Three of Hearts (3 page)

I grew up in Grand Forks, North Dakota, a tomboy who played baseball and basketball, loved fishing and ATVing. I’d read the press about my lack of style. My voice has been described as raw and sexy, but on stage, my jeans and baggy shirts and boots were decidedly
un
sexy. Brandon had been working with me to try to glam up my image, and I hated it and all the memories it brought back from when I was a kid. I felt like a fraud in short, sparkly dresses, and at first I’d teetered dangerously around the stage on platform heels. But I did it for my bandmates Lucas and Ben because I loved them and we all wanted to succeed at this.

I stretched my legs out straight to admire the shoes. Damn. My legs did look pretty good, the shine on them making them appear way more feminine than I’d always thought they were with the muscles I had from playing baseball and basketball.

Brandon sat beside me. “Hey, Haylee. Great concert.”

“Thanks.”

He started going on about the crowd reaction, especially to “All of You” and one of our new songs, “Treasure.” I hadn’t said anything to him about Doug, and I guessed he didn’t know or didn’t care—and why would he? I mean, I knew he cared about us, but for him, this was all business.

I watched Lucas across the room, now talking to two girls—one with long, curly dark hair hanging down her back, the other with perfectly straight auburn hair, both slender and glamorous in tight jeans, stiletto heels, and skimpy tops. The groupies had made their move.

My gaze wandered around, searching for Ben, and found him in a similar situation, only with just one girl, a Heidi Klum look-alike. A guy had once told me I reminded him of Heidi Klum, and I’d laughed so hard I’d pulled a muscle. Ben was listening to Heidi talk, but when I followed his gaze across the room . . . he was watching Lucas. Huh.

As always, they were the center of female attention at any gathering, and I was sitting alone on the couch with Brandon, who was probably going to tell me that I needed to get my eyebrows waxed or collagen injections in my lips.

“I need another drink,” I stated when I could get a word in. I gave him a bright smile as I rose to my feet. “Will you excuse me?”

Of course he agreed, and I made my way back to the bar. I grabbed another beer from a silver tub of ice, cracked it open, and drank straight from the bottle. Crisp and cold, the liquid bubbled down my throat. I resisted the urge to swipe the back of my hand across my mouth when I lowered the bottle. But as I turned, I caught Ben’s eye. He was watching me, lips quirked.

I gave him a crooked smile and lifted my bottle in a wry toast. Perhaps my guzzling half the bottle at once amused him. I’d impressed the guys early into our acquaintanceship with my beer-chugging skills—learned, I’m sad to say, in high school.

Ben grinned and turned back to the tall blonde, who’d set her hand on his arm and said something to him.

I wandered up to our drummer, Tim, who was talking to some of Clayton’s back-up band, and they easily shifted to include me in the conversation. I didn’t feel like talking, but they were having a good laugh about a screw up that happened during Clayton’s concert, that he’d handled like the experienced professional he was.

Some movement near the door caught my attention, and I looked over to see Lucas and the two girls leaving together.

I pursed my lips and suppressed a sigh. He was such a dawg. This wouldn’t be his first threesome. I also knew he and Ben had had threesomes together where they’d shared a girl, and, one memorable night I’d accidentally stumbled upon them in a foursome with two girls.

Neither of them had had a long-term relationship in the two years I’d known them. I suspected Ben was wary because of having had his heart broken by someone, though he’d never been forthcoming with details. Lucas just laughed when I asked him why he didn’t have a girlfriend, making some smartass comment about how no woman would put up with him for long.

It didn’t normally disturb me that they did kinky things like three-ways, but I guess because tonight I was teetering on the edge of depression, it kind of bummed me a bit. Knowing I’d go back to my room alone didn’t usually bother me because I’d think about going home to Doug, but now Doug was an asshole and I was alone.

I stared glumly down at my gold shoes.

I should just leave.

As I turned to walk out, the room spun just a teeny bit around me. Whoa. Apparently the champagne and the beers were now entering my bloodstream. Well, good. Maybe I should have one more before I left, and then I could just stumble in my high-heeled shoes and sparkly dress down to my room three floors below and pass out on my bed. I headed back toward the bar, but before I got there Ben stepped in front of me.

“Hey hon.” He narrowed his eyes a bit. “Think you’ve had enough?”

“Probably,” I said agreeably, pushing past him to get to the beer.

He took hold of my arm, and his hand was big and strong on my bare biceps. “You okay?”

I pulled out a smile. “Of course.”

“Then why’re you drinking like a frat boy on Friday night?”

I had to laugh. “Because that’s my roots, Benny.”

His lips twitched at the nickname. I was the only one who ever called him that, and he hated it. Which is pretty much why I did it. Pushing his buttons amused me.

“I know,” he said. “You ready to go?”

“I was going to have one more beer.”

“Honey, you’re about two chugs away from passed out on the floor.”

I sighed. He wasn’t wrong.

“Let’s go now.” He steered me away from the bar and toward the door. I tried to dig my stiletto heels in, but he was way bigger and stronger than me. “C’mon.”

Whatever. I’d been ready to leave anyway and didn’t want to make a big scene. It was the last night of a successful tour, everyone was happy, and I sure didn’t want to blow another opportunity to go on the road with someone like Clayton Walker.

Ben glanced back to the suite as we stepped into the hall. “Where’s Lucas?”

“He left a few minutes ago with two hot chicks.”

His mouth tightened, and his eyebrows lowered.

I held my hand out to the wall, trailing my fingers along it for balance as we walked. “D’you wish you were with them?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Jesus, Haylee.” He pulled his cell phone out as we walked—he walked, I staggered—down the plush carpet of the hall. He let go of me long enough to thumb in a text message and then we were standing—he stood, I wavered—in front of the elevator.

After he pressed the down button, I leaned against him, laying my head on his chest, and sighed. “Oh Benny . . . I love you.”

His body tensed, so briefly I might have imagined it, and then he kissed the top of my head. “Love you too, hon. Let’s get you down to your room.”

The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped in. Once in the elevator, I slid my arms around his waist and snuggled into him. He felt so good, big and warm and strong, and he smelled good too; his arms coming around me comforted me. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled to his chest. “Maybe I did drink a little too much.”

“I’ve seen you worse.”

Yeah, he had. I twisted my mouth up at that, preferring not to be reminded that he’d seen me at my worshipping-the-porcelain-altar worst.

Don’t think I’m a lush or an alcoholic or anything. I grew up with an alcoholic father and hated it. I also know I don’t have that kind of relationship with booze. But there’d been a few nights of hard partying with the guys since we’d gotten together. It kind of went with the territory, and I was determined that no guy would drink me under the table. In the two years we’d been together, I’d been puking drunk once. But Ben had seen it.

And amazingly, he still loved me.

As a friend. That’s what all that love talk meant. We were friends. Partners. Him and Lucas and me.

And I was having a bad night, that was all.

The elevator door opened. Ben guided me out into the hall, and I blinked to see Lucas leaning against the wall outside my room, arms crossed.

“How’d you get here?” I frowned at him. “I thought you were off somewhere having a threesome.”

He straightened. “Not tonight. Where’s your key?”

I dug in my purse and found it; Lucas plucked it from my fingers and pushed it into the slot. I laughed.

They both looked at me.

“What?” I walked past them into my room. I tried to strut, but my feet were seriously killing me in those fucking heels.

Ben closed the door behind us. “What’s so funny?”

Lucas flicked on a lamp, and I threw myself into a chair and lifted a foot to take off the strappy platform shoes. “You pushed the key into the slot,” I mumbled. Okay, maybe it wasn’t as dirty as it had sounded in my head.

“Here hon, let me help you.” Ben went to his knees on the carpet in front of me, and something inside me went all warm and soft as he held my foot and unbuckled the tiny strap. I just stared at him as he concentrated, setting the shoe aside, lowering my foot, and picking up the other one. And his fingers on my ankle suddenly made me tingle.

His fingertips were rough from playing guitar and fiddle. The gentle abrasion made all my nerve endings quiver. Then he held my foot, my heel in his palm, his other hand stroking over my instep, and a shudder worked its way over my entire body.

“Feet hurt?” he murmured.

I could only nod, my mouth suddenly dry. I complained vociferously about wearing high-heeled shoes, which was why he’d asked. But I no longer felt any pain from my feet, only heat and . . . tremors.

Ben stood and moved away, and I set my bare feet on the soft carpet, blinking. I clutched the armrests of the chair.

Lucas had turned on the TV and settled onto the bed with pillows tucked behind him. I turned my attention to him. “What are you doing?”

“Just seeing what’s on TV.”

I pursed my lips. “You guys don’t have to stay with me. I’m fine.”

They both lifted their big shoulders, Ben taking a seat in another chair, watching the TV too. “We can stay for a while,” he said. “Wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“I said I’m fine.” I stood, proud of my perfect balance now that I no longer had to deal with spindly heels.

“Sure, babe.”

I gave a small huff and set my hands on my hips.

“Give me the remote,” Ben ordered Lucas.

“Like hell.” Lucas kept it firmly in his hand, surfing through the available channels.

Ben frowned and crossed his arms. “For fuck’s sake. How can you find something to watch when you go that fast?”

Lucas gave Ben a brief narrow-eyed look, then ignored him.

I bit my lip. There was that edge again. This wasn’t the first time they’d argued over the remote or what to watch, but tonight it felt . . . tense.

Whatever. They wanted to stay and watch TV and argue over the remote, fine. I rolled my eyes and headed to the bathroom. I stood in front of the wall of mirrors, hands on the edge of the marble counter, and lifted my chin. I wasn’t really that drunk. Maybe it wasn’t something to be proud of, but I could hold my liquor.

My face still looked unfamiliar with all the makeup I had to wear for performances. At first, I’d felt like I had a mask on all the time. Now I was getting used to the feel of it. I tipped my head. My flat-ironed, highlighted hair fell forward over my shoulder. I saw flawless skin, smoky eyes, shiny lips.

I closed my eyes, assailed by a fresh wash of sadness at Doug’s perfidy.

I’d never been exactly sure what Doug Brandt had seen in me. He was a professional hockey player with the Nashville Predators—a talented athlete, a multimillionaire, good-looking (yes, he had all his own teeth) with a killer body. Whereas I was . . . nobody.

Well, not exactly nobody. Three of Hearts was doing well. Last year we’d released our debut album, and our lead-off single “All of You” had peaked at number two on
Billboard
’s Hot Country Songs. We’d won a Grammy for Best New Artist and were nominated for a few CMT Music Awards. Just before this tour we’d released our second album
Pictures on Silence
and the concert tour had been sold out in every city. So I wasn’t
nobody
, but I didn’t know if the day would ever come when I’d feel like . . . somebody.

I kept thinking about Cheyenne, how perfect and beautiful she was. No wonder Doug had dumped me. He wasn’t the first guy this had happened with. Guys always saw me as one of them—a sister, a buddy. Chugging beer and playing basketball and belching out loud. I’d always had lots of guy friends, and they liked me, but they stared at and drooled over the other girls, the ones in skirts and makeup and curls, like the girls who’d been up in Clayton’s suite, all easy in their glam gorgeousness.

I walked back out of the bathroom. Lucas and Ben were both on the bed: Lucas now on his stomach, head at the foot of the bed, and Ben reclining on the pillows.

The bed was king-size, but two big men took up a lot of room. I stood there, hands on my hips, eyebrows raised. “What are you watching?”

They looked up at me and for a moment I felt . . . studied. Their gazes tracked up and down my body, from my bare feet and legs to my tight dress and back down. My immediate response was to snap something like, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer” or “Put your eyes back in your damn heads, it’s me, for god’s sake.” But for some reason, the words didn’t come out, and I felt a tingly sensation all through my body. Appallingly, my nipples tingled most of all, contracting into hard points. Oops. I didn’t have a bra on, and I wasn’t sure if they could see my nipples through the sequined dress.

They’d seen me dressed like this a hundred times. A thousand. Whatever.

“
Walk the Line
. Come watch with us.” Ben patted the mattress beside him, between him and Lucas. Johnny Cash. I loved that movie. I crawled up between them.

But I wasn’t comfortable. The short skirt rode high on my thighs. I tried to ignore it, but they kept glancing at my legs. At me. My nerves twitched. The air thickened. Awareness vibrated around me.

My forehead tightened as I tried to focus on the television, tried to relax in my bed.

Ben slouched lower on the pillows and slipped his arm behind my shoulders. “Don’t be sad. That asshole isn’t worth it.”