by Miles, Ava
Wasn’t that ever the truth? “Thanks,” she said, storing his number in her phone to be polite. He was a nice man, but she wasn’t about to talk to him or anyone else about this situation.
Not after Rye had accused her of selling him out in the beginning.
“All right, Tory, you hang in there.” He tipped his John Deere ball cap at her. “I’ll see you around.”
“Thanks, Luke,” she said, and he winked before heading out.
She’d enjoyed talking with him, seeing a friendly face. She didn’t know many of the people who worked for Rye, and only a few by name. Most didn’t approach her, clearly unsure of what to say or how to act. And who could blame them, given how the tabloids had described her association with him?
What in the world was she doing with him?
Sipping her cold coffee, she decided their return to the tour had been a demarcation point. The time in Meade was over, and if she were smart, and she was, it would be better to cease all personal involvement with him.
Her heart broke at the thought, but she firmed her shoulders. It was for the best. Their time together was going to come to an end anyway, so why continue to be intimate with him when she’d have to say goodbye anyway?
Of course, she was already in love with him. She’d fallen for him in Meade. There was no lying to herself about that.
It would be awkward at first, going back to being friends, but it was for the best. Rye probably wouldn’t mind too much. He’d been upfront about having nothing to offer her, after all, and he had more practice moving on than she did. Maybe it wouldn’t be terrible.
Yeah, right. Except at night when she wanted to lie in his arms. Or at breakfast when she wanted to feel his hands settle around her waist when she was at the stove.
Okay, that so wasn’t what she needed to think about right now. She dove back into her work, hoping to find consolation there.
But as usual, there was none to be found.
***
She waited until the concert started before returning to the bus, texting him out of politeness to say she wasn’t up for making him supper. Fortunately, instead of pushing her, he’d only replied, Okay, making her feel less guilty about shirking her duties.
At bedtime, she plugged headphones into her ears, putting on some soothing Brahms, so she could convince herself she wasn’t listening for his footsteps. She jerked out of sleep when she felt something on her neck, and—still unconsciously jittery from the whole mutant spider experience—she swung a hand out to slap it away.
“Whoa! Hey!” Rye called out, sitting on the side of her bed in boxers and a T–shirt, visible from the light streaming through the open door.
Tory pulled the headphones out of her ears and peeked at the clock. It was well after one in the morning. And he wasn’t dressed professionally.
“That mad at me, darlin’?”
Tory backed up against the side of the bus and tugged at the covers. When his eyes dipped to her chest, her skin started to tingle. “I’ve told you I don’t want you calling me that.”
“Well, then we’ll have to find another endearment. ‘Tory’ doesn’t work for me in some situations. Like this one. I understand that you need space, but a day is all I’m okay with.”
She arched a brow at that. “So I have a time limit?”
“No,” he said urgently. “I just…I was worried about you. Hell, I even missed two cues tonight. I never do that.”
They’d known each other long enough for her to know when he was in prime form, and like her, he clearly wasn’t. His face was haggard, and the hand he ran through his hair was shaking.
“After Meade… Well, I’m not sure how you could think I’d pull a PR stunt like that, but I don’t know how to prove to you I didn’t.” He gripped her sheet. “I thought about having you talk to Georgia or Clayton, but I know you won’t believe them because they work for me.”
She swallowed thickly. His beautiful hazel eyes were anxious. He was right—she’d seen a different side of him in Meade, and she didn’t think he was capable of something like this. When her shock had worn off, she’d remembered how private he was about his family, and logic had won the day.
But it still smarted that Clayton and Georgia suspected her.
“I believe you,” she said softly.
His exhale was like a wind gust, and he reached for her hand, running his thumb over her palm. “Thank you.”
“But I need to tell you something else,” she said and steeled her heart. “I think we should go back to just being friends.”
“What?” he asked, his face falling.
“Meade was… Well, we both know there’s no future, and I think…it’s made things between us more complicated.”
His hand left hers, and she bit her lip so it wouldn’t tremble. She waited in silence for his response. “I know you’re right, but…the thing is …what happened between us in Meade. Well, I don’t want to stop being with you.”
“What are you saying?”
“I just…” When he met her gaze again, her heart almost exploded at the intensity she saw there. “I want to be with you—like we were—at least until you go back to school. Will you…be with me?”
She fisted her hands in the sheet. And even after all the promises she’d made herself today, it came down to this: this man, the vulnerable one she’d seen in Meade, was not to be denied. Not when he seemed to be falling for her as hard and as fast as she’d fallen for him. “All right.”
“That’s it?” he asked, his shock evident.
“Do you want a dissertation?” she responded, releasing her grip on the sheet. “I’m already writing one of those.”
“No. I just want to hold you.”
When she made room for him, he eased down beside her and caressed her cheek. “I…really care about you, Tory.”
Knowing him, the words were tantamount to a declaration.
“I care about you, too,” she whispered, unwilling to fully expose herself by revealing the truth—that she loved him.
“Will you come to bed with me?” he asked, ducking his head, and it was almost shocking to see shyness in him.
“Rye, we are in bed.”
His mouth tipped up. “True, but my bed is bigger, and that’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” she said, feeling shy now too.
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I didn’t want to assume…or rush you after today. We can just…”
“Cuddle?” she suggested, unable to stop her smile when his ears turned red. Yes, there was no doubt. Meade had changed everything for them.
“If you want,” he replied, and her smile grew. The old Rye Crenshaw would never have cuddled.
“Rye?”
“Yes?”
“Kiss me.”
And he did.
They didn’t make it to his bigger bed.
Oh, Elvis don’t you know?
Aren’t you alive somewhere in Mexico?
You had it right.
Life’s tender.
Full of light.
You sang us songs.
Gave us your all.
We miss you.
Feel so alone.
Memphis still chugs to your mem–or–y.
Your legend still sensory,
Along the mighty Mississippi.
Please come back.
Teach us more.
We’re students at your feet.
Eager to learn more.
Rye Crenshaw’s Number One Hit, “Elvis, Come Back”
Chapter 18
In the following weeks, they found a neutral corner and were happy there. He performed his concerts and handled business. She cooked and worked on her dissertation and cookbook. July rolled into August and, over meals, they talked about his family coming to join him and all the preparation that entailed.
But there were some things Tory never talked about: the new bills Myra kept sending her, the fear that she’d never be able to sell her grandpar
ents’ house, and the sinking feeling that she wasn’t as passionate about her graduate work as she should be. She set all her worries aside when she was in Rye’s arms each night so she could experience the magical time with him, accepting that all the challenges in her life wouldn’t go away, that she would just have to face them when the tour ended.
They didn’t deviate from their routine, and fortunately, there were no further tabloid incidents to upset their delicate balance, although the source of the leak was still a mystery.
Her dread about the end of the tour grew with each day. They hadn’t talked about it at all, except for Rye promising to show her Memphis, the final stop. Her heart felt as warm as an oven as she listened to his stories about how he’d learned to enjoy life in Memphis, which is why he always ended his tour there, celebrating his birthday the next day. Frequent trips during his college and law school days had sealed his special regard for the town. But while Beale Street had given him an appreciation for the blues, his love for Elvis had come from his daddy.
When they arrived in Memphis on a hazy August morning after driving all night from Louisville, she could see why he held it in such high regard. Memphis was a feast for the senses. The heat and humidity were as constant as they were debilitating, and the muddy Mississippi River added to the steam–like shroud that enfolded the downtown area. New buildings shared their blocks with foreclosures; sidewalks sported weed–filled cracks and flowed into fresh pavement. Dereliction was decadence’s neighbor. It was a city of contrasts, with both flashy money and abject poverty living side by side.
The final concert would be the following night, and Rye’s birthday was the day after, August 31. Tory was scheduled to leave the next day, since Rye would be heading down to Padre Island with some friends, another tradition at the end of his tour. They hadn’t spoken about her departure other than when she’d casually mentioned that she had her ticket home. He hadn’t responded.
They were staying at The Peabody Hotel, and Rye indulged her by standing by her side as the Peabody’s famous ducks marched into and out of the lobby at eleven o’clock in the morning. He even suggested that they catch the show again with Rory and Annabelle when they arrived with the rest of his family, sans Mrs. Hollins, the next day. Rye had to sign a slew of autographs and pose for a dozen pictures when the guests in the lobby went crazy at the sight of him, but he claimed it was worth it to see her enjoyment.
He told her he was taking her on a personal tour of Memphis, but he had a surprise for her first. She just smiled secretly, since she was working on a surprise of her own. Because she wasn’t Clayton and Georgia’s favorite person, she’d called Luke to ask if there were a kitchen at FedEx Forum where she could make Rye a birthday cake. Luke had been happy to help her and had arranged for her to use it.
She was thinking about making his cake a few hours later as Rye was preparing to finally share his surprise, back from a rehearsal with the band.
“You ready, darlin’?” he asked from the bathroom.
Sitting on the bed, she couldn’t contain her grin. What in the world did he have in mind?
“Ready.”
When Rye walked into their bedroom, her mouth dropped open.
“What do you think? No one’s gonna recognize me as an Elvis impersonator.”
He smoothed a hand over a sleek black wig and struck a pose. His body was not the older Elvis. It was the hot, make–chicks–scream body out of Jail House Rock. He put a hand to his stomach and did that hip gyration that had made countless women swoon.
“Oh. My. God.” Sometimes Rye Crenshaw defied words, and this was one of those times.
“Do you like it?” His voice was sultry and low, mimicking the King.
Tory jumped up and circled him, noting how good his butt looked in the white jumpsuit with the buckskin fringe. “You shaved your goatee,” she accused. It felt odd seeing his face without it, especially with the wig and press–on sideburns.
“Part of the collateral. Elvis only went for sideburns.”
His strong chin had a sexy dent, she noticed for the first time. “You are certifiable.” And so sweet for doing this, she almost added.
He ran a finger down her nose, making her aware of the numerous rings on his fingers. “It’s the perfect disguise. Now I can show you the city without fans stopping me every five feet.”
Her throat grew tight. He was doing everything he could to keep things private between them, and it only made her love him more.
“I love it,” she said, instead of I love you.
He leaned in to kiss her lightly on the lips. It felt weird to kiss him without his goatee, and he clearly felt the difference too, since he pulled back with a grimace.
“You’re going to have to do better than that. You’re my girl for the evenin'.”
She laughed, hoping a little levity would ease the tension in her chest. “Please, Elvis wouldn’t be seen with a girl like me. I don’t have big enough breasts.” Tory let her hands cup them. “Or big enough hair.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare say that! You’re about as perfect as they come.”
So much for easing the tension in her chest. She could all but feel the clock ticking down the rest of their time together.
God, how was she ever going to leave him?
“I’m gonna show you Memphis,” he said, kissing her on the lips. “Feed you BBQ from Rendezvous. Fried chicken at Gus’. Show you Beale Street.”
“Sounds like an awful lot of food,” she mused, and what a change of pace not to be the one cooking it.
“Honey, one of the reasons you come to Memphis is to eat. Speaking of which, have you ever had fried pickles?”
“No.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. They’re incredible.”
She stroked the side of his face. “It sounds wonderful.”
Pulling her close, he ran his hand down her hair. “Good. I’ll give you anything you want tonight, Tory.”
Since their time together in Meade, he’d done nothing but. He bathed her in pleasure, anticipating anything she could ever want. Sat with her while she worked. Played his guitar for her and sang her requests, laughing at some of her taste in music. Soon her life would be empty again, and she couldn’t bear to think about it.
“Do you have any ideas about how we’re supposed to handle the heat?” she asked in an attempt to distract herself. “It’s hot as Hades out there.”
He led her to the door. “We’ll find you a super–size hurricane. You won’t notice the heat after that.”
He was right. Her first raspberry–colored Hurricane did the trick. It also began a decadent evening of food crawling. They popped into all his favorite food joints, from Rendezvous to Bigfoot. The BBQ was incredible, falling away from the smoky bone with barely a bite, and the fried pickles were a strange new delight, full of tartness and crunch. By the time he led her down to Beale Street, she was clutching a full stomach. So far no one had identified him, and she’d gotten used to people greeting him as Elvis.
Beale Street was flashy and packed with people. Loud bars played competing and complimentary types of music, from blues to country to Elvis, and Rye hummed along as they went by. Electric signs cut across the hazy night sky. They passed street performers with guitars and drums. One of the men had a set of spoons that he used to create a beat against his knee. And there were men doing back flips and handsprings down the middle of the closed–off street. Police patrolled, looking bored, like there was little they hadn’t seen before. Rye pulled her to a take–out window bar to order another Hurricane.
When they reached Club 152, one of his favorite haunts, he led her inside, and they wound their way to the back. Another Elvis impersonator was performing on the well–lit stage, and he gave Rye a collegial nod. She and Rye found a table in the corner, and they both sat down.
Tory took in their surroundings. The club was an open, airy space that featured a combination of brick walls and dark wood paneling. While the stage was
small, it only gave more gravitas to the Elvis look–a–like in his black jumpsuit bejeweled with rhinestones. He had fake side burns like Rye’s and dark, retro sunglasses. His chest hair protruded from the X stitching on his chest. A white sash was wrapped around his relatively trim waist like a Civil War soldier, and he was wearing French cuffs that trailed to six golden nugget rings on his fingers. The microphone in his hand sparkled as brightly as the disco ball above his head.
The patrons clapped along to a lively rendition of “Viva Las Vegas.”
Rye ordered whiskey sours for them. She hated mixing, but tonight was special. His family was arriving in town tomorrow. It was the last time she’d have him to herself.
After another four songs, the crowd had grown quiet, and a few people left.
“Well, folks,” said the man on the stage. “It seems I’m not the only Elvis on Beale Street tonight. Perhaps we can get the other guy to show us his stuff.” He tipped the microphone in a challenge at Rye. “Then y’all can decide who you like better.” He strutted forward, his bell bottoms swinging.
A few of the patrons gathered closer to the stage, intrigued by the prospect of a competition. Tory thought his strategy was ingenious, but she knew something he didn’t: he was going to lose tonight.
Rye stood and rubbed her arm. She caught his devilish wink and smiled after him as he walked onto the stage like the star he was. There were perhaps thirty people in the audience. Little did they know that they were getting a free concert from country music mega–star Rye Crenshaw.
Rye gave a nod to the other Elvis. He’d relinquished the stage to his competitor for the moment and was sitting at the bar with a beer. Rye put the microphone to his hip and scanned the crowd—giving each person just enough attention to feel that he was really looking at them.
“Well, it seems we have a lot of good lookin’ ladies in the house tonight. It makes me want to sing something special for y’all. Honey, why don’t you come on up here with me?”
