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Gave you everything, I was yours.
Took your heart because you were mine.
Standing in the tatters that you left behind,
I still love you.
Each word is laced with tortured heartbreak, slicing through me and bringing tears to my eyes. “Oh, Bobby,” I say softly, clutching my bar towel to my chest.
He finishes the song on a long, mournful note that holds the entire audience in rapture. And then there’s a quiet heartbeat before the crowd claps and cheers.
Bobby flashes that cocky grin. “Don’t y’all go thinking I’ve gone soft. The next one I’m working on is called Willow, Get Your Ass Over Here and Love Me.” He laughs, and the audience laughs along with him. Mama Louise doesn’t even try to correct his language this time. And I shake my head, knowing that here, there, or anywhere . . . I love him.
I have no problem holding my head high this time as I cross the room. Nope, I walk right up to that stage, catch his eye, and crook a finger at him. He winks at the audience, but when he turns to me, he’s my Bobby, sweet and emotional, bossy and possessive, sexy and dirty-mouthed. When he bends down, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him like he’s my air, right there in front of the whole audience.
“Woohoo, getcha sum!” a shout goes up from the crowd.
“I love you,” he whispers against my mouth, just for me to hear.
“Love you too.”
I might do a little happy dance back across the floor to the bar, and I definitely sing along louder as Bobby goes into his next song.
I’m in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee maker to do its job on Sunday afternoon, when a sight out the window catches my eye. A cloud of dust is visible coming down the driveway, billowing out behind a silver sedan.
“Hey, Bobby, you expecting someone?” I holler up the stairs. “There’s a car outside.”
I hear a scrambling thud and then several more as he crosses the room above me. He bounds down the stairs and peeks out the window in the front living room. “Who the fuck is that?” he mutters.
The car pulls to a stop and a guy gets out. He’s young, early thirties, maybe, with brown hair peeking out under his straw cowboy hat. He’s got on Wrangler jeans and boots that look like they’ve seen a few miles.
“Stay here,” Bobby tells me, opening the door to go outside and greet the stranger.
“You here about a horse, looking for Luke?” Bobby questions. It’s not a typical greeting, but it’s a fair assumption. “He’s next door at the Bennetts’. Back out the gate and go left to the next one.”
He’s clearly telling the guy to get the hell out of here.
Never one to leave Bobby alone, I sneak my way out the door and to his side just in time to hear the visitor say, “Actually, I’m here to see you, Bobby.”
Instantly on alert, Bobby pushes me behind him protectively and crosses his arms over his chest. Tension shoots through him as though he’s ready to throw down at any perceived provocation. Maybe I shouldn’t have come out here because he’s only this quick-tempered when he thinks I’m in danger.
“Leave.”
The guy doesn’t move toward the car but holds a hand out to shake. “I’m Stephen Wheatley from Outlaw Records. I saw you in Nashville at the Bar and liked what I heard. It sucks when someone as good as you are is already signed with another agency. But word travels fast, and I hear you’re not represented by NCR?”
He’s talking fast, getting his spiel out as quickly as possible, likely having heard of Bobby and Jeremy’s last ‘conversation’ if he’s heard as much as he says he has.
“Get off my property.” Bobby’s not leaving any room for misunderstanding.
Just as I thought, Mr. Wheatley adds, “Also heard you put Jeremy Marshall in his place, made him piss his pants.” He seems amused by that, which takes him up a notch in my estimation, but not Bobby’s, apparently.
“Three, two, one . . . Brutal!” Bobby yells and then gives a loud whistle. “Fair warning, that ain’t my dog, it’s my brother. You should go before he gets here.”
Mr. Wheatley chuckles, an easy smile on his lips. “You’re going to sic your brother on me?”
“No, he’s coming to help me load your body in the truck after I kill you for trespassing,” Bobby deadpans.
“I’m here to offer you a deal. Not one like Marshall’s. A real deal . . . for the real you.” Mr. Wheatley has a fire lit under his ass now, stepping a little closer to his car and talking quickly.
I swear a growl is rumbling in Bobby’s chest.
“Wait,” I say to both men. To Bobby, I appeal, “Hear him out. It couldn’t hurt.”
