She nodded. “It’s fine.”
He inspected her now apple-sized swollen ankle. Her sock was stretched tight. Pink socks. Pink shoes. It had always been her favorite color. Hell, he’d worn a pink tie to prom for her.
He nodded as Todd came in. “Her ankle.”
“I can see that.” Todd bent, his fingers moving over the inflamed joint. “Tell me if this hurts.”
Brock crossed his arms and watched her face. She scrunched up her features and closed her eyes as Todd slowly moved her foot one way, then the other.
“That.” Her hands pressed, flat, against the exam table.
“Probably a sprain. Ice and elevate. I’ll go get some. Might call your doctor, get an X-ray to make sure.” Todd nodded and glanced his way. “Um, looks like you could use some ice, too?” He shook his head and left the room, saying, “Be back.”
“I’m not.” She swallowed, staring down at her ankle and wiggling her toes. “A football fan, I mean.”
“No?” He leaned against the counter. “I thought only die-hard fans cared about stats?”
“I guess.” She shrugged. “I only know yours.”
For a split second, he was frozen.
Don’t. Don’t do this. He wasn’t eighteen years old anymore; he knew better.
He pushed off the counter, fully intending to leave but closing the distance between them instead. Standing there, staring at her, was hard. He knew her face like the back of his hand. The tiny mole on her cheek. The dot of blue in the iris of her right eye. The fullness of her lips—he could still taste her mouth beneath his, clinging, gasping for breath, and wanting more.
What was she after? Why was she laying it on thick, acting like she’d kept up with him—acting like she cared? There was no audience. Her green eyes locked with his. All wide-eyed innocence. Bullshit. To her, he’d been temporary. To him, she’d been everything. She’d made a fool out of him once. No way he was going to let her do it again.
“Brock—” Her soft voice wavered.
“Em…” No, dammit all to hell. He pulled up CiCi’s words, played them on repeat until he’d grounded himself in reality. She is not my problem. She is not, and never was, mine. “Your bodyguard.” The burn of anger made it easier to put distance between them. “Call him.” He tore his gaze from hers and waited, pacing, until Todd came back. He took the ice pack for his jaw and walked out, ignoring the curious stares and questions from his teammates…and the sharp twist of his heart.
Chapter 6
“Are we clear?” The director, Chad, held his hand up. “Can we turn up the fog and wind, please? I want her hair blowing.”
Emmy tilted her head as her stylist, Andrea, swept a fine dusting of powder along her nose and cheeks. The thrum of the bass was playing already. Even though the music and sound would be added after the fact, she liked to sing during the shoot—it kept her in full performance mode. And since the goal was to wrap this shoot in a couple of takes, she needed to give one of her best performances ever.
“Not too much,” Momma said, waving aside Andrea. “You don’t want her to look…too made up.”
Andrea stepped back, tucking the brush into her apron, and forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am, Mrs. King.”
“Stop fidgeting.” Momma shook her head. “You look fine.”
Emmy Lou wasn’t about to disagree. Still, her low-cut, painted-on, gold-covered jumpsuit hugged every curve of her body. The original outfit, a mini-minidress, had been discarded in favor of something that would cover her ankle brace. And it did cover the brace. The rest of her? Well, it didn’t matter.
“Don’t listen to her, baby girl.” Her daddy patted her cheek. “You look beautiful. All lit up.” He nodded, his gaze sweeping over her gold-sequin-covered jumpsuit. “That’s some outfit.”
Momma shot him a look. She wasn’t happy. At all. She’d done her best to make sure every single person knew it, too. But even the great CiCi King didn’t have the power to remove Brock from the video. She had tried. As soon as she’d found out, she’d started making calls—using her “aw sugar” voice, then moving on to far less cajoling tones. Nothing worked. Brock was in the video.
Since Momma couldn’t stop that from happening, she was bound and determined to be there to make sure he didn’t bother her. Emmy had done her best to assure her he had no interest in talking to her, let alone bothering her. But she’d pulled out the promotional stills from the DFLM shoot, slid them across the counter, and sighed.
“After all he’s put you through, Emmy Lou,” Momma had said. “I think it’s best if you have someone with you who will look out for your best interests.” She’d taken her hand. “And since no one else in this household seems to understand what those are, I’m not leaving your side.”
That was why Krystal had bailed on her. It was hard enough to have her mother and sister in the same room when Momma wasn’t on the warpath. Poor Daddy was bearing the brunt of it. From her razor-sharp tone to the daggers she kept shooting at Daddy, it was going to be a long day—and they hadn’t even started the shoot yet.
Five minutes later, Chad waved her forward. “We’re ready for you, Emmy.”
“That’s my cue.” Emmy smiled, relieved to put some distance between herself and the storm brewing between her parents. She stood on the green X taped to the field. After three walk-throughs, she knew where to hit each mark. The only difference this time? The players would be on the field with her.
Everything was timed to perfection.
The beat started thumping, Chad pointed her way, and the stadium went mostly dark. When the beat dropped, the lights pivoted up, casting her in a foggy spotlight. As the beat continued, she started walking—the next beat drop raining a shower of sparks from overhead. She stopped, dead center, and started singing.
Standing on the field, beneath the floodlights.
I hear the roar of the crowd, wanna make them all proud.
Standing strong and proud, ready for the fight.
My heart’s beating in my chest, know my team is the best.
Each line, a new spotlight would come on and illuminate a player. She’d high-step her way over, toss her hair, pose at their side, and move on. It was easy enough. Some players smiled, others wore their game face; it didn’t matter. These were the players people loved seeing. She only teetered once, the burn in her ankle making one step less deliberate than the rest. But she kept going, hoping only she noticed.
Once the chorus came up, another shower of sparks exploded; a backlight cast her in a blinging halo and the fan had her hair swirling around her shoulders.
She belted out the chorus.
Because I’m a warrior.
This game is a battle.
Because I’m a warrior.
And I fight for you.
Since the Kings were well-known Houston Roughnecks fans, it made sense that she’d end her performance next to a Roughnecks player. Meaning Brock.
Maybe it was knowing her mother was there, watching every little detail, that kept her focused. Maybe it was his chilly behavior in the first-aid station yesterday. Maybe, just maybe, she was finally getting over Brock Watson. Whatever the reason, she strutted into the spotlight with purpose. She planted her feet, stopping directly in front of Brock, and threw her head back as she rounded out the final chorus.
“Because I’m a warrior. Warrior…” She drew in a deep breath, ignoring the throb in her ankle. “And I fight for you.” She pointed at the camera, smiling brightly into the lens.
“And…cut.” Chad was clapping. “That was amazing.” He waved her over. “Come check it. I don’t want to jinx anything, but we might not need to—”
“I don’t want to tell you what to do, of course, but you might want another take.” Momma was using her “aw sugar” voice, all Southern charm. “Poor Emmy Lou did a little biddy, teeny-weeny offbeat step. I’m sure i
t’s fine as is. But you might want to consider another take?”
Chad slid his earphones onto the top of his head. “Oh?” He frowned, leaning forward to stare at the screen. “Where?”
“Let me show you.” Momma was all smiles as she traipsed across the field in her platform heels, white linen pants, and bright-pink silk shirt.
Emmy deflated, doing her best not to put any weight on her injured ankle—or acknowledge the very warm, very solid presence at her back.
“You okay?” Brock’s voice was pitched low, setting the hair on the back of her neck on end.
She barely nodded, not trusting herself to look at him. Especially not now that Momma was watching them, eyes narrowed, over the camera.
“Emmy?” he repeated, his tone far too warm—far too gentle.
She made a show out of pushing her hair from her shoulder, whispering, “Fine,” and hoping he’d heard.
His large hand was warm at her waist. “You need a hand?”
She hadn’t meant to jerk away from him. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention their way. But if Momma saw… She held her breath, risking a look at the camera, her mother, and Chad. Whatever they were looking at held Momma’s undivided attention. Not that it stopped her heart from pounding.
The harshness of Brock’s sudden laugh startled her enough to draw her gaze. And then…she couldn’t look away. His face. In all her life, she’d never been on the receiving end of such hostility. It rolled off of him. Crashed into her. Knocked every ounce of air from her lungs… Just when she thought he couldn’t hurt her anymore, he did.
“Emmy Lou, your water.” Melanie was there, water bottle in hand. “You need anything?”
She needed to stop staring, to stop wanting to explain why she’d just pulled away from him. Stop wanting to explain anything to him. And, more than anything, she needed to stop trying to understand what had happened and how they’d wound up here. But the words were too tangled up to do anything more than clog her throat.
Brock’s features hardened. There was nothing gentle or concerned about him now. He swallowed, the muscles in his throat working as his gaze fell from hers. With another bitter laugh, he shook his head. “She needs to sit down—her ankle.” He was walking away before his words sunk in.
“Did I interrupt something?” Melanie was blinking rapidly. “I am so sorry, Emmy.”
“No.” Emmy found her voice. Unsteady but audible. “No, you didn’t. Thank you for the water.” She took a long swig.
Melanie was watching her. “You should take a break, put that ankle up.”
“Emmy?” Chad called out. “You good to do it again? I feel certain we’ll get this done in one more take.”
One more take. One more and she could go home. “Yes.”
“You sure, baby girl?” Her father stood on the other side of the field, far enough away from Momma that he could pretend he didn’t see the glare she’d leveled in his direction.
“Let’s get this over with,” she whispered to Melanie. She ratcheted up her smile and gave her father a thumbs-up.
Daddy grinned. “Well, all right then.”
“We need ten minutes or so to reset everything anyway,” Chad said, slipping from his chair. “Damn pyrotechnics.”
* * *
Brock stood in the dark on the football field. Watching Emmy Lou King in her element was impressive. No, she was…she was mesmerizing. Every head pop had her hair swaying. Every step set the bangles on her sexy-as-hell, skintight outfit swinging. With her dusty-rose lips smiling, singing her heart out, and one arm rising over her head, she grabbed hold and held on tight to every single person’s attention. It wasn’t just him; it couldn’t be.
If he ever needed a reminder that CiCi King knew her daughter best, here it was. This was where Emmy Lou belonged. Front and center, the spotlight fixed on her. He didn’t need to be here. Hell, none of the players needed to be here. Who the fuck would be looking at anything other than her? The fog and wind machine and sparks were overkill.
With every practiced step, every rehearsed tilt of her head, and her blindingly beautiful smile, the closer she got to him, the harder it got to breathe.
He flexed his fingers, the warmth of her skin lingering on his fingertips. Why had he touched her? He was no better than a moth flying directly into an open flame. So why was she the one who jolted away from him? Fast and quick—like he’d burned her.
No, that wasn’t it at all. More like she couldn’t stand his touch.
His hands fisted. No more of this shit. No more letting her get in his head.
Emmy took another high step, her smile wavering as she planted her foot. Her ankle was hurting. She was hurting. So why was she pushing this? It was obvious every single person in the building was at her beck and call. The Kings ruled—that was clear. CiCi King was there to make sure of it.
The moment the beam of the spotlight illuminated him, he stared down at the turf. He heard the rasp of her breath as she stepped around him. The dangling strands of sequins brushed and bounced against his arm and chest as she planted her feet. She stood—too close to ignore her scent, her warmth, the energy coming off her in waves. His gaze traveled up slowly, lingering on the swell of her hip. With a toss of her head and a sweep of her silky hair across his arm, she belted out the last of the song.
“Because I’m a warrior. Warrior…” Her voice was pure—a stark contrast to the sparkling temptation of a getup she was wearing. “And I fight for you.” Five words, five beats, and another shower of sparks poured down over them and the lights went out.
It was over. He’d go his way. She’d go hers. Considering how easily she got under his skin, it couldn’t happen soon enough.
The director yelled, “Cut.” But the lights didn’t come up. “Can we get the lights?” The director, Brock didn’t know who he was, sighed loud and exasperated. “Lights?”
It was too dark to see much, so the press of Emmy’s hand against his thigh was unexpected. Even more so was the way she swayed into him, more propped up against him than anything. “Sorry…” she whispered, her voice high and thin. “Need to get…my boot…off.” She fell more heavily against him.
“Your ankle?” He steadied her, torn between sympathy and irritation.
“Yeah.” He could hear her pain.
He’d known full well she was pushing too hard. Why had no one else spoken up? Like him, her body was her business. Her unsteady breathing tipped the scale in favor of sympathy.
Fuck it.
“Hold up.” He knelt, tugging the clinging fabric of her pantsuit up and blindly fumbling for her foot. She couldn’t have been wearing heels. That would have been easy. Boots. Boots that kept on going—higher… Like his hand. He was holding his breath as his hand slid from her calf to the side of her knee. Another two inches and he was cursing at the dark and her soft skin and the football league for this shoot and whoever’d decided to put her in boots that went halfway up her silky-smooth thigh.
He was at the end of his rope when his fingers finally grasped the elusive metal tab at the top of the zipper. With one angry tug, he yanked it down—pulling a sharp hiss from Emmy. “Dammit. Sorry.” He sighed. “Try now.” He held the sole of the boot and she slid her foot free.
“Thank you.” Her hand, searching, rested briefly against his cheek. “Oh, sorry. Sorry.” She moved, her hands landing on his shoulder for leverage.
It was a good damn thing it was dark, or everyone would have seen him lean into her hand. Everyone would know just how screwed he was. One touch was all it took to shake his resolve when it came to this woman. It wasn’t fair or right. But, hell, that was life.
“Emmy?” Melanie asked, the beam of a flashlight was moving slowly closer. “Am I close?”
Brock stood, the zap of Emmy’s hands sliding from his shoulders to his chest a live wire across each and every ner
ve. He hated that she could still do that to him. And hated how he’d missed it. The longer he stood this way, the more lost in Emmy he became. With her scent wrapping around him, her soft breathing going unsteady, and her fingers plucking at the front of his jersey…he had to stop this. Whatever this was.
Why didn’t she answer whoever the hell was coming, armed with a flashlight? Why hadn’t he?
“Emmy?” The flashlight beam swung to the right.
“If someone doesn’t get the lights back on in the next two minutes, I swear there will be hell to pay.” CiCi King’s voice was so brittle it sliced through the fragile threads holding the two of them together—frozen. “Do you hear me?”
I hear you.
His brain was spinning, images flipping faster and faster, like a possessed slideshow with no off switch.
Kissing Emmy.
Sweet promises and painful goodbyes.
Letters sent and returned and sheer desperation.
CiCi King.
That morning. That fucking morning…
And now. Emmy Lou prancing across the damn field, all smiles and head tosses.
Maybe he was hell-bent on his own destruction. It was a question he’d been asked in rehab: Was he capable of making healthy choices? It’d been a long time before Brock had been able to say yes to that question. And now? There was nothing healthy about this. Whatever empire the Kings had built, he didn’t want to be a part of it.
His hands clasped hers, ignoring the cling of her fingers, to purposefully remove her hands. If the lights came on… No. He held her hands away and stepped back, sucking in deep lungfuls of air.
“Over here,” he ground out before letting her go and taking one step back, then another—and another—until he was heading in what he hoped was the direction of the locker rooms.
Brock didn’t pause when the lights came on, blindingly white, or when he heard the director yell out, “We’re good here. We’ll do the warehouse shoot tomorrow.” Meaning he was done.
He checked his phone, ignored Connie’s “How’d it go?” text, grabbed his wallet and keys, and headed out of the stadium. He didn’t have time for this. With Dad in the hospital, Aunt Mo would need a break. After that…well, he could use a few hours of work on the ranch.
Song for a Cowboy Page 9
