Song for a Cowboy

by Sasha Summers

  You think you’re something special, staring my way.

  You think I feel so lucky, like you’ve made my day.

  But here’s the truth, listen closely, cuz there ain’t no way.

  I’m looking for Mr. Forever, not you—Mr. For Today.

  You’re smiling like you’ve got a secret that I want to know.

  But, honey, we’ve been down this road and that just ain’t so.

  Let’s not waste each other’s time putting on a flirty show.

  You’re just fun and games so, darlin’, time for you to go.

  But go on, keep on smiling. Feel free to keep on trying.

  I know what I want. Nothing you can do.

  Sad but true, boy, it isn’t you. Oo-hoo-hoo, boy, it isn’t you.

  The second verse was just as catchy. More than a handful of audience members clapped and sang along with her. She smiled, clapping with the beat and rounding out the number with the final chorus.

  But go on, keep on smiling. Feel free to keep on trying.

  I know what I want. Nothing you can do.

  Sad but true, boy, it isn’t you. Oo-hoo-hoo, boy, it isn’t you.

  “Emmy Lou King, everyone.” Late-night television host Guy James stood at the end of the stage, clapping.

  Emmy bowed, blew a few kisses, and waved. With the help of a stagehand, she walked across the stage to Guy. He hugged her and helped her to her seat, opposite his large desk.

  Brock, Guy’s first guest, stood to greet her while she did her best to act normal, even though this was the first time she’d seen him since she’d tried to rip his clothes off. Now he was here, blue eyes shining, watching her. And what did she do? She held her hand out for a perfectly acceptable handshake. But somehow, he pulled her close and they ended up hugging.

  Not a big deal. Yes, he smelled like heaven and his arm was rock hard around her waist, and the press of his hand at the base of her spine caused head-to-toe tingles, but…she would pull it together. Starting now. She would definitely not let these four, maybe five, seconds of being wrapped up in his arms remind her of the stroke of his hands or his fingers gripping her hips as he’d pressed her against the hospital wall.

  She’d never experienced anything like it. Ever.

  And now, here she was, thinking about it. Here. In front of an audience, late-night television host Guy James, and Brock. Brock, whose eyes pinned hers long enough to leave her rattled before he let her go and they could all take their seats.

  “Well done,” Guy said, still clapping. “We are so glad to have you here tonight.” He tapped the desk with his pen and stared out over the audience, waiting for their applause to die down. “Really. It’s been a while.”

  “It has.” She nodded. “I think I was here as part of a package deal last time.”

  “That sounds right.” He chuckled. “I’m sorry about your ankle. Is it quite painful? Side note, you’ve somehow managed to make an ankle brace look fashionable, Emmy.”

  She held her ankle out so the brace could sparkle in the lights. “Thank you. You can thank my sister for the excessive bling.” She’d left Krystal alone with a glue gun and a bag of crystals. Her rhinestones-and-sequins-covered brace was the result. Krystal thought it was hilarious.

  “Your twin writes songs and decorates medical devices.” Guy chuckled, the look he gave her brace causing a round of laughter from the audience. “Will you be wearing that when you kick off your new tour?”

  “Our tour kicks off in six days.” She’d never been so ready to get back on the road. “Three Kings and a Jace—since Jace is joining us. It’s a play on poker. I’m not sure if Jace is the Jack or the Ace, but there you have it.” She smiled at the ripple of laughter from the guest audience. “I think it will be our best tour ever. New music, new costumes, and a whole lot of flash and excitement.” Some of the new choreography was wreaking havoc on her ankle.

  Guy glanced at one of the notecards on his desk. “More good news I see. You’re now the voice of Sunday night football? Are you a football fan?”

  “Well, I have spent many a Sunday and Monday night beside my daddy, watching a game.” Probably best if she kept her Brock fangirl status to herself.

  “Don’t let her fool you. She rattled off some stats the other day—I’d say she’s a fan.” Brock shifted so he could face her, his expression all business.

  Emmy Lou blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He was teasing her? Here? Two could play that game. “Did I? Are you sure? Guess I forgot.” She ran her hands over her thighs.

  Brock smiled then, his gaze following the path of her hands and knocking the air from her lungs.

  “You’re from Austin, too, aren’t you, Brock?” Guy asked.

  Brock cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. Born and bred.”

  “And you two are both volunteers for the AFL Drug Free Like Me campaign. How did you get involved with this project, Brock? This is very personal for you, isn’t it?”

  It was a loaded question. Everyone in the room knew the answer—Brock Watson’s fall from grace had been well-documented. She’d been heartbroken over his troubles and the possible end of his career. He’d always been so single-minded, so driven. For him to have lost his way… It was hard for her to imagine what that was like.

  “Short version? My tibial fracture four years ago led to a pain pill addiction and a string of bad choices.” Brock shrugged. “I was damn lucky…” He paused, frowning. “Can I say damn?”

  Guy nodded. “Damn is fine.”

  She and the audience laughed.

  “It was the wake-up call I needed. Working with DFLM and the kids in this program helps keep me focused. I want to help in any way I can. It’s the least I can do.” Brock looked acutely uncomfortable at the audience’s applause.

  “Hear, hear. Well said, Brock.” Guy glanced at his notecard. “And you, Emmy? It was your mother’s addiction that made you want to participate. How is her treatment going?”

  Emmy Lou nodded, doing her best to keep her smile in place. “Momma is a fighter. She’s giving it her all.” The extent of her addiction and her treatment was all very hush-hush. The little they did know had Travis saying Momma’s once-a-week half-day rehabilitation sessions sounded more like high-end spa treatments. Still, Emmy clung to the hope that their mother would do whatever it took to get better. “And a lot of support, of course. We Kings stick together.” And that was as much as she wanted to disclose about her mother. “I feel honored to be the first nonplayer on the AFL-sponsored DFLM team.”

  “You have your own jersey, don’t you? Wait, let’s look.” Guy pointed at the screen. “These promotional photos are for schools, public transportation, libraries, that sort of thing. What is happening here?” Guy’s brow rose high.

  Brock laughed at the picture, shaking his head.

  “Oh.” She covered her face. “I’m making the same face as Demetrius, can’t you tell?” She laughed.

  “And this one?” Guy pointed at a new picture. “I didn’t know you two have a history. The two of you were high school sweethearts?”

  “Prom. Get it?” She pointed at the picture. “They thought using a football instead of flowers was cute.”

  “Not as cute as this one.” Guy changed the picture. There she was, draped over Brock’s shoulder. Both of them midlaugh.

  “Aw, yes.” She smiled. They both looked so happy—even if seconds later he had stormed off.

  “I assume there’s a story here?” Guy sat back in his chair.

  “It was our senior year.” She glanced at Brock, that day forever etched in her treasured memories.

  “Our team made state playoffs,” Brock added.

  She nodded. “It was a close game. The kind where you hold your breath and sit on the edge of your seat.”

  Brock was staring at her. “You get that way when you watch football?�
��

  People laughed.

  “Not always.” She tore her gaze from his and looked back at the picture. “When we won, everyone rushed the field. Very exhilarating stuff.”

  “She was running, I was running.” Brock shrugged. “She jumped and this is how she landed.”

  “I was excited.” She smiled, shrugging. “About the game and that he caught me.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “We have the original.” Guy smiled as the original picture appeared. “From your yearbook.”

  She tilted her head, studying the wide-eyed teens. “We were such babies.”

  “You haven’t changed.” Brock was rewarded with some “awws” from the audience.

  “Nice to be reunited, I’m sure.” Guy smiled, looking back and forth between the two of them. “For the charity, of course.”

  “For the charity.” She had to work at laughter. “I see what you’re trying to do there, Guy.”

  “That obvious, huh?” Guy laughed. “Fine. Before we say good night I have some very interesting information—courtesy of Demetrius Mansfield. He’s a good friend of yours, isn’t he, Brock?”

  “I guess that depends on what information you have.” Brock smiled, but his eyes narrowed.

  Emmy Lou knew he was only partly joking, but the audience thought it was hilarious.

  “He says you play the guitar.” Guy paused, watching Brock.

  Brock groaned and ran a hand over his face. “I don’t play well.”

  “You do, too,” she argued. “He’s really good.” The look Brock shot her made her wish she could rewind the last ten seconds and keep her mouth shut.

  “I have a proposition for you both. You two play something for us?” Guy asked. “I’ll donate to the Drug Free Like Me program and post the info on our show’s website.”

  Which would give the program a huge boost in visibility.

  She risked a look Brock’s way. He was sitting forward, elbows resting on knees, looking intent and focused at the floor. She’d seen that face many times—when he was waiting to run out on the field and tackle someone. Was he imagining tackling Demetrius for telling Guy he played guitar? Or was it her, because she’d said he was good? The idea of him tackling her wasn’t as unpleasant as it should have been. Do not go there. “Brock?” she asked.

  He clapped his hands together and stood. “Let’s do this.”

  The audience went wild.

  She and Brock were ushered back to the performance area. He helped her onto one of the waiting stools and took the guitar he was offered. “Don’t blame me if I mess up.” He moved his stool next to her and sat, strumming over the guitar strings. A loud “We love you Brock!” from a row of women clad in Houston Roughnecks gear had Brock shaking his head, a dimple peeking out of his right cheek.

  Emmy Lou smiled. She had to admit, he looked good holding a guitar. Who was she kidding? He looked good, period. Starched, white, button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal that even his forearms were pure muscle. Fitted black jeans that hugged and clung and teased at the strength beneath. And cowboy boots. Emmy Lou loved him in boots. He looked even better in a cowboy hat. She cleared her throat. “What am I singing?”

  “Something easy.” He paused, then added. “And short.”

  More laughter from the crowd.

  The muscle in his jaw tightened. That’s when she noticed he wasn’t making eye contact or looking at the audience. This big, muscled-up, beautiful man was nervous.

  “You pick.” She leaned closer to him.

  He ran his fingers along the neck of the guitar. “‘Sweet Dreams’?” he asked, his eyes glued to hers. “He’ll be watching.” It was a whisper—for her alone. If Brock wanted her to sing to his daddy, she would sing all night long. Even though the flicker of affection and concern in his gaze had nothing to do with her, it touched her.

  She nodded. “Definitely.” It took everything she had not to reach for him.

  * * *

  Brock kept playing. He’d messed up a handful of times, but no one noticed with Emmy Lou beside him. She had the voice of an angel—always had. The tiny beads and sparkles covering her short dress made her glow. She sang with her eyes closed, head back, long hair swaying as she rocked side to side. Watching her sing—she was something.

  According to Connie, Emmy Lou was the sort of PR influencer that automatically gave a bump to whatever product, person, or program she mentioned. Teens looked at her as a role model. Moms appreciated her positive influence. Men, it seemed, either wanted to screw her or protect her. But everyone, everyone, had an opinion when it came to Emmy Lou King. That was why Connie was so gung ho about the two of them doing spots like this together.

  After their run-in at the hospital, Brock wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. But Connie had brought him around pretty quick. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Bringing in Russell Ames isn’t a good sign. He’s not a second-string player,” Connie had said on their last phone conversation. “You need options. Having your gorgeous face all over, next to America’s sweetheart, will help with that. Trust me.”

  He trusted her. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be sitting here, playing a guitar, on national television.

  The song ended and he could breathe easy. Amid all the clapping and enthusiasm, Emmy Lou slid from her stool. She wobbled, reaching back for her stool, but he steadied her. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm was instinctual.

  Her fingers squeezed his arm. “You did good.”

  “Nah. But you did.” It was a whisper, but she heard him, those big green eyes looking his way.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Emmy Lou King and Brock Watson.” Guy joined them on the stage. “It’s been a real pleasure visiting with you both. Thank you for the song.”

  “Thank you for the support,” Emmy Lou answered, that oh-so-sweet smile in place. “One favor before we go? A picture?”

  “I was going to be offended if we didn’t take one.” Guy nodded.

  Brock didn’t understand people’s fascination with every little thing she did, but they were. Social media wasn’t his thing, something else Connie wanted him to work on.

  Emmy Lou held up the camera, her back to the audience. “Y’all wave,” she said, tugging his arm and pulling him closer. “Come on, Brock, squeeze in here so I can get us all.”

  He shut out the soft brush of her hair beneath his chin and the curve of her hip pressed against his. More like, tried to shut out. But his body had other ideas. The whole night, he’d been distracted by her every movement, every breath, every flutter of her eyelashes, and her glossy grin. Why would that stop now, when he was posing for a selfie with her and a couple of hundred others?

  “Smile. A little? You look…” Her eyes met his on her phone screen. She swallowed, her gaze widening. “N-not happy.”

  He wasn’t unhappy. Because, right or wrong, there was something gratifying about knowing he could rattle Emmy Lou King. A whole hell of a lot. He was smiling now.

  “Good.” Emmy nodded, her voice a little higher, a little breathless.

  After they said their goodbyes to Guy, Brock led her from the stage to the green room.

  “That was awesome.” Emmy’s assistant caught up to them, handing Emmy Lou a water bottle. “You two should see the pings on the DFLM site.” She handed him a water bottle, too.

  “Thanks. Already?” he asked.

  The woman nodded, taking Emmy’s phone. “I’ll post this. Hold on.” She stepped in front of them. “Smile. Or act tired. Something cute I can post later.”

  “Cute?” Brock took a long swig off his water bottle.

  “Perfect.” The woman snapped a picture. “See?” She held the phone out. He and Emmy Lou were both guzzling water, her arm still hooked with his. “Cute. I’ll tag it synchronized hydration. Or hashtag #waterbreak…or something.” She shrugged. “Now, food
.”

  He didn’t miss the emphasis on the word food. Beautiful or not, Emmy was too skinny. He’d noticed it. Aunt Mo had noticed it. And now her assistant was bringing it up. “There’s a steak place the team goes to every time we have an away game here, Remington’s. You want to come?” What the hell am I doing?

  “Melanie is a vegetarian.” Emmy Lou shook her head. “But thank you.”

  As far as excuses went, it wasn’t much of one. “This is LA; it’s not like there won’t be a vegetarian option.” He glanced at Melanie. “You eat salad, don’t you?” Why the hell am I pushing this?

  “I love salad.” Melanie hugged her iPad close and held the green room door open. “And you love steak, Emmy Lou. Sawyer and I can sit at another table—you won’t even know we’re there.” She waited for Emmy to sit, then moved one of the stuffed ottomans under her injured ankle. “Beats ordering room service and eating in the hotel room alone.”

  He didn’t give a shit about Sawyer. But he did care about Emmy…about Emmy Lou eating, that is. Besides, Aunt Mo would never forgive him if he didn’t try.

  “That sounds good,” Emmy Lou said. “Not you sitting at another table with Sawyer. Room service. In my pajamas. Watching old reruns of I Love Lucy or that British baking show.”

  Melanie stopped working on her phone and looked at Emmy. She didn’t say anything, just regarded her employer with a steady gaze. It was clear she was struggling not to say something. The longer she stared at Emmy, the tighter she pressed her lips together.

  “No,” Emmy Lou said, looking his way. “But thank you.” He didn’t miss the emphasis on the “no.”

  Message received. She wasn’t interested. Fooling around with him in private was fine. Sharing a meal together wasn’t.

  “Okay. I’ll go see if Sawyer has the car ready.” Melanie hurried off, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Once the door clicked shut, the air in the room thinned. He was staring at her. She was staring at him. The longer they stared, the more electrified the space between them became.

  She swallowed. “Can we talk for a minute?”