The Sweet Side Of The Ropes: Enthralling Tales Of Male-Male Romance (6 page)

If Travis ever found out who leaked the news that he'd had a sudden hankering for spaghetti and meatballs, he'd beat the guy to a pulp, fire and then rehire the guy just so that he could have the pleasure of beating and firing him all over again.

All Travis wanted was a plate of Mamma Giovanni's homemade spaghetti and meatballs smothered with Romano cheese, and to eat it in relative peace and quiet. What he'd gotten was a media feeding frenzy and his face—mouth smeared with marina sauce, cheeks puffed out like a goddamn chipmunk—plastered on the front page of the tabloids in the morning.

And Bernie, Travis’ manager, on the telephone, screaming his head off about it.

"Travis! What the hell were you thinking? Are you trying to kill me? Is that it? Oy! It would be kinder to just mix arsenic with my ulcer medication. Did you see the papers this morning? Did you?"

Bernie's voice wasn't easy on the ears on his best day. When he was angry, as he was now, it was positively
shrill
. Travis closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and let Bernie rant. Eventually, he'd run out of steam—he always did.

"Haven't I told you—
begged
you—to give me the heads up before you make a personal appearance? Did you see the photo on the front page of
Entertainment Now
?"

Of course Travis had seen it, although he wouldn't add fuel to Bernie's fire by telling him so.
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"Do you have any idea of what could happen to you if people spotted you on the street without a bodyguard? They'd rip you to pieces, Travis. Is that what you want? To be sent back to Hog Holler in a box? Hell, make that a
baggie
, because there wouldn't be enough left of you to
fill
a box."

Travis sighed. “I'm from Shelby, Tennessee, Bernie, not—"

"Wher
ever
—you're missing the point, Travis! Wasn't it bad enough when they started that rumor about you being you-know-what when you were spotted near the Tiger's Club? I still have a headache from trying to deal with that picture of you dancing with that underwear model, whatever his name was, that popped up on YouTube."

"I've already apologized for that, Bernie, and his name was Joshua. What do you expect me to do, anyway? I
am
gay, you know."

"Not to the millions of hormone factories who buy your music and posters, you're not! And what have I told you about using the “G” word? Do you
want
the Moral Majority to boycott your albums?"

"Bernie—"

"Don't get me started again, Travis. This fame you're sitting on is like a house of cards. One ill-blown breeze and it's going to come crashing down around your ears. It's not just
you
anymore, kid. Think about all the people who work for you who'd be out of a job if you crash and burn. Think about
me
, for chrissakes! My alimony isn't going to pay itself, you know."

"I understand, Bernie. I'm sorry. I only wanted a nice, quiet dinner out, no press, no fans, no spotlight..."

"That's impossible, and you know it. Look, Travis, you wanted to be famous, right? Wanted your songs on the radio and your CDs on the shelves, and a nice, thick bank account? Well, you got your dream. But I told you when I first signed you that it was going to come at a price. Every time you fart it makes the evening news, Travis. You have to be careful!"

"I'm tired of being careful! I'm closing in on thirty years old! I want a life, Bernie!” Both Travis’ voice and temper rose as he paced back and forth across the living room floor.

"You
have
a life, and it's a goddamn good one! People would
kill
for your life! You're fucking Travis Steel! You can't just up and decide to go out like normal people!"

Normal
. Travis didn't think he knew what
normal
was, anymore. He used to know. Back when he was a skinny kid from the hills of Tennessee, long on dreams and short on cash, singing at every two-bit local bar that would have him. Back when Sunday dinners were covered dish potlucks, eaten after services in the field behind the church. Where a man wore jeans because they were sturdy and stood up under a hard day's work, and not because they had some hot-shot designer's name stitched on the rear end.

But Travis had wanted more for himself than a life spent carving coal out of a mountain, or digging in the dirt. He'd wanted fame and fortune, a big house, lots of shiny new toys.

Be careful what you wish for,
his mother's voice whispered in his head.
You might just get it.

"Travis? Travis! Are you listening to me?” Bernie's voice crackled over the phone.

"Yeah, Bernie. I hear you. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Bernie sighed dramatically. “Okay. I'll see what I can do about damage control. Just keep your head down from now on, will you? No more surprise appearances. You want Italian? Send for take-out and for God's sake, let one of the staff answer the door when it gets there!"

Click
.

Travis flipped his phone closed and tucked it into his back pocket. He flopped onto the butter-soft, white leather sofa in the living room of his sprawling home in the hills of Beverly, letting his head fall back, staring at the vaulted ceiling.

It was times like this when he wanted to go home. When, more than anything, he wanted to be good ol’ Travis McGentry again, the nobody with empty pockets and a secondhand guitar; back when he could walk down the streets of Nashville without anyone batting an eye.

Now he was Travis Steel, the bestselling country singer on the planet. His face was plastered on album covers, posters, calendars, mugs, t-shirts, on television—he'd even done a bit part in that action flick,
Warmonger
. Hell, he had his own action figure that came with a guitar and karate-chop action, and his own line of cologne.

Travis seriously doubted that there was a soul in the U.S., Canada, the larger part of Europe, and most of Japan who wouldn't recognize him on sight. Bernie was right. He couldn't expect to go anywhere without causing a scene simply by showing up.

He had millions of fans across the globe, and yet there he sat, all alone.

Maybe he should get a dog.

No, Travis frowned, correcting himself. Maybe he should get a
life
.

There was one place he could go where people would welcome him without fawning over him, where the only camera in sight would be an ancient Polaroid that sat on a shelf in the hall closet covered in a thick layer of dust.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open and pushed three on speed dial.

"Hey, Mama. It's me. I'm comin’ home."

"Bernie, I know, and I'm sorry. But I need this, Bernie. I need to go home for a while. It's too late, Bernie. I'm already in Tennessee. We just landed. I'm going to rent a truck and drive to my folk's place, and then on up to my daddy's cabin. Bernie ... Bernie, you'd best take one your stomach pills. I ain't coming back for a while, a month maybe. Bernie ... Bernie, I'm hanging up now. You take care. I'll call you when I get back in town. Bye, Bernie."

Travis hit “end” and looked at the phone, then tossed it into the first trash receptacle he passed. No more phone calls. No more headaches. No more demands. For the first time in years, Travis felt free.

He was wearing his oldest pair of jeans, plain old Levis, worn thin and shredded at the knees, and a red flannel shirt over a white tee. He'd dyed his trademark wheat-blond hair black, and had a ball cap pulled down low over his forehead. Aviator sunglasses and scuffed brown work boots completed his disguise.

Walking through the terminal toward Baggage, he kept his head down, making eye contact with no one. No use in tempting fate—so far, he hadn't been recognized and he wanted to keep it that way. Once he got home, it would be different. There he was still just Travis McGentry, Buck and Emmaline's oldest boy. He was Shelby born and bred, and in Shelby, that was all that mattered.

His bag came around on the carousel. It was a dull army green duffle that he'd bought as soon as he'd decided to go home and realized that his
Louis Vuitton
luggage would only attract unwanted attention to him. He grabbed it, slung the strap over his shoulder and headed for the car rental.

"Travis? Holy shit, is that you? What in the hell did you do to yourself?"

Travis’ head snapped toward the tall, lanky man who was leaning against the wall near the rental counter. The man's sandy hair was cropped close on the top and sides and long in back in an honest-to-Christ mullet, and his blue eyes twinkled in a face that time hadn't yet managed to reshape. Travis recognized him in an instant.

"Booger?"

The man laughed, free and easy. “Yeah, it's me. And here I was, worried that you might have forgotten me."

"Hell, no! What are you doing here?” Travis walked over with his hand extended. He found himself pulled into a bone-crunching hug that lifted him clear off his feet, instead.

"Your Daddy couldn't come—Alba's fixin’ to pop out a calf at any second. Your Ma asked me to come down and tote you back."

"Oh.” Travis cast a glance at the rental counter. “I was going to have Daddy rent a truck for me. Didn't want to do it myself because ... well, you know..."

"Boy, howdy! Your Ma drilled it into my head when she called me. Said nobody was to know you were here. Look, you don't have to rent a truck—you can use my old one while you're here. I bought a newer one last spring, a sweet Ford 250. She only had 75,000 miles and not a nick on her."

"Oh, man, that would be great. Thanks, Booger."

"Don't sweat it. Come on, now. If I don't get you home soon, your Ma's likely to be madder than a bee-stung dog. She'll get that big ol’ wooden spoon of hers and take it out on my hide."

Travis laughed, shifting the weight of his duffle from one shoulder to the other. Damn, it felt good to be home, talking to a friendly face who didn't give a rat's ass about when his next album was coming out or who was sleeping in his bed.

"So, you still riding stallions instead of mares?"

He stood corrected. “Booger! What kind of a question is that?"

"An honest one. You know how folk think in Shelby. Just a friendly warning to keep your head down, is all."

Travis felt his cheeks heat up, and ducked his head. “Understood. Look, Booger ... my folks don't know about—"

"Don't worry. I'm not going to say anything. Ain't my place to tell them."

"Thanks, Booger."

Booger led Travis to a dark blue Ford 250, splattered with mud, and sporting a gun rack mounted on the back window. Travis threw his duffle into the back and settled down in the front passenger seat for the long ride up into the mountains to Shelby.

Home was a large, split-log cabin built at the turn of the century by Travis’ great-grandfather. Not much had changed about the place in the years that followed, aside from the addition of a generator, a tiny bathroom, and running water. It had only been during the past two years that Travis had a few luxuries—a new, more powerful generator, a big screen TV, satellite dish, and a washer and dryer—installed, and he'd had to fight tooth and nail with his parents to do
that
much. Not that his parents were against progress—it was the money he'd spent that they worried about. They knew Travis was well-off, but they just couldn't comprehend exactly how
much
money Travis had made, and they'd hated the thought of him spending a single nickel on them that wasn't necessary.

Hell, he'd offered to move them out to Beverly Hills and set them up in a house with a maid and a gardener, and his daddy had nearly popped a blood vessel. Their protests came from a lifetime spent counting pennies and pinching them for all they were worth. To them, tomorrow was just a nickel away from starvation, and they wouldn't allow Travis to spend any of his “nest egg” on them. Eventually, Travis had won them over, but other than those few changes, the cabin stood as it had for the past hundred years.

Everyone was there: Ma, Daddy, Travis’ three younger sisters and four younger brothers, Aunt Alice, Ma's widowed sister, and Nana, Daddy's mother. It was a family gathering just like the ones Travis remembered—a loud and comfortable chaos.

Booger stayed for dinner, venison stew with fresh baked biscuits, followed by Ma's deep dish cherry cobbler.

Afterward, Travis sat back in his chair sipping at a cup of coffee, just enjoying being home.

Booger scraped the last of the cherry cobbler off his plate and looked at Travis. “So, Travis ... what's it like, being a big shot singer out in California?"

Travis shrugged. “I don't know ... busy, I guess. I spend a lot of time in the studio, recording, and I have to make all sorts of appearances. Bernie—he's my manager—says that you've got to keep your face in front of the cameras all the time, don't let anyone ever forget what you look like. Gets annoying, that's for sure. I like to sing and write songs, but I ain't much for yakking it up on those talk shows and whatnot."

"Yeah, but you get special treatment, right? Good tables in restaurants and such?"

Travis nodded. “There's that. You get to be on the sweet side of the velvet ropes, where everyone else wants to be."

"Sounds pretty fine to me,” Booger laughed, toasting Travis with his coffee mug. “So, why did you leave?"

"Yeah, well, it got to the point where I couldn't leave the house without getting mobbed. That's why I came home. I want to forget about the ropes and the fans and the hoopla for a while. Remember how to be me again.” Travis stood up and stretched, then kissed his mother and grandmother on their cheeks, shook his father's hand. “Where's that old truck of yours, Booger? I want to get up to the cabin before dark."

"It's already there. I figured you wouldn't be staying here since the bedrooms are full, so your daddy followed me up there and we parked it at the cabin. I'll drive you up."

Travis spent the first few minutes of the drive to the cabin watching the scenery rush by. Autumn in the mountains had always been his favorite season. The trees were ablaze with color, from deep purples to fiery oranges and reds to brilliant yellows, and there was a nip in the air that foretold of quiet winters deep with snow.