Love, Me (10 page)

After Burt left with the shirt, he shrugged out of his jacket, getting ready to go home. Home, Dakota thought gloomily, where only Pokey waited for him.

He decided he needed another drink.

Melinda Jackson entered as he was pouring a glass of Scotch.

“Don't you think you've had enough?”

“Are you talking to me?” Dakota asked. He downed the contents of the glass, then looked at her belligerently, clearly spoiling for a fight.

She walked toward him in a cloud of flowery perfume, but her eyes were bright and angry.

“Why are you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself?” she said acidly. If he wanted a fight she was ready, had been ready ever since finding Chelsea Stone ensconced in Dakota's home—the home she'd decided would be hers.

Her cotton-candy-pink nails began undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“I can get my own buttons. You don't need to take care of me, I'm perfectly sober,” he insisted, pushing her hands away.

“But you do need me, Dakota.” She splayed her hands on his golden-furred chest when he tossed his shirt aside.

“You're being stupid mooning like a schoolboy over trash like Chelsea Stone. Can't you see that she's making a fool of you?”

Melinda dared to press her lips to Dakota's, taking advantage of his lack of sobriety.

“Come on, Dakota, you know I'm right for you. I'll do anything for you,” she promised, boldly unzipping his pants.

She kissed him again, then began licking his ear as she whispered her trump card.

“Don't let Chelsea make a fool of you, Dakota. She's probably with Tucker Gable right now.”

Maybe Melinda was right, Dakota thought.

Maybe he should let Melinda seduce him as she seemed hell-bent on doing.

Maybe he'd be better off if he went back to thinking and feeling with his groin.

To hell with his heart. Damn thing was broken anyway, and likely to stay that way.

But then a picture of Chelsea and Tucker
together
flashed into his mind and jealousy propelled him out of his languid acceptance of Melinda's seduction.

He set Melinda aside, and reached for his Stetson and the bottle of Scotch.

“Where are you going?” she sputtered. “You're going to her, aren't you?”

He didn't answer.

“Why are you going to her? I'm the one who's good for you. She doesn't love you.”

“But I love her. I'm foolishly and hopelessly in love with Chelsea Stone. There. I've said it.”

“Damn you.”

“You're probably right. I am damned.” He handed her the bottle of Scotch, turned and left.

He strolled down Music Row searching for an open restaurant. He needed coffee to clear his head. He came to one that was open twenty-four hours a day, shoved his Stetson low on his head and remembered in the nick of time to zip his fly before going inside.

He was in luck. The restaurant wasn't busy. It was easy for him to stake out a table far enough away from any of the other customers that he wouldn't be noticed.

The waitress who came up to him was young, efficient and recognized him. She quickly sensed that he wanted to remain anonymous.

He nodded his appreciation when she returned with a decanter of hot coffee.

He read her name tag, Lilybet, before she left to take a check to a pair of lovebirds who were in dire need of a motel room, if they didn't want to be arrested for indecent exposure.

He drank a cup of black coffee and watched Lilybet dispatch the couple without having to toss a pitcher of cold water on them.

Lilybet was a blond amazon, quite the opposite of the willowy brunette haunting his mind—Chelsea Stone, the woman with a heart of stone… He reached for a napkin and signaled the waitress.

He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. “I'll give you this for your pencil,” he offered, sliding the money across the table.

“Sure,” she agreed. She pulled the pencil from behind her ear, handed it over, and picked up the money. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He didn't hear her. His head was bent in concentration as he scribbled madly on the napkin, afraid he wouldn't be able to jot down the fragments of lyric spinning around in his head before he lost them.

When he was done, he didn't have a song, but he was closer to one than he had been in a long while.

He slid another twenty from his wallet and motioned the waitress to come back.

“You a singer, Lilybet?”

She nodded.

“How long have you been in Nashville?”

“Two years,” she answered, a little apologetic that she'd never considered leaving when she hadn't found early success.

He could have told her it was the artists who never gave up that were the ones who succeeded—some sooner than others, but most, eventually.

Quitting was the easy way out.

Dakota pulled a business card from his wallet and used her pencil to write a personal message on the back of the card. He laid the card down on top of the twenty.

“Keep the change, Lilybet, and call the man whose name I wrote down for you on the back of the card. He scouts talent for my record company. Tell him I said to give you an audition.”

“Mr. Law!” Lilybet's hand went to her mouth to cover her happy surprise. “I don't know how to thank you.”

“Don't be thanking me yet. My record company's not that thrilled with me right now because my new album's a little late. But that won't stop them from giving you a listen. Especially when you pass on a message from me.”

“A message?”

“Just tell him I think I have the final song for the album,” he said, picking up the napkin he'd scribbled on and tucking it in his pocket.

“I'll do that. And I was wondering, would you autograph the back of this tab for me?”

He did just that, and wished her good luck as he left.

His head was clear, but he hadn't changed his mind about going to the Opryland Hotel to see Chelsea. He was going to tell her that he loved her.

Not because he wanted to.

Not because he thought it was a particularly good idea.

And not because he wanted to prove anything to her.

But because he couldn't
not
tell her.

When he arrived at the Opryland Hotel he'd practiced twenty-three ways to tell her. All of them escaped him as he walked across the patterned green carpet in the foyer, past the marble-topped tables and plush furniture.

His eyes were fastened on the big winding staircase and giant chandelier in the hotel lobby. They reminded him of Chelsea's exit from his home. It had certainly been dramatic. Despite his mood, the corner of his mouth twitched. He didn't think he'd ever be able to look at a chandelier again and not see a red lace teddy hanging from it in his mind's eye.

He took a deep breath and headed for the registration desk. He had to find Chelsea now before he lost his nerve; before he could make rationalizations for why he should avoid the possibility of rejection.

He knew that this time, he was putting all his chips on the table. If he lost, he wasn't sure it was a loss he'd ever recover from.

“Are you sure?” he asked when the desk clerk told him Chelsea had gone.

“Yes, sir. She and the gentleman checked out this evening.”

“Where did they go? Did she say where they were going?”

“I don't know. They took the hotel shuttle to the airport, I believe.”

Dakota turned away from the desk.

He hadn't expected it; had been completely unprepared to find her gone. He walked past the hotel shops to the conservatory, then wandered the paths aimlessly, looking up at the wrought-iron balconies and bay windows of the luxury suites.

He imagined Chelsea standing on one of the balconies. He would have climbed that balcony, been ready to play Romeo to her Juliet. He had been prepared to risk everything for true love, but there was no true love to woo.

She'd made her choice and left with Tucker.

There was nothing for him to do but go home. The ride back was the longest one of his life. It didn't help that it was filled with memories of the times Chelsea had made the drive with him.

When he arrived home at last, he was as blue as he'd ever been. Loneliness had a new name—Chelsea Stone. And it didn't escape him that the word that rhymed best with
Stone
was…
alone.

He called Pokey but she didn't come. He found her curled up on the bed in the room Chelsea had used.

The dog looked up at him with sad brown eyes.

Dakota flopped down on the bed beside her. “Yeah, I miss her, too,” he said.

“L
OOKS LIKE YOU'VE
got a sell-out crowd here for the Flood-Aid concert,” the interviewer from The Nashville Network said, as he wrapped up the pre-concert interview with Chelsea and Tucker. TNN had been heavily promoting the benefit on the Crook and Chase show, “American Music Shop” and “Nashville Now.”

Tucker shook the interviewer's hand. “Appreciate your support, man. Hope you enjoy the concert. We rounded up a lotta country artists, but there's gonna be a little bit of rock and roll, too.”

“Does that mean Chelsea Stone is going to join you onstage?” the interviewer asked, looking to her for a reply.

“She has to help hold me up, don't you, babe?” Tucker hobbled over to her on his walking cast and laid his arm across her shoulders.

Chelsea's smile was forced.

“What will you be singing? Rumor has it you're crossing over to country, Chelsea. Are you planning to debut some country material tonight?”

“I think the crowd wants to hear my hits,” Chelsea said, evading the question.

“I know I do,” the interviewer agreed, letting her off the hook.

“Well, it's time to get the show on the road,” Tucker said, giving the interviewer his cue that it was time to cut the tape.

“Ready?” Tucker asked, turning to Chelsea.

“Why don't you go on first with your band. I need to powder my nose, touch up my lipstick, and maybe toss my cookies,” she said with a weak grin.

“Are you all right?” Tucker looked at her closely.

“I'm fine. I'm fine,” she assured him. “Go melt some hearts.”

“Promise you'll prop me up, if I fall over?” he coaxed, bussing her nose with a kiss. “I feel like a turtle on its back when I try to get up with this damn cast on.”

“It's good for you. It'll teach you patience.”

Tucker laughed. “Yeah. I'm likely to learn patience like you're likely to learn patience. We're the poster couple for instant gratification.”

The packed Busch Memorial Stadium sounded like the St. Louis Cardinals were playing a World Series game when Clint Black strolled onstage and motioned for Tucker to join him.

Clint tested the microphones and then Tucker stood beside him and. the screaming intensified. When they got the crowd settled down, Tucker took over the mike.

“Before we start the concert, I want to thank everyone in the music business who contributed to this effort to help the flood victims recover from the disaster. We picked St. Louis because it's where the Missouri River and the Mississippi merge, and flooded their banks, wreaking havoc on this community. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, rock and country are gonna merge, and while we might wreak a little havoc, we're gonna do a lot of good.

“The music will start in a few minutes. But first Clint and I are going to show you the things that were contributed by the celebrities here tonight for a silent auction. The place to send your bids will be flashed on the electronic scoreboard.”

The music stars had contributed everything from an autographed saddle to an electric guitar. When the items for auction ran out, Tucker said, “Now I'm gonna let Clint here ease us into the night with his first hit single, ‘Better Man.' “ He left the stage and Clint's soulful voice sliced into the clear St. Louis night.

Tucker stood on the sidelines talking to Clint's actress wife, Lisa Hartman, trying to coax her into singing with her husband later. Clint gave Tucker the evil eye, then smiled.

Clint moved on to do another of his hits, “Put Yourself in My Shoes,” and then Bruce Springsteen took the stage with his hard-rocking band, which set the format of alternating country and rock.

Reba McEntire managed a spangled costume change between her two songs, Lyle Lovett brought along his Pretty Woman and sang to her while every nonhunk in the audience cheered, and the new band Bella Donna, wearing enough silver jewelry to plate a Buick, looked like a walking advertisement for Chrome Heart.

It was finally time for Tucker and Chelsea.

They took the stage and turned up the heat.

When they finished their first number, Tucker leaned into the mike, stretched out his leg with the cast and yelled to the crowd of fifty thousand that it was time to “kick some ass.”

The crowd cheered as he and Chelsea did a medley of Motown hits with a rendition of Marvin Gaye's “Sexual Healing” that was hotter than a firecracker on the Fourth of July.

Chelsea moved like a cat in her skintight black catsuit and bangled neon-blue bolero top.

The audience cheered and stamped their feet until it felt like the New Madrid fault had triggered a trembler.

It was a hard act to follow.

Clint Black took the stage, then, to announce the last performance of the evening.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a surprise performer—Dakota Law.”

Chelsea stood on the sidelines with Tucker watching as Dakota took the stage and waited for the wild applause to die down.

“Why didn't you tell me he was going to be here?” she demanded.

“If I had, it wouldn't have been a surprise, now would it?”

“You should have told me.”

Tucker wrapped his arm around her and pulled her to his side. “Oh now, don't pout, babe. You can't be having your way all the time. People would say I was a wuss, and we can't have that. I've got my bad reputation to uphold, just like you.”

Chelsea socked his arm.

“Quit that,” he grumbled as Dakota cleared his throat and began speaking into the mike.

“I think we should all give Tucker Gable a round of applause for getting this benefit together. As you know, the proceeds from tonight will go to aid the flood victims.”

Tucker waved away the spotlight when it searched him out, and waved to acknowledge the crowd's cheers.

“And now,” Dakota said, taking the mike off the stand, “now I'd like to perform the new single from my album, which will be released next month. It's called Heart of Stone.'”

“I thought you said he was still blocked,” Tucker whispered.

Chelsea didn't say a word, just stood with her gaze fixed on Dakota as he began a torch song that packed a powerhouse wallop. It was unabashedly romantic.

Chelsea was not amused.

It didn't take half a brain to figure out “Heart of Stone” was about Chelsea Stone. She could feel everyone's gaze shift from Dakota to her.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Tucker declared beside her.

“Shut up, Cheesebrain.”

Dakota held the crowd in the palm of his hand as he finished up the nakedly emotional song.

“Is that a tear? I think that's a tear,” Tucker said as Dakota sang the closing verse.

“Tucker, shut up,” Chelsea said through clenched teeth.

The audience was silent when Dakota finished his song. Clearly, the achingly personal lyrics of heartbreak had touched everyone.

And then the audience's applause swelled to a crescendo as Dakota left the stage—applause that continued as the crowd demanded an encore.

Wynonna picked up on the fact that Dakota was in no shape to go back out onstage alone. She grabbed his hand and nodded to Clint and his wife to join them. The other performers followed suit until the stage was filled with everyone singing “God Bless America.”

After the applause died down, the performers milled about onstage, talking and hugging, while the crowd began to file out of the stadium.

Dakota disentangled himself and headed in Chelsea's direction.

When she saw him, she quickly averted her glance. “Come on, Tucker, let's blow this Popsicle stand,” she said, tugging his arm.

Dakota called out her name.

She pretended not to hear. Everyone turned to look—not at him but at Chelsea. Undaunted, he headed after her.

He called her name again, louder this time. More insistently.

Now people weren't just looking, they were staring.

“Chelsea, answer the man,” Tucker coaxed. “Behave yourself, for once.”

She turned reluctantly to acknowledge Dakota before he called any more attention to them.

“Helluva song, man,” Tucker said, slapping Dakota on the back when he reached them. “I've got to wind things up with Clint. Catch you later.”

Chelsea and Dakota stood alone, looking at each other.

Finally she broke the silence between them. “The answer is no.”

“I haven't said what I wanted,” Dakota said, his voice husky.

“I'll tell you what, I'll agree to talk to you on one condition—you agree that after I listen to what you have to say and then tell you no, you'll go.”

‘How do you know you'll say no?” he drawled.

“Easy. Only a fool would say yes to a man like you. And I'm no longer a fool, Dakota Law.”

He tipped his white Stetson with his forefinger and looked at her, his blue eyes fathomless.

“Are we agreed?” she prompted.

He grumbled his reply.

“I take it eat dirt and die is a no?”

He turned to disappear into the crowd.

“Not so fast, cowboy.”

He stopped in his tracks and looked back over his shoulder at her, waiting.

“You still owe me a song.”

“Do I?”

“You're over your writer's block.”

“Am I?”

“That song was about me. You didn't know me six months ago. It's a new song.”

“I just finished it last night.”

“I thought you said it was going to be on your new album.”

“It is, I just haven't recorded it yet.”

“Good. You can give it to me.”

“On one condition…” He turned to face her. “We sing the song together on my album.”

“A duet?”

He nodded.

“I
NEVER THOUGHT
you'd agree to do this, Chelsea,” Dakota said, as the private plane he'd chartered lifted off the runway on the return flight from St. Louis to Nashville.

“And I never thought you'd mention my name again, much less sing it in front of fifty thousand people,” Chelsea said. “You really put yourself on the line tonight. Why did you do it?”

“Why did you agree to come with me tonight and record the duet with me? Was it just a career move, or something more?” he asked, taking her hand.

He felt her hand grip his as they hit an air pocket and the plane dropped for a second or two before adjusting itself.

She smiled weakly. “I guess you might as well know about one of my shameful secrets. Much as I hate to admit it, I'm a white-knuckle flyer.”

He grinned at her. “Now that's a surprise. The wrestler's grip you have on my hand didn't give you away at all. Does this mean if we run into a little turbulence, I can expect to find you in my lap?” he asked hopefully.

She ignored his questions as the plane settled into a smooth ride in the starlit darkness. She relaxed her grip, but he continued to hold her hand possessively.

“You didn't answer my question,” he said, returning to their earlier conversation.

“You won't find me in your lap,” she said, evasive and exasperating as hell.

He was in too much pain to keep up their usual guarded banter. “That's not what I meant, and you know it. Did you come with me tonight because it would be a good career move, Chelsea?”

“I came because I always do what's good for me,” Chelsea replied, not willing to give away any more than he was. “I've had to take care of myself from a very early age. I think your idea of doing the song as a duet is a great marketing angle that will work for both of us.”

“So you came because of your career. You came because what you want from me is what you said you wanted all along—a song.”

She didn't answer him.

He was quiet for a few minutes, then reached for his briefcase. He opened it and withdrew some sheet music. “In that case, maybe we should practice it now so we'll be ready in the morning when we go into the studio to record it. The musicians have already laid down the track. I've booked two three-hour sessions, just in case we need a backup. But with any luck we can get it done in one and you can be home with Tucker by tomorrow night.”

“Tucker's going back out on tour tomorrow. He might even get his cast off. Except, knowing him, he'll ask for a new one because he's enjoying all the attention it gets him.”

“Well, you'll need to be home anyway, in that case,” Dakota said glumly.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, to be there to sign for all the cards, flowers and lingerie Tucker showers you with. Guess any man would find Tucker Gable a hard act to follow. No wonder he has your heart sewn up.”

“Is that what you think? You think Tucker and I are lovers because of our stage act? Do you think mystery writers go out and kill people because they write about it? Do you think every actor and actress who do a love scene together also do it for real? Come on, Dakota, you can't possibly be that unsophisticated.”

“You've never denied it. The press has rumored the two of you were lovers from the start. I only know what I see when the two of you are onstage burning it up together.”

“And what do you see?” she asked, very quietly.

“I see red. I see you with Tucker and I want it to be me. I'm jealous. I'm out of my mind with jealousy over Tucker Gable. There, I've said it.” He looked away from her and stared out the plane window, his mood as dark as the night.

“It could be you, Dakota,” she whispered.

“What?” He turned to look at her, half afraid he was hearing things.

“I said, it could be you. Tucker and I are not lovers, Dakota. I love Tucker, but I'm not in love with him.”

“But…but does he know? He signs all the things he sends you, ‘Love, Me.' I thought—”

“You should have asked me instead of just assuming the worst. Assuming I was the kind of woman who would lead on two men. That hurts, Dakota. Tucker and I are like family. We practically raised each other. We care deeply about each other, and we both appreciate each other's sexuality. But we aren't lovers. Neither of us is willing to risk losing the only family either of us has.”