Loving Dallas (5 page)

9 | Dallas

T
HE WAY
I
SEE
IT,
I
HAVE TWO OPTIONS.

Freeze Robyn out the way I’ve tried to do since she dumped my ass three years ago, or man up and accept the fact that I’m glad to see her on this tour.

Sitting alone in a diner wondering if she’ll show, I decide to quit being a pussy and let go of the anger and confusion I’ve held on to for so long. She ended things for one reason or another, reasons I may never know, and I have to shove my macho bullshit aside and deal with that like an adult.

I drum my fingers on the table impatiently while I wait.

“
Patience, Dallas,
” my granddad used to say when he was first teaching me to play the guitar. I’d get so damn frustrated when my fingers wouldn’t cooperate. “
The music isn’t going anywhere,
” he’d remind me. “
Be patient with it, with yourself.
”

I’ve just made up my mind to relax and let her know that I’ve put our past behind me when she breezes into the diner. A bell chimes at the door and all the progress I’ve made vanishes like a figment of my imagination.

Robyn Breeland is the kind of woman who steals your breath away just by entering a room and gifting you with a smile.

I shouldn’t be surprised—she’s pretty much always had this heart-stopping effect on me. But I thought the high from tonight’s show might curtail my reaction to her a bit.

It didn’t.

“Hey,” I say, standing to greet her. “You made it.”

“You know me,” she says with a shrug. “Can’t resist pancakes.”

I fake a wounded look. “And here I was telling myself you might’ve come for the company.”

I add “come” to my mental list of words not to say around Robyn, for my dick’s sake. He has some cherished memories of her that are fairly easy to evoke.

Robyn blushes as if she might be thinking something along the same lines.

“It’s good to see you, Dallas.” She says it like she means it and I grin like a lovesick jackass when she barely lets me give her a one-armed hug before we slide into the booth. “And I caught part of your show tonight. The crowd seemed really into ‘Better to Burn.’ I read that it’s been getting some radio play, which is great, right?”

I nod at an approaching waitress and avoid Robyn’s eyes. If I look directly at her, she’ll see the truth burning in them. She always could see right through me.

“Yeah, Dixie wrote that one. It’s doing well.”

Thankfully before Robyn can inquire any further into my songwriting, a waitress comes over to take our order.

“What’ll it be, kids?” Our waitress’s name is Kay and she has pens stuck in her hair, her shirt pocket, and her apron. Maybe if I kept pens handy like that I’d actually get a decent lyric or two written.

“The blueberry oatmeal pancakes and an orange juice, please,” Robyn answers after barely glancing at the menu.

“I’ll have the double bacon cheeseburger with loaded cheese fries and a large Coke.”

“Holy cardiac arrest on a plate.” Robyn reaches for the waitress before she turns away. “He was just kidding. He’ll have the black and blue steak salad with the dressing on the side and a Diet Coke.”

My mouth drops open and I am literally at a loss for words. Kay looks to me for confirmation. I shrug because what else can I do? Throw a tantrum and demand my fucking cheeseburger? That seems like a good way to make Robyn regret meeting me here.

Once Kay has corrected my order on her notepad and walked away, I make a face at Robyn. “Well, that was . . . emasculating. Thank you.”

She bites her lower lip and creases appear in her smooth forehead. “Are you trying to kick the bucket before thirty or what? Your grandfather just had a fatal heart attack, which probably means heart disease runs in your family. So maybe you should, I don’t know, have something other than a cow topped with a pig dipped in grease for dinner.”

“Well, when you put it that way, sure, Robyn. A salad sounds super filling. Can’t wait.”

She grins and a dimple I used to have a habit of kissing every time I saw her pops out in her left cheek. “It will be. Get a glass of water, too. Drink the entire glass before your meal arrives and you’ll be full in no time without all that trans fat clogging your arteries. And if that doesn’t work, I might even let you have one of my pancakes.”

“Since when are you so health conscious? God, you’d freak out if you saw the way we eat on the road. Half my meals have come from places with wheels and a walk-up window.”

She cringes. “I wondered about that. Not that you look bad or anything, just, um, I don’t know . . . tired, maybe.”

I arch an eyebrow at her. “I look tired? Did I look tired onstage?”

She shakes her head. “No. You looked great onstage. I mean, you know, like you’re supposed to look.” She blushes again and all sorts of images run through my mind. I want to tell her she looks great. And that she’d look even more great naked in my bed. But that would not be appropriate. At all.

“Well, thank you. I think.”

Robyn lets out a loud breath. “I just meant that when I walked in here I noticed you had dark circles under your eyes and you obviously haven’t shaved in a while. I know you’ve been on the road even before this tour and I wondered if you were taking care of yourself. That’s all.”

“Ah.” I nod and contemplate the many hints she’s thrown at me. “How did you know I’d been on the road before this? Dixie tell you?”

“Uh, no. Not exactly.” The rose-colored hue deepens on her creamy cheeks and I ache to see it on other parts of her body. When Robyn blushes, she blushes all over. “I had to do research for my job, because of the sponsorship. It was on your website and social media stuff. Plus I’m an All Grown Up fan and I saw that you were touring with them. I just didn’t make the connection and realize you were going by Dallas
Walker
now until the new Kickin’ Up Crazy tour promo materials showed up at my office.”

“If you ask me to get Afton Tate’s autograph for you, I’m going to be seriously offended.”

The tension that’s been holding Robyn rigid finally eases and I grin.

“Well . . . Christmas
is
just a few months away, so if you wanted to get me something, that’d be an excellent gift.”

I let out a low chuckle. “I’ll see what I can do. But if you keep hijacking my food orders, I’m going to reconsider giving you anything at all.”

“I might survive,” she says without cracking a smile. “And if you let me order for you more often, you might, too.”

I
can’t stop watching her eat. The way she cuts her pancakes into cute little squares and slides them around in circles in the syrup before bringing her fork to her full pouty red lips is like foreplay I can’t get enough of. She’s letting out these tiny little moans with each bite and I’m rock hard beneath the table.

She’s obviously trying to kill me.

Except, she doesn’t even seem to notice the effect her carnal seduction is having on me.

“You have to try these,” she says, her bright eyes shining with excitement. “Seriously.”

My steak salad thing wasn’t terrible, which was surprising. But I am still hungry. Fucking starved, actually. But not for food.

“Sure. I basically had grass for dinner, so why not add some oats to it,” I say, teasing her just a little because I know she can take it. “Maybe I’ll sprout bunny ears and a fucking tail.”

“Here. Open up,” she commands, aiming a forkful of pancake squares dripping with syrup my way.

I do as I’m told and she presses forward into my mouth.

If any other woman on the planet ordered for me and then hand-fed me over the table in a public place, I would bail out before she could blink twice. But this is Robyn . . . and Robyn is . . . special to me. So I guess part of the special privileges package includes allowing her to do whatever she wants to me. And I have been a spectacular asshole version of myself the last few times I’ve seen her, so I owe her this much.

“So? Good, right? And they’re gluten-free.” Her face is lit up with excitement as she waits for my response, but I’m too focused on her to really pay attention to what was in my mouth. My train of thought has derailed into a dirty part of town and all I want in my mouth is her.

“Not bad,” I tell her as I swallow. “I have no clue what gluten is and they’re not as good as Nana’s were, but they aren’t completely disgusting.”

“True,” she says, nodding in agreement. “But no one could top Nana. They’d be crazy to even try.”

The mention of Nana prompts Robyn to offer her condolences again about my grandfather passing and we reminisce for a few minutes about meals we’d shared when she’d come over, before I can’t keep quiet anymore.

“So . . . you and Wade. There something going on there I should know about?” He mentioned her a few times after the show and I saw them during the meet-and-greets. The way he watched her like he was stalking prey put my blood pressure at a seriously nuclear level.

Other than the shit in my head, there’s no segue that leads me to blurt this out and I can plainly see the surprise on her face at my invasive inquiry.

Her eyes narrow as the surprise turns to anger.

“That
you
need to know about?” She lowers her fork and leans back in her seat. “Tell me, why exactly would
you
need to know if there was anything going on with me and Jase Wade?”

I know one thing. I fucking hate the way his name sounds in her mouth.

“Well,” I begin, sitting up straighter and clearing my throat. “For one, I’m on tour with him. And for two, I—”

“Mom! Oh my God! Mom, look! That’s him! That’s Dallas Walker!”

Hearing my name—well, part of it at least—I turn to see a group of girls who appear to be around twelve assaulting their moms with the announcement. A few of them have their cell phones out and are already heading this way.

Robyn looks as if she just remembered there were other people on the planet with us.

“Can I have your autograph?” A blue-eyed blonde with a pink-streaked side braid hands me her iPad mini in a Hello Kitty case and a stylus. My how times are changing. So much for napkins and Bics.

“Of course you can, darlin’. What’s your name, pretty girl?”

“Rebecca,” she says, smiling at me with bright pink braces. Girl likes pink apparently. “I play guitar, too.”

“Do you now? That’s awesome. I—”

“I am so sorry, Mr. Walker,” a woman interrupts as I’m signing Rebecca’s tablet. “We were just at the concert and the girls convinced us to stop in for cheese fries. I told them to leave you be, but they—”

“It’s fine. Really.” I hand Rebecca’s tablet back and a few others hand their items over to be signed. “I’ve always wanted to meet my prettiest fans. And here they are.” I wink at the group and giggles fill the diner.

Five concert tickets, two iPad minis, and a Rosa’s Diner menu later, I’ve signed and smiled and had my picture taken to their hearts’ content. The two moms thanked me profusely. One of them slipped me her number.

“Looks like you have that effect on women of all ages,” Robyn mutters under her breath. “Well, most of them.” She nods to a girl lagging behind the group.

She seemed shy, more reserved than the others, and she didn’t hand me anything to sign. Her dark curly hair in a low ponytail reminds me so much of Dixie, of how she had to wear my hand-me-downs, of how withdrawn she was after mom and dad died, and how I swore to myself that somehow, one day, I would make it better, that it’s almost painful to look at her.

“Can I sign something for you, sweetheart?” I ask her once the other girls have followed the two women with them toward the door.

She regards me warily, like I might bite. Then she shrugs, clearly not as impressed with me as the rest of the group was.

“Actually I’m more of a Jase Wade fan. But thanks. Great show tonight.” With that, she turns and leaves and I gape at Robyn. Who immediately bursts out in hysterical laughter.

“She just . . . totally . . . put . . . in your place,” she barely chokes out.

“Nice. Sheesh. And here I was finally feeling better about not writing and Dixie junior goes and puts me down.”

Robyn sobers almost instantly. “You haven’t been writing? But what about the songs you sang tonight?”

I cringe. I hadn’t meant to throw myself a pity party.

I grab a salt shaker and spin it back and forth between my hands. “Egh. Some of it was old stuff. I threw in a few covers, and Dixie wrote ‘Better to Burn.’ ”

“So . . . how long has it been since you’ve actually written anything?” The concern in her voice matches the way her eyes are watching me.

I focus on my salt shaker.

“A while. Six months maybe. More since I’ve actually written a full song. The band was working on one. Leaving Amarillo, I mean.” I hate that I have to clarify because I have a new band now. Feels like infidelity somehow. “But we never got the chance to finish it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She uses the same tone she used to say she was sorry about Papa’s passing. I finally look into her eyes and see the genuine sympathy in them.

Robyn cares about me. I know this. I’ve always known this. I care about her, too, I do. As much as the only other women I’ve ever cared about, which is a short list limited to my mom, Nana, and little sister. But my life isn’t going to be the kind that allows for a wife and two kids and a picket fence, and she deserves that. So it’s time I got to the point, told her we’re cool and I’m going to put my big-boy pants on and call it a night, despite my dick’s dire protest.

“You don’t want to talk about it, I’m guessing.”

“No. I don’t. I actually asked you here because I wanted to let you know I’m going to do my best impression of a grown-up while we’re on this tour together. We both have jobs to do so let’s just do them.” Something akin to pain flashes in her eyes and I hate that my self-loathing bullshit is messing up our time together. I know that it’s almost over and I don’t want to end on a pissed-off note. “Sorry. It’s just that the writing—or lack thereof—is kind of a hot button issue right now. Mandy’s all over me about it, the label wants a single that can drop alongside the tour, and the goal is to launch an album immediately after so that I can headline my own tour.”