The band is enthusiastic about Davo’s new song, and the intro throbs with energy. It’s a shame they didn’t give it to Kaylee. Maybe they still can. Maggie lifts the paper with the lyrics penciled on it. She swallows her distaste and gives it her all. When onstage, be a performer. Whether you like what you’re performing or not.
The crowd reacts immediately to the danceable beat, and the floor fills to capacity. Cristiano holds his ground. She’s careful to keep her eyes above his head. By the end of the song, people are cheering and stuffing the tip jar. Davo is accepting back pats from the other band members.
Maggie is pissed. She doesn’t want to be a country-pop princess. That doesn’t mean she couldn’t be the best one there ever was, if she chose to. She knows she rocked the song. Her confidence in her abilities isn’t snobbery. She knows she has voice, range, presence, and can play any instrument on the stage as well as the other band members. Better. But she’d rather languish in obscurity than sell out. She is an Americana artist. Unappreciated, misunderstood, and overlooked. But it’s who she is.
Cristiano approaches again and offers her a drink.
“No. No drinks, no dances, no dates. No.” She watches as the guy Hank is talking to gets up and leaves.
Fawn pounces on Hank. She lays one on him, draping herself over him and attempting to stick her tongue down his throat. Maggie’s eyes burn with fury. She’s been watching Hank, without making it too obvious, since the moment he walked in, willing him to come talk to her. But he’s the big man tonight, for some reason. Everyone wants a piece of him. There’s a line of drinks in front of him. Well, screw him.
She turns her full-force come-hither eyes on Cristiano. “Just kidding. Sure, Cristiano, let’s do whiskey shots. Why don’t you get a tray of them for you, me, and the band?”
Maggie dips the fingers of her left hand into the Vaseline she keeps at her feet, then wipes the excess off on a hand towel. She calls out the name of a song from her first album. “‘Tread Marks’ on three.”
Quickly, Davo says, “No, that will break the vibe. Let’s do a few covers while we’ve got the crowd with us.”
Maggie gets the mandolin, calls out the count, picks the opening, and launches into “Tread Marks.” When it’s over, there’s a smattering of halfhearted applause, and the floor has emptied. Cristiano brings the shots.
Maggie says, “Goody. Plenty for me.” She does two.
Hank catches her eye. He nods at her. She raises an eyebrow at Fawn. He shakes his head and makes a face. He points at Cristiano. She shrugs and yells out another off-set song, this one heavy on strings and bound to be drowned out by the revelry of the crowd. Again, she starts it over the protests of Davo. When it’s over, no one seems to notice except the band.
“Enough of this bullshit, Maggie.” Davo is fuming. He stalks to the mic. “We’re having technical difficulties. Back in a few.”
He stomps off the stage.
Cristiano brings Maggie a shot. Maggie jumps off the elevated stage and slams it. She slams the empty glass down on the nearest table, startling the patrons. Cristiano is on her heels.
“Are you okay?”
“Peachy.” She wheels and makes her way to the ladies’ room, shooing Cristiano away when he tries to follow.
She passes Davo talking on his phone with a hand over his free ear, and she glares at him, seething. On her way back to the saloon five minutes later, he’s still there, his back to her. She hangs back, listening.
“She’s alienating the bar manager, Larry.”
Larry? Her agent, Larry?
“She’s pissing off the band. I gave her that song I sent you, and the crowd loved it. Then she sabotaged the set with her most inappropriate songs for the venue. She’s totally lost the crowd. And she’s getting wasted. Won’t listen. No tips. No merch sales. She’s out of control.”
Oh, buddy, you haven’t seen out of control yet. She balls her fists, wanting to interrupt, but wanting even more to hear what he will say next. She listens with her eyes closed, and instead of black, she sees red.
“You’re my last resort. I need someone who can get through to her. Otherwise, I’ll have to call the label.”
Maggie cackles. He’s paid the same whether the crowd or bar managers like her or not. What the hell is his problem? She’s had enough.
She strikes Davo with her palm between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward. “Awful cozy with my agent, aren’t you?”
“Jesus, Maggie, that hurt.” He turns to her, holding the phone behind his back.
“You think listening to you stab me in the back felt any better? Give me the phone, and fuck off and die while you’re at it.”
He brings it in front of him, but still holds it out of her reach. “You could just play some fucking cover songs, make some tips, get us some free drinks, sell some crap, but no. You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself.”
His words sting, but she doesn’t waver, just holds her hand out. After a stare-off of several seconds, he slaps it into her palm.
“I’m done here tonight, Davo. Put Celinda on vocals, but you call the shots. Play whatever you want.”
“Celinda sounds like dishwater compared to you.”
“But she’ll mind real nice.”
He storms back into the bar.
Maggie puts the phone to her ear. “You there?”
“I’m here.”
“What the hell? How long has this little thing with Davo been going on?”
“There’s no little thing. I take his calls, because I care about you. You’re my client. I’m worried.”
Maggie wipes sweat from her hairline. She bites her lip. As much as she wants to rip him a new one, all she heard was obsequious Davo. Nothing to warrant burning a bridge with Larry, other than him taking Davo’s calls and not telling her. That is bad, but not death-sentence bad. Still, she’s had it with the band. “Larry, I’m outta here. Leaving in the morning, without the band. I’ll talk to you down the road.” She ends the call and slumps forward onto her knees. She sees two boots facing her. Not Cristiano. She’s afraid to look up, but does it slowly.
Hank is standing in front of her. “Please, don’t go.”
Part III
Cheyenne, Wyoming
Saturday night
* * *
Hank
* * *
Hank doesn’t know what made him blurt out a plea for Maggie to stay. It hangs there between them, and he watches as she sorts it out.
He didn’t hear enough of her phone call to know what’s wrong or who she was talking to, but it’s clear she’s upset. And she’s smudged and blurry at the edges with the whiskey shots Cristiano pushed on her earlier. But she’s still beautiful to Hank, like a spring squall—sheet lightning and rain blowing sideways, but the sun shining through behind the clouds. Mercurial. Powerful. Elemental.
When she speaks, it’s not in response to what he said. His eyes follow her lips. They’re flushed. Her entire face is.
“When you hear the name ‘Maggie Killian and Crew,’ whose band do you think that is?”
“Maggie Killian’s.”
In the background, he hears a man’s voice over the sound system. “Folks, we’re honored tonight to have Celinda Simone fronting the band for a set. And if this next song doesn’t get your boots stomping, I don’t know what will.”
The band strikes up Martina McBride’s “Independence Day.” The woman’s voice is pretty, but it’s clear she’s the JV to Maggie’s varsity. It lacks the depth, character, and emotion that Maggie’s voice has.
Maggie clenches and unclenches her jaw several times, like she’s trying to restrain something. Tears or fisticuffs. “Maggie Killian. So if some loser forces his song down Maggie Killian’s throat, presses her to play cheesy covers, and sends the band offstage for breaks when she doesn’t toe his line, what do you call that?”
“A total dick move.”
“Yeah, that’s what I think, too.”
She s
tares over his right shoulder, her eyes glazy. He worries she might cry, and he’d rather ride the bull naked tomorrow than let that happen.
He takes a step closer. “Last night, when I asked you to dinner, you said losers can’t afford you.”
“About that—”
“What about winners? Can they? If I were to win, for instance.”
Her eyes spark, just a little. “I saw you ride last night. There’s no danger of that.”
“Ah, but I did win. Tonight. And I finalled.”
“What happened? Did everybody else fall off?” Her voice has grown smokier, and it’s curling through him, into all his nooks and crannies, filling him up with something that feels really good. “Or did you draw a heifer?”
He smiles, happy that his gambit to cheer her up is working. He skips the explanation about his parents and sister in the stands, his dad’s illness. It’s too raw and emotional, like her. But he can see himself telling her, sometime, nose to nose in the dark. And that doesn’t scare him as much as it should. “Say what you want, but I do believe you owe me a kiss.”
“Owe you?”
“My winner’s kiss.”
“That was for yesterday’s winner.”
“I’m willing to bend the rules if you are.”
“You know it’s a kiss on the cheek, right?”
“Feel free to upgrade me.”
She kisses his cheek but stays only inches away. “How much will you get if you win tomorrow?”
“Hopefully a kiss on the lips.”
“Seriously.”
He doesn’t mention that he’ll get a broken knee, just tells her the expected purse.
“That’s a lot.”
“Enough that I could afford to buy you the best steak dinner in Wyoming.” Even though he knows he has to lose tomorrow, Hank’s drunk on Maggie. He hears himself saying, “So, you’ll go out with me, then?”
Her lips press together, and to him it looks like she’s holding in a smile that would taste like cream soda. “I didn’t say that.”
“But will you?”
“Not for winning a warm-up round. You’ve got to win it all to date me.”
Hank leans in close, until his lips are nearly brushing her hanging earring and the gold hoops around the seashell of her ear. “Meet me at the arena tomorrow night after they hand me my belt buckle. Unless you’re still leaving in the morning.” He doesn’t move away, just breathes her, tastes the cinnamon air around her, wants her.
She crosses her arms and rocks side to side, bumping his lips, killing him slowly. Her lips move like she’s discussing the issue with herself.
He puts a hand on her shoulder. It’s small but muscled. “Well, what will it be?”
Maggie
* * *
Maggie stares at Hank’s neck, imagining sinking her teeth into his smooth skin. She wants to leave with him tonight and ride him until the sun rises. But that wouldn’t be smart. He’s got a big day tomorrow, and she needs a clear head to figure out what to do about the tour, the band, and her future.
To hell with smart. She licks her lips, ready to throw caution to the wind.
“Maggie?” Cristiano’s voice is somehow between them, even though they’re only centimeters apart.
“Son of a bitch,” Hank says under his breath. He moves into Cristiano’s space, away from Maggie’s teeth and lips, forcing the shorter man back a step.
“Whoa, man, stop herding me.”
Hank chest-bumps Cristiano, pushing him back another pace.
“Seriously, asshole.”
Hank turns and stands beside Maggie. He lifts his hands. “We’re good.”
Cristiano says, “Like hell we are” in a mumble. Louder, he speaks to Maggie. “Your band. Why aren’t you up there?”
She gives him a tepid smile and a flat voice. “I’m not feeling it.”
“Then how about you feel me?”
“You think it’s okay to talk to her like that?” Hank’s glower is Cro-Magnon.
Maggie crosses her arms and a hip cocks out. “I’m definitely not feeling that.”
Cristiano grins. “I got more whiskey shots.”
“No, thank you.”
He frowns. “I paid one hundred bucks for three songs and a no?”
Maggie swings her hair as one hand fists on her hip. Her words drill the air. “I’m not for sale.”
Cristiano’s lip juts in an angry expression that reminds her of a pouting toddler. The Brazilian steps back and takes them both in. “You doing this loser, then?”
Maggie’s smile is wider than the Tongue River. “Yes. Right here. With all our clothes on. In front of everyone. How clever of you to notice.”
The tips of Cristiano’s ears redden.
Hank pulls a hand down over his face like he’s wiping away a smile.
“I’m riding in the finals tomorrow. You coming?”
“Maybe.”
Hank’s dimples crease.
Cristiano pivots away. “See you in the winner’s circle.” Then he leaves, dragging the tatters of his pride with him.
Maggie sighs. “There are so many ways I wanted to respond to him, but silence is the better part of valor.”
Hank’s mouth screws to the side. “Winner’s circle. I think he has bull riding confused with horse racing.”
Maggie lifts her hair and fans the sweat on her neck. “I guess I should go give dirty looks to my band.”
“I can help.” Hank holds up his arm, and she takes it.
Electric shocks shoot into her fingers, up her arm. She absorbs it, like a shot of the whiskey, only twice as potent. They walk to the saloon, and she realizes she is feeling strangely not-bad. Together, she and Hank make faces and complain about her band for the next half hour. But she’s not upset anymore. She’s buzzing from every little touch and whisper with Hank.
All too soon, she hears Davo thank the crowd as the band wraps it up. She knows the plan. To be on the road by midafternoon to the next gig, the next town. Well, screw the plan. She’s staying here, and she’s done with them, with the tour, with anything that stands in the way of getting back to her roots and taking charge of her music again.
But first, she’s going to explore the possibilities with this sexy cowboy.
Hank
* * *
After Maggie’s band leaves the stage, Hank walks Maggie to the bar. Side by side, they’re pressing into each other from ankle to hip. The chemistry between them has heads turning, with knowing glances and uh-huh nods. They touch their plastic glasses of Jack and Coke in an unspoken toast. To tomorrow night, Hank thinks.
Just then, Kaylee Storm takes the stage. Maggie bristles.
“You’re not a fan?” he asks.
“She’s the antithesis of everything I’m working for.”
He likes her answer. She’s brash, with vision and determination, qualities he can relate to. Before he can comment or offer her a drink, she holds up a finger.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
She points at her band, huddled at the bar.
Again the words tumble out before he is conscious of the thought: “Don’t leave.” She’s going to think he’s a doormat if he keeps begging.
But she fans her lids down as she gazes up at him. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”
He watches her as she makes her approach. No stealth. Straight on to the pushy guitarist who’d stolen the mic from her earlier. When Maggie arrives, a blonde woman turns from the group of musicians, her eyes scanning the bar and lighting on him, drawing his attention away from Maggie. With a start, he realizes it’s Fawn. She sees his reaction, and she presses her breasts into one of the band members. Not the one that buddies around with Maggie or the guitarist. The drummer. He reacts favorably, leaning down and in. Another band member, the woman who plays the fiddle and keyboards and filled in for Maggie earlier, looks pissed. Fawn hoovers the drummer’s mouth down her throat. He cups Fawn’s ass and gri
nds her against his crotch. The other woman walks away, wiping at the corner of her eyes.
Hank’s interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.
Gene says, “Train’s leaving. All aboard.”
“Kenny Chesney’s over this early?”
“It’s not early.”
Hank groans. “Go away, Gene. I’ll catch a ride.”
“Spoken like a man who doesn’t plan to win tomorrow.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Either way, sleep is important. I can’t face telling your mother you were gored because you were out partying the night before your ride.”
Hank knows Gene is right. “I’ll meet you at the exit to the parking lot in ten.”
“I ain’t waiting.”
“I ain’t asking you to.”
“Fine.” Gene crutches his way out.
The air pulses and hums around Hank when Maggie returns a moment later.
“All taken care of?” he says.
“I told them to take the van and carry on without me. They didn’t seem to understand I meant I’d be quitting the tour. Or care.”
“Will you? Be quitting, I mean.”
She adjusts her belt and leans a subtly curved hip against his. “Never say never.”
“We’re on for tomorrow night?”
“If you’re winning, we are.”
He wants to pump his fist in the air. She’s staying. “Great. Because I have to go now.”
“Really?” She looks disappointed, with doe-like eyes, but only for a second. Then the look is replaced with indignation.
“I want to stay. You don’t even know how much. But I have to sleep—if you want me to win.”
“Give me the other cheek.”
At first he is confused. Then he presents the unkissed cheek from earlier. She plants her lips on it, sucks softly, then licks him with just the tip of her tongue along his jawline to his ear.
“Jesus, Maggie.” He hauls her to him, crushes her against him. He’s quivering, and he knows it and doesn’t care. This woman makes him weak in the knees.
Buckle Bunny Page 5
