry, along with the rest of the men in attendance, admired the sight of her ass flying through the air and landing on the red mats surrounding the bull.
He was still watching with rapt attention as someone slapped him hard on the ass. “Ready to hit another home run, champ?”
That would be Larry Showalter, Gentry’s agent, who was at Briscoe Ranch Resort for the same reason Gentry was: to witness the wedding of
country music producer Neil Blevins’ only daughter, along with just about every other producer, agent, and recording artist in the industry. But unlike every other performer in attendance, Gentry had the singular honor of being tapped by Neil to perform both for the rehearsal dinner and during the wedding ceremony the next night. Lucky him.
“For the love of God, Larry, I’ve told you a million times. This isn’t baseball.”
He’d already tried to convince Gentry to overcome his song-writing block by breathing through his eyelids and wearing a garter belt like Tim Robbins did in the movie Bull Durham, something to jar him out of his stagnant state of mind. Gentry had flatly refused, until one night, in a fit of panic because he hadn’t written any new material in weeks, he’d gone online and bought men’s bikini briefs in every color of the rainbow—not that he’d ever admit as much to Larry or anybody else, for that matter. The banana hammocks were way too snug around his junk, but he had experienced some sparks of creativity while wearing them. More of the sparkler kind than fireworks, but he’d take it.
Larry smoothed his hand over his salt-and-pepper goatee and peered past the stage to the famous and well-connected crowd. “Might as well be, this industry is such a mind game.”
The man did have a point, with one minor clarification. “I think the term you’re looking for is mind fuck. And you’re definitely right about that.”
“Speaking of which, you’ve got quite the crowd tonight. I counted three producers and the head of Appaloosa Records out there. Not to mention Neil Blevins and his whole crew. That home run I mentioned? Tonight, it’d better be a grand slam. Break the fucking bat.” With that, Larry pushed a can of Budweiser into Gentry’s hands.
Because what would Gentry Wells, the bad boy of country music, be without his favorite prop? Especially under the watchful eye of Neil Blevins—the man who’d discovered Gentry all those years ago in a going-nowhere bar in Nashville and the reason he was about to go on stage at a bar for free on a Friday night instead of performing for crowds of thousands like he’d become accustomed to. It was a giant middle finger from Neil all wrapped up to look like a touching gesture of affection.
Whatever Neil’s motivation, it had been a proposition that Gentry had been unable to turn down, especially after his last album flopped, and with only a month until his deadline to deliver to Neil the passion project he’d fought Neil tooth and nail over. All Gentry had wanted was the chance, for once, to write an entire album of his own songs, something that was about as common in country music as unicorns at a rodeo.
Gentry nodded to the mechanical bull. “Think I should ride it tonight?”
Nick, his band’s tattooed, long-haired drummer, strolled by on his way to the stage. “What, the bull? It’s named Johnson. One of the bartenders told me earlier.” He twirled a drumstick, studying the bull with a cringe. “Mean motherfucker, isn’t he?”
Gentry’s eyebrows shot up. “They named the bull Johnson?” Gentry had seen more than his fair share of mechanical bulls over the years, but that was a first.
Larry held out a pair of aviator sunglasses and a set of brass knuckles, Gentry’s other signature props. “Nothing wrong with watching a pretty girl ride a johnson.”
Gentry slid the glasses on, instantly feeling more in character with his onstage persona. “Not sure I want to ride it now. Not too keen on johnsons, myself.”
Neil Blevins himself clamored up on the stage and took the mic, launching into a glowing introduction for Gentry, giving no hints about how strained their relationship had been for the past year.
“That guy blows more smoke up people’s asses than Johnson the Bull,” Nick muttered.
Larry took the brass knuckles out of Gentry’s palm and wedged them on his right hand, his guitar strumming hand. “Either way, it’s go time. Bottom of the ninth of the World Series, bases loaded, two outs.”
Gentry adjusted the hardware, then flexed his arm and watched his tattoo of his family’s Oklahoma wheat field undulate beneath the torn-off sleeves of his black T-shirt. “Jesus, Larry. Give it a rest, would you?” he growled with the heavy twang that was a signature of his stage persona. Mr. Bad Boy of Country himself. Hell to the yeah.
But all that earned Gentry was another slap on the ass. “Go get ’em, champ.”
Nick snickered as he followed Gentry toward the stage. Gentry was two steps from the stage when the panic hit, right on cue. He ground to a stop, and Nick smacked into his back.
“Sorry,” Gentry said. “Gotta get in the zone. You go on ahead.”
Nick gave a salute with his drumstick and walked past him with a loping stride.
Gentry waited for him to get out of earshot, then let out a long exhalation. The rails were starting to come off his career and he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he shouldn’t have pressed so hard for the chance to write his own music. He’d already proved himself an ace at being a puppet—the hard bodied, tough persona of the Gentry Wells business, but not the brains or the artistry. Yeah, he could sing and play a mean guitar. And, yeah, he had enough charisma to fill a football stadium. But that was about it.
It didn’t help that the Hitching Post Bar was packed with music executives and recording artists, a veritable who’s who of Nashville dropped into the Texas countryside for the weekend.
There’s a reason they’re out there enjoying themselves while you’re up here, playing a goddam wedding rehearsal, his battered ego whispered seductively. They all know your last album flopped.
Could they smell blood in the water? Were the newly signed musicians in the crowd salivating, eager to take his place on the charts and airwaves?
They all know you don’t write your own music. They all know you don’t have the chops. It’s just a matter of time before they figure it out.
Damn stage fright. Damn insecurities. He had every right to his fame and fortune, no matter what his traitorous mind tried to convince him.
He was Gentry Fucking Wells.
The reason he was playing this wedding rehearsal was because he was the chosen one. He was the one that Neil Blevins’ daughter Natalie had personally requested as the soundtrack for the most important day of her life. That was a big deal. Just like he was a big deal, bigger than any one flop of an album. Big enough that he’d shot to stardom all those years ago with his very first single, despite that he’d been singing someone else’s songs. When all the chips were down, he hadn’t needed anything to conquer the country-music industry but the power of his personality and the good looks he’d been born with.
Larry stepped in front of him. “Here. You almost forgot.” It was that open can of Bud. Because the proud creator of the party anthem “Beer O’Clock” could never be without one. With that prop, his persona was complete. He might be Neil Blevins’ puppet, but he was a badass puppet, the baddest around. Bright pink bikini underwear notwithstanding.
Holding up the beer like it was an Olympic torch, Gentry took the stage amid the cheers and calls of dozens. Instead of dozens, he imagined a football stadium full of thousands of women screaming his name. Been there, done that. And he might be in a bar, performing for a wedding, but he was going to give them the show of his life, just like he did every single time.
“Y’all ready to party?” he crooned, low, into the mic. Because beer swilling, hard partying, womanizing Gentry Wells was too cool to shout.
Setting the beer on the drum platform, he lifted his acoustic guitar from its stand and strapped it on. It wasn’t mic’ed and the band took care of all the instrumental heavy lifting, but guitar playing was a big part of his musical process and it gave him something to do with his hands during his shows, so he tried to never be without it on.
Sure enough, with the strum of the opening riff to his biggest hit, “Beer O’Clock,” the noise level in the joint went into overdrive. The song had shot him to the top of the charts, helped him win Album of the Year at the ACMs, and bought him his dream ranch, but the kicker was that it was the greatest con job in histo
ry. Gentry hated the feeling of being drunk and out of control and couldn’t stand the taste of beer. Never had and never would. And, like most of his songs, he’d had nothing to do with the writing of “Beer O’Clock.” Fraud central.
But Gentry’s rendition tonight kept the crowd electrified and singing along, all the way to the end when he held up his can of Bud. “To Natalie Blevins and Toby Weissman! May you always find time to crack open a cold beer with the one you love.”
The young men in the front row started chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”
Kill me now, Gentry thought as he brought the can to his lips. Thanks to all the practice he got with this persona, he was able to squelch a shudder and stink face as he drank a long swig, but, damn, he hated the taste of that shit.
After “Beer O’Clock,” he worked through the rest of his hits—judiciously leaving out his anthem to his long, pattern of commitment-phobia titled “Built to Leave.” For his second-to-last number, he lit the crowd up again with the start of his hit single “Well Hung.” The audience went ape shit, as always. Gentry let waves of cowboy attitude pour off him as he launched into song …
Girl, I hung around like a puppy dog
Hung up over you
Until you hung me out to dry
What’s a man to do?
So I hung a U-turn back to this bar,
To toast to our good-bye
But all I got as my reward was too hung over to cry
“If you know the chorus, then sing it with me!” he called, holding the microphone toward the crowd. All thoughts of failure and fraudulence were gone. It was just him and his fans and the songs that had helped him achieve this crazy-amazing life. In unison, every person in the place shook the walls with their voices.
One Wild Night Page 2
