Country Heaven (11 page)

A couple of cars passed them along the main road, some honking in frustration, and while his mouth twisted now and again, he didn’t speed once—a gesture that felt like the first makings of friendship.

It had been a long while since she’d felt that kind of consideration.

Our house’s got cracks licking up the side,
Squeezing the life outta the people inside.
Don’t wanna live in a glass house no more.
Nosy neighbors peering in from the outside.
Put on a show.
Like a mannequin in Ms. Jenkins’ country store.
I can’t take it no more.
Ignore the pain,
There’s nowhere to hide.
There’s cracks in the glass house,
Licking up the side.

Rye Crenshaw’s Number One Hit, “Cracks in the Glass House”

Chapter 6

T
he first two weeks of June rolled by in a blur as they covered the upper Eastern seaboard and then cut across the south. Rye sang in a new city every night or every other night, depending on the travel distance, sleeping in a hotel room once in a blue moon. Before too long, he fell into this tour’s rhythm. Each tour had one, he’d discovered, and he was happy to learn that the defining feature of this one was food. He’d called his good friend, Rhett Butler Blaylock, to thank him for suggesting he hire his own tour cook. It was something he was going to do from now on, though he couldn’t imagine finding a better one than Tory.

Her food was magical, and it seemed to affect his mood. If he were tired after a late concert, breakfast had him feeling bright eyed and bushy tailed. If he were cross because he was worrying about his daddy, dinner made him feel peaceful before he went onstage. And her sassy and delightful company only added to his enjoyment of her food.

Sure, he’d had to work out more, but then again, he’d always loved feeling that particular burn.

When he strolled into the kitchen en route to Dallas and eyed the fried chicken sizzling in the cast iron skillet, he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Creamy scalloped potatoes covered with cheddar cheese and steaming corn dotted with butter already stood waiting on the counter. It was going to be another incredible meal—something that never failed to raise his spirits.

“Hey,” he said.

Tory jumped. “You scared me.”

“Sorry. Dinner about ready?”

“Yes.” She forked the chicken off the skillet and set the pieces on a plate lined with paper towels.

Rye carried the corn and potatoes over to the booth and sat down. “We don’t play until tomorrow, so the band and the crew are going out tonight. Dallas has one of the best cowboy bars around. Georgia rented it and has invited some locals. Come celebrate with us.”

Her eyes narrowed as she brought the chicken over to the booth. “I don’t know. I’m not really into the bar scene.”

While he wasn’t surprised, he wasn’t giving up. “Ah, come on. You need some fun.” He didn’t think it was good for her to spend so much time alone.

Rye reached for the chicken immediately. Swore at the heat. Blew on the piece hovering near his mouth and took a bite. The juices hit his taste buds, and the crunch of the breading was so succulent that he chewed slowly just to savor it. “God, this is incredible.”

Tory wiped her hands on her apron. “Glad you like it.”

“You got any cornbread?”

“No, I have buttermilk biscuits in the oven.”

His gaze traveled over her slim behind as she opened the stove and bent over to take them out. Well, he didn’t want to bribe her, but he wasn’t throwing in the towel just yet. “I looked up that thing you study.” He almost laughed—he knew perfectly well what she was studying, but he was so used to playing the fool that it came more naturally sometimes. “Cultural anthropology. This bar is gonna fascinate you. It’s all about social customs and culture.”

“I’ll bet,” she said, and he could almost hear her rolling her eyes.

The potatoes made him groan when he tried them, and that familiar sense of peace spread through him. He couldn’t say why, but eating her food made him feel at home—a place he’d never felt off stage other than in Dare River.

“Hey, watch it over there. You’re sounding a little hot and bothered.”

He made a humming noise. “Honey, I am hot. For your food. What’d you put on the corn?”

“Cajun seasoning. You strike me as someone who likes spice, despite the whole rib incident. Now, what were you saying?”

Right, what
was
he saying? “The bar, Cowboys Red River, has a mechanical bull. We all take turns riding it. Men and women. The one that lasts the longest gets a special reward.”

Tory’s mouth parted, but she edged closer, setting a plate of steaming biscuits on the table. “A mechanical bull? So what’s the prize?”

“Well, for the men it’s a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. The prize for the ladies hasn’t changed since my first tour.”

“And that would be?”

His all–time favorite. “A kiss from me.”

Her sexy lips curled into a frown. “That seems like a raw deal compared to the Johnnie.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You’ve never kissed me before. Trust me. The men are getting the raw deal.”

And wouldn’t he love to prove that now? But he wouldn’t. He liked her and respected her. Plus, she was his cook, and he didn’t want to mess that up. Even if she was proving more tempting than expected.

She shoved her hands into her apron pockets, her eyes fairly dancing. “You could always kiss them, too.”

Rye chuckled. Wasn’t she cute, smirking in her white apron? “You
have
to see the bull. It’s pretty funny watching people trying to hang on.”

Tory just smiled as she fixed herself a plate. Even though he’d told her she could eat with him, she’d declined. So far he hadn’t pushed.

“All right then. Sounds educational. Leave the plates out when you’re done. I’ll clean up later.”

As she left with her food, Rye bit into a biscuit and moaned. If he were a marrying man, he might be tempted to get hitched to Tory just to keep her feeding him for the rest of his life.

But he wasn’t ever getting married. Was never planning on letting another woman have the chance to control and manipulate him day in and day out like his mama did to his daddy, and to him growing up. And Tory was definitely the settle–down type.

They’d just have to be friends, and wasn’t that a first for him with a woman?

***

Hours later, after admitting defeat when Rye wouldn’t end his campaign for her to join the festivities, she was leaning against a wooden beam in the dark, smoky Cowboys Red River bar. Well, Rye had been right about one thing. She was fascinated. And downright appalled.

A hoard of scantily clad women had cornered Rye near the entrance to the fenced off bull ring. Cleavage was at a premium. And Rye was eating it up like a sultan prince.

Watching these women ride the enormous robotic bull—with a fake head and horns and everything—was like watching that old John Travolta movie,
Urban Cowboy
. Most wore jean mini–skirts, making Tory wonder about chafing. She winced each time one of them took a tumble onto the squishy black gym mats, their breasts bouncing. Of course, the men just hooted and laughed.

Including Rye, and unease began to spread over her. She’d become used to seeing a different side of him in the privacy of the bus, one she liked. This Rye? Well, she didn’t care for him at all.

She tried to take the high road, using her anthropological tool kit to analyze this strange mating dance in front of her. But she couldn’t keep it going. As the women wove out of the ring, she only had one academic conclusion: whiplash and alcohol did not mix. One poor beauty queen lost her dinner on a handsome cowboy.

The serpentine line to the mechanical bull dwindled as the night went on. Rye stood at the entrance to the ring with Clayton, who was in charge of the stopwatch and writing down the final time per rider.

“Can you believe this?” said an older man to Tory’s right. “I come from a pretty small town and a very different generation, and I have to say I’m a little shocked by all this.”

Tory angled her head. The man was in his fifties, a bit portly, and had on a John Deere baseball hat. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“I’m Luke,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m one of the crew. Lighting.”

“Oh. Hi, I’m Tory.”

“Yeah, everyone knows about you. You’re cooking for Rye and reforming him, right?” he asked.

How was she supposed to respond to that? “I just work for Rye.”

He smiled easily. “You know, you remind me of my eldest daughter. She doesn’t like to talk out of school either. I can’t wait for the tour to be over so I can visit her.”

“That’s nice,” she responded.

“Clayton mentioned you’re from Lawrence,” Luke said. “Great town. Love the Jayhawks. My daughter lives in Kansas City. Hey, I’m heading back to the buses now. Do you want to catch a ride with me? Seems we’re both a little out of our element here.”

It was true, and she wasn’t having much fun. “Sure.” It was nice to talk to someone. She’d been on her own for most of the night, without anyone approaching her for conversation. At first she’d assumed it was because she didn’t look like one of them, but given what Luke had told her about Rye, she wondered if they were staying clear of her because they thought she was some boring Mary Sue bent on changing their bad–boy hero. The people here wouldn’t want that, and it explained some of the hostile looks she’d received from the women in the bar.

As she was weaving her way through the crowd, a hand grabbed her arm. When she looked over her shoulder, Rye tipped back his black Stetson. “Your turn, honey.”

Luke continued to make his way to the front of the bar, and there were too many people in between them for her to stop him. Stuck, her eyes swept to the ring as another woman took a dive off the bull.

“Not in a million years,” she told Rye.

His hazel eyes twinkled, even in the dim light of the bar. “Come on. I promised you some fun. Riding a bull is something everyone needs to check off their bucket list.”

The music changed to something twangy, and she had to raise her voice to be heard. “I don’t have one.”

“Well, you should.”

A lush blond appeared at Rye’s side. “What are you doing with
her,
Rye?”

The distasteful once–over she gave Tory made Tory straighten her spine. Okay, so she didn’t want to be like Rye’s bimbo fans, but being found wanting because of it ticked her off.

“Come back and party with us,” the woman pleaded, sliding her hand up Rye’s chest. “Clayton’s almost ready to announce the winner. I think I might be the lucky girl tonight.”

“I’ll find you in a minute, Lola,” he countered, not paying any attention to her hand tickling the skin above his collar. “I’m trying to talk Tory here into giving the bull a ride.”

Lola gave her another haughty glance, making Tory feel like she was back in high school, being insulted by the popular girls. “This pathetic little thing, Rye? Why, I bet she couldn’t grip the bull for two seconds with those chicken legs.”

“Shut up, Lola.” His hand stopped her exploration of his skin. “She’s a friend of mine.”

And somehow, hearing him say that was all the incentive she needed. The woman’s insult to her legs was not going to be ignored. “Okay, let’s give this a go then.”

She strode forward, weaving around the women who surrounded the bull, wrinkling her nose as it was assaulted by a cloud of different perfumes.

“Clayton?” she called.

He looked up from the clipboard.

“Time me.”

“You’ve got it, honey,” he said and gave her a wink.

Her feet sank into the gym mats. The bull suddenly seemed larger than life, from the tip of its fake snout to the well–worn saddle on its fake hairy back. God, she hoped it was fake. She put her foot in the stirrup, grabbed the pommel, and swung her leg over, finding the other stirrup. Then she eased her hand around the pommel and wedged it under the saddle. Curving forward, she gripped the bull’s body with her thighs, keeping her head low. Seconds later, the contraption tipped forward and started to rock.

The bucking increased. She squeezed her thighs as tight as she could, digging her heels under the beast’s belly. She heard shouts and cat calls, but could barely make them out over the ringing in her ears. The bull jackknifed and then turned in a circle. Tory’s thighs screamed, but she kept chanting
a few more seconds, a few more seconds
. Finally her grip slackened, and she went flying. The breath whooshed out of her lungs when she hit the mat. She lay there for a second, stunned.

She’d done it, and while it felt like she’d only stayed on for a blink of an eye, she knew it had been several seconds. The noise in the bar was deafening as she used her hand to lever herself up. Determined not to weave like everyone had, she took it slow and walked to the gate.

Rye was gaping at her.

Clayton held out the stopwatch. “Seven seconds! Jesus, Tory. You won!”

She’d won? She couldn’t remember ever winning anything! She was looking around for Lola to give the woman a smirk when she realized what winning meant.

Oh no.

A kiss from Rye Crenshaw. Her boss.

Rye grabbed the stopwatch from Clayton’s hand. “You’re kidding me?”

Yeah, he was probably thinking the same thing. Kissing her? It was totally off limits. He’d said so himself that night in Diner Heaven.

Clayton slapped his white hat against his thigh. “Says right there. It’s a record. Maybe it’s because she’s such a little thing. We’ve got a winner,” he called out more loudly, pointing at her.

Protests started to pour in from the Cleavage Covey.

Tory gave them all a cheeky grin and a mock bow and then decided to hustle out of there. If she left, he wouldn’t have to kiss her. Be better all ‘round.

“Hey, sweetheart, you come back here.” Clayton swung her around before she made it two steps. “You’re the winner. That means you get the prize.”

Her gaze flew to Rye. He stood against the bull pen, kicking at the black mats surrounding the beast. Yeah, he didn’t want to do this anymore than she did.