Cowboy Confidential

by Gigi Thorne

  “Erwyn.”

  Shit. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Let it go, Dad.”

  “Sorry, son. No can do. Brad is up my ass and around the bend. He wants to know if you still have the ring. The one he permitted you to give his daughter.”

  “Both of you need to back off.”

  “That’s not how this works. You need to tell Sami what happened when you went to Italy.”

  “No. Water under the bridge.”

  “And are you sleeping with Brad Colton’s daughter under this bridge?”

  He did not enjoy having this topic discussed and was even more displeased at the suspicion that Sami was also getting grilled.

  “Living in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean every ranch family and their neighbor isn’t talking about you two. There’s a betting pool. And the women are planning your wedding.”

  “Excuse me?” he barked.

  Dad sniggered and shook his head. “Jesus but you’re dumb. Why the hell do you think Sami threw away her career and is living in a motorhome in her dad’s yard? Because she ran out of options? And not for nothing, son, but you aren’t exactly living a carefree bachelor’s life. More like carrying an eternal flame lit from Sami Colton’s fire. What did you think would happen when she came home?”

  “I don’t know.” And that was the truth.

  “Well, pfft. Grow a set, son. Where the hell ya been, Wyn? You know this drill. Country gals get shit done. A woman who’s lived a little and knows what the goddamn hell she wants is a powerful force. Don’t fuck up this chance.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Dad? Pretend all is hunky-dory now that the girl who stomped on my heart decided to grow up? Kind of makes me a chump, don’t you think?”

  “Did you feel like a chump when Sami Colton gave you that hickey?” His dad was pointing at the obvious love bite on his neck. “If you’re waiting for all the planets to align and the perfect moment to come and tap you on the shoulder, then you’re a dumber ass than that crazy brother of yours.”

  He wanted to keep arguing the point. Whine about how she’d only been back a short time – as if that was relevant. But he zipped his lip and scowled.

  “From where I’m sitting, my boy, you both had some growing up to do. Cut the girl some slack. She wasn’t a celebrislut, and she never got naked in a film. Count the blessings – not the burps and farts your damn ego is making. Marry that girl and make some goddamn babies or regret being an asshole for the rest of your life.”

  Dad stood, stomped his feet to get the blood flowing, and slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go drive yer mom nuts. She’s making shit for Brad’s shindig. By my count, there are at least a dozen containers in the freezer. Hope you like balls of meat ’cause I’m sure we’ll be eating leftovers for a week.”

  He stopped walking and looked at his father. “If Sami leaves again …”

  “This time? Don’t let her. A lot of fucking heartaches could have been avoided if you’d fought for her the last time.”

  This wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words or something similar. It pissed him off that anyone thought he just let Sami go – as if she didn’t matter. What should he have done? Gone to Holly-fucking-weird and punch out every dude in town? Maybe start a scene when he stumbled upon her cavorting in a fountain with her co-star? Her male co-star? The one with the sex tape and a reputation for being a jerk-off? Yeah, that would have made for some impressive headlines. Cowboy cuckold. That was what they would have called him.

  A giggling laugh floated on the air. His head snapped up, and he squinted at the corner leading to the kitchen. He’d know that laugh in his sleep.

  * * *

  “Well, I like her,” Sami assured Wyn’s mom. “April is the tits, and my dad has a bad case, if you catch my drift.”

  Marcy Thomas was a kitchen virtuoso. She was never happier than when she was doing her domestic thing. Bright sunlight flooded the heart of the Thomas home, and all around them was evidence of some serious party planning.

  “Oh, lordy! You shoulda seen her when she first got here! It’s not easy switching gears at our age! I remember how flabbergasted April was about the stocking up thing. Without a fancy supermarket anywhere within a hundred miles, she was lost.” Marcy gave her a pointed look. “Shows you how much she loves Brad. The woman threw aside her life because of a man she couldn’t live without.”

  She heard the message and swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. Marcy wasn’t just referring to Dad and April.

  She loved Wyn’s mom, this kitchen, and the woman’s huge, loving heart. In many ways, Marcy was a surrogate for the parent Sami lost. Her sixteenth birthday cake was made right here in this kitchen. Without a second thought, she slid off her stool and went to Marcy for a hug.

  “Thanks for being you, Mrs. T.”

  Marcy pulled back and took her face in her hands. Sami knew whatever came next most likely wasn’t going to be pretty.

  “Honey, I want you to know that your ma would be real proud of the woman you’ve become. Hell, Sami, you made us all proud when you donated your cut of that kid's movie to charity. The one that got so many awards. But you did some dumb shit when you were younger, and my boy got hurt.”

  Ouch. Was this what tough love felt like?

  “Mrs. T,” she choked out as a desperate search for words left her sputtering. She whirled away and wrung her hands for a moment. Then she faced the truth that Wyn refused to discuss.

  “He let me go.”

  Marcy’s kind eyes never changed. “Are you so sure of that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she scowled. “I was there, remember?”

  Overtaken by emotion as the memory of that time grabbed her by the throat, she set a manic pace of wall-to-wall walking while her arms flapped and she emphasized key parts with her hands.

  “He just stopped, Mrs. T. One day, it all just stopped. I was freaking out twenty-four seven. After I won that stupid competition and became the flavor of the month, I wasn’t fooled. Everyone knew I wasn’t the most talented or the best singer. The public voted for me just to stick it to the others. But” – she shrugged – “the damn thing had a life of its own. At first, everything was cool, and Wyn was all sorts of supportive. He even encouraged me to put my foot down that first time I was in a recording studio. He was right, by the way. Compromising my style to make a producer happy was insane.”

  She sighed and stopped long enough to capture Marcy’s gaze.

  “I thought he was proud of me.” Tears threatened, so she turned away and started moving again.

  “When I went to Italy for the movie shoot, I was terrified. I figured that, at any moment, people were going to realize I was a fake. I’d never acted a day in my life, yet there I was, on another continent, thousands of miles from home, with some of the biggest box office names in history. I needed him.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “Yes. I even begged him to go to the premiere with me. My first red carpet. I thought he was on board and then …”

  “What do you think happened?”

  She snorted and displayed her feelings with a deep frown. “Sorry for the swearing but fuck if I know. He shut me out. Wouldn’t take my calls. I tried and tried. Dad said I had to give him time. Time for what?” She threw her hands up in disgust and surrender. “It sure would be nice if I knew what the hell was going on.”

  “Oh, my. You mean he didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what, Mrs. T? Tell me that he abandoned me at the exact moment I needed him the most? Jesus! Do you have any idea how scared I was? All these people who I was expected to trust automatically were organizing my life and getting me to do all sorts of stupid shit. I was so alone. Without a support system. I’m sorry, but Wyn was a bastard. He let me down.”

  “Come here,” Marcy said as her hand came out, and she waved her closer. “Sit down.”

  Too agitated to sit still, Sami sat but crossed her l
egs and arms. Her boots wiggled nonstop.

  “First of all, my son is an idiot. He’s a man, so he can’t help it. The trait is built into their DNA. Second, I’m on the side of whatever I need to say or do that ends with you and Wyn in front of a preacher. And to be clear about my meaning, I’d even be okay if it was a shotgun wedding.”

  “Oh, my god.” Embarrassment flooded her system.

  “I hear all those things you said, Sami, and my heart aches for you. That must have been a bewildering time. You say he left you. That he’s a bastard and he let you down.”

  She winced hearing Wyn’s mom spell it out so bluntly.

  “So maybe you’d care to explain why my son has your dental imprint all but tattooed on his neck, and you have the grandmother of all hickeys that not even some clever makeup can cover?”

  Was this really happening? Her heart thumped frantically. Oh god, it was.

  The standard disclaimer burst from her mouth. “It’s not what you think.”

  Marcy snickered and patted her on the knee. “Oh, Sami, darlin’. It’s exactly what I think.”

  The absurdity of the whole situation prodded her to giggle snort. Marcy made one of those faces that said, “See?”

  There was only one thing she could say. “Busted?”

  Next thing she knew, they were both laughing.

  “Nothing better than the sound of laughing women in my kitchen. Happy wife, happy life. Means I’m probably gonna get me some tonight!”

  Sami barked with more laughter as Mr. T bounded into the room and kissed his smiling wife. They were too cute.

  “Find my folks funny, do you?” a growling voice asked.

  She shot off her seat and turned in time to find Wyn bearing down on her with a look on his face that made her nervous.

  They’d barely spoken a single word to each other after what happened at the bunkhouse. Afterward, she’d been too stunned and confused for a chat, and he’d shown zero interest in exchanging any words. It was the first time in her life that she felt the effects of a slut walk – the bubble of shame that gathered after letting sex enter the picture before it was time.

  Marcy sternly drawled, “Behave, Wyn.”

  She saw him flinch at his mother’s comment, then he met her eyes, and they faced off like boxers in a ring.

  “Hi.” It wasn’t eloquent, but she felt it was a good start.

  His return greeting had a distinct caveman grunt to it. It could have been hi or fuck you. It was hard to tell.

  Marcy sighed, which in turn got Mr. T involved. “Wyn, why don’t you help Sami with some of this? Brad said to bring everything by, and he’d put it in the walk-in.”

  Dead silence met this suggestion. Wyn was looking at her strangely. She pushed hair behind her ears and nervously wet her lips.

  “Sure. Why not? We’re done for the day, right, Dad?”

  Knocking her over with a feather was entirely possible as she gaped at him in astonishment. At the drop of a hat, he went from sizing her up for a cattle chute to butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

  And thinking about melting in his mouth … yikes!

  Okay Sami, focus. Do NOT look at his zipper. Do NOT.

  Like an idiot, though, she quickly checked out the real estate below Wyn’s belt and instantly turned beet red.

  Marcy saved the day by bursting into a whirlwind of activity – gathering trays of prepared food and yammering as she flitted around the kitchen.

  Twenty minutes later, she was handing Mr. T the keys to her truck in case he needed to move it while she rode with Wyn in his monster pick-up. Under a heavy tarp in the back were enough appetizer munchies to satisfy a crowd.

  His parents waved them off, and they started down the ranch driveway on the way to the main road. She had at least forty-five guaranteed minutes to kill before they made it to Millie’s.

  Four minutes in, she’d had enough.

  “Will I be treated to this silent bullshit the whole way, or can you make an effort?”

  He grunted and pushed his sunglasses up his nose.

  “Whatever.”

  Opening the glove box, she rifled through all the shit crammed into the small space. Besides the truck manual in a fancy pretend leather case, there was a baseball-sized mound of crumpled receipts, two Slim Jims with 2017 expiration dates, a remote control that she assumed was a garage opener, half a dozen foil packets of Advil, and a squirt bottle of nasal spray that made her study the man behind the wheel.

  When he was younger, Wyn suffered from the occasional bout of allergies, and sometimes, they drove him crazy. The nasal spray suggested he was still afflicted.

  He looked over at her. “What?”

  She shrugged and went back to invading his privacy.

  The center console was next.

  Slapping his elbow off the padded top, she flipped it open and dug in. What she found was a treasure trove of Wyn memorabilia.

  Ripped tickets to a bunch of rodeos were in a tangle of iPhone cords. Both were typical of the silent man driving the truck. He’d leave his own wedding to go to a rodeo.

  Squirming when she remembered Marcy’s words about a shotgun marriage, she focused instead on how unsurprised she was to find the jumble of cords. The man could organize a workshop or a kitchen like nobody’s business, but he was all thumbs when it came to proper cord storage. Mr. T never let him anywhere near the Christmas light strands for fear of the chaos he’d create.

  Crammed in the dark interior of the console was a pair of worn riding gloves. Why had truck makers never thought to add a console light as they do for the stupid flip down mirror?

  The minute she touched the gloves, her mind registered that they were deerskin. Without thinking, she rubbed the soft leather on her cheek. They smelled like Wyn.

  Enough change piled at the bottom of the compartment for a full tank of gas. Her fingers fished around. She felt something small and plucked it out. A bottle of L'Homme by Yves Saint Laurent. Pulling off the cap she sniffed and instantly recognized the scent as what Wyn had on at the bunkhouse – and right this minute. The fragrance was magnetic with hints of bergamot and cedar. She wondered if guys trolled the fragrance counters at Nordstrom before finally dismissing the idea. Men hated shopping. What was more likely was that he got a sample that didn’t make him gag and took it from there.

  “Do you like it?”

  His gruff voice startled her.

  “Oh, um, yeah. It’s nice. On you,” she awkwardly added. Now probably wasn’t the time to admit that she used to keep his body wash in the shower for when she felt unsure or needed comfort. It made her feel like he was close by.

  A dog-eared paperback of Treasure Island made her smile. He was using a half-ripped parking ticket from Jackson Hole as a bookmark. The story was Wyn’s favorite. She was glad to see it still had a place in his life.

  Stuffing everything back in the console, she next attacked the satellite radio. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as she scanned a bunch of stations. Wyn hated when passengers fucked with his radio, so she kept at it just to be a dick.

  When she found a station playing “Redneck Woman,” she put on her Gretchen Wilson voice and rocked out with gusto.

  * * *

  Wyn was proud of the self-control he exercised as he navigated the truck along the road while Sami went out of her way to make him nucking futz.

  When she started doing a truck concert about being a redneck girl, he prayed for strength. It didn’t help that she wiggled and seat danced as she sang.

  Halfway through the familiar song, he’d taken all that he could. Steering off the road onto a bumpy path that disappeared into some trees, he couldn’t help the bounce of the truck, and Sami yelped as she got thrown around.

  Slamming it into park, he switched off the engine, tore off his sunglasses, and reached for her. Taking hold of her neck, he pulled her face close, and snarled, “Think you’re a country gal, do you?”

  Her eyes gave a dangerous flash. His dick ros
e to the challenge.

  “Redneck woman,” she purred. “I can be both.”

  “Can you?”

  He gave her credit for trying to stare him down, but there was never any question which of them would back down first. Triumphant from the age-old power play, he leaned in and licked her neck like he’d seen a male cat do in a documentary. Then he bit her so she’d know what was what.

  “Redneck women and country girls truck fuck.”

  Her quiver was intoxicating.

  “Is that a request, a suggestion, or a demand?”

  He grinned. Or maybe he leered. Hard to tell.

  “Which one will get you to slip off your panties and hike your skirt up?”

  She smiled. Her eyes took on a sultry hue. “Make me.”

  Fuck, yeah! Challenge accepted.

  He slid his seat back as far as it would go and leaned it back a bit. Then he pulled her on top of him and kissed the holy fuck out of her. He kept his hand on her neck and an arm banded about her hips, so she had no room to move.

  Demanding her total surrender with his tongue, they dueled it out until she softened, and the battle became play.

  Still, he didn’t gentle his hold.

  The way the scent of sex filled the cab was reason enough for a randy truck fuck. Eau de Sami engulfed his senses, making his mouth water.

  Fisting her hair, he tugged and pried their mouths apart. With a lusty snicker, he said, “Come on, baby. You’re not even trying! I can smell your need. I can’t make you do something that you’re begging for.”

  He almost jumped out of his skin when she massaged his cock through his jeans. “Never had cause to learn the art of lap dancing, but you make me wanna try. Is that good enough?”

  Even though they were just words, the imagined visual of a lap dancing truck fuck nearly triggered a horny heart attack.

  He snapped his fingers and released her. “Panties,” he demanded with a crooked finger. “C’mon. Hurry up. Hand ’em over.”

  Now, she could have slid off him and gone to her side of the truck to remove the underwear but not his Sami. Nope. She stayed put and wiggled, squirmed, humped, and jerked until he was sure coming in his jeans was a real possibility.