Page 1 of Risking it for the Cowboy
Chapter One
July 2016. At a random honky-tonk in Nacogdoches, Texas
That peek of a flower tattoo snaking over her shoulder beneath her tank strap…
T.R. sang into the mic, watching the blond, nodding to the rhythm his bassist was interluding with, standing alone. And she was gorgeous. Golden hair for days, flowing down her back.
“Alright now, McClintock, how we gonna close out the show?” his bassist, Jack, cajoled into a mic as their song ended, calling him his stage name, and segueing into the final act as Bo rat-a-tatted softly on his snare and bass.
“Well let’s see, Jack.” T.R. eyed him sidelong with a grin, lips pressed to his mic as sweat ran down his temples.
Eyed Hunter, his guitarist-slash-banjoist, still slumped against the wall, wasted, and dammit, of course, just in time for the upcoming Homegrown Music Award concert T.R. had entered them into. If he didn’t have Hunter … he wouldn’t have a band. And this was a shot he thought he’d lost years ago. Winner took a record deal from Country Roads Records in Nashville and would open for the famous Dylan Jones at the Grand Ole Opry. Ricky Ortega, the label exec himself, would be one of the judges, the one who’d once slushed T.R’s submission, along with “Nettie” Blackrose and Braydon Bones, country legends. He didn’t quite have the registration fee saved and only had a few weeks to pay it. He couldn’t keep asking his cousin Tyler to fill in for him when it was the last thing Ty wanted to do.
“Gonna need help for this last song I think!” He flashed his signature grin and waggled his brows.
The women cheered. He scooped up the guitar and slung the strap over his head, now that Tyler was getting lucky, if his disappearance to the bathroom with Blond Bombshell’s friend was any indication. He’d make the best of a shit situation, like always.
“Who’s it gonna be?”
More cheers, girls’ hands shooting up to be hauled on stage, an annoyed boyfriend shaking his head and storming out. T.R. chuckled, perused the crowd, shielding his eyes from the lights. God, the women. They’d sing, a little tipsy and a lot off-key, belting out the lyrics into the mic as their lips almost touched and their hands roved over his chest while he tried to strum. On occasion, he’d had to ward off the more touchy-feely type from turning a PG-13 show into a triple-X one.
His gaze shot to Flower Girl.
He’d let her do it. But something told him she wouldn’t. Her hand wasn’t raised.
“That all you got, ladies?” he taunted, flashing the grin they adored.
Put your hand up, Flower Girl. He challenged her with a chin jut. And was that a faint shake of her head?
He was intrigued.
The screams thundered to the roof. Girls were reaching, begging. He laughed with Jack who thumped a cadence on the bass, as Bo continued that heartbeat.
But Flower Girl … their gazes locked again.
Come on, baby, show me your hand.
She wasn’t reaching. She was watching him. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was perfectly sober. He notched his chin at her again.
This time, her lips moved. I’m done chasing boys in bands.
Whoa … intrigued? Now he was fascinated.
The stage lights blinked pink and blue upon her hair. Her eyes, so wide. Lips, naturally bee stung. Heart-shaped face, perfectly sculpted cheekbones. Incredible figure from the little he could see from the waist up.
God, she was a shoo-in for whose bed he wanted his boots under tonight, as Shania would say.
But she still hadn’t raised her hand as she gently pulsed to the rhythm.
The screaming continued. His smile faltered. If she was done chasing boys in bands, it meant, she’d done so before and had been burned.
“Got a boyfriend?” he rumbled into the mic.
A smile ghosted her lips as the crowd now started looking around at who he was talking to. She flashed her eyes heavenward like he was pathetic. Him?
Naw, baby, ain’t no reason we can’t rock each other’s world tonight. It was all he needed, and if she wasn’t chasing boys in bands, then probably all she’d want, too.
Perfect situation. Fine. He’d make the move since she wouldn’t.
