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Gross.
Germs.
I should’ve brought hand sanitizer.
Next to me, Rooster growls.
I snatch my hand back, giving it a quick swipe against my jeans.
Junior—Jolly in my head—stares at Rooster. I guess I should be flattered. Apparently, I’m so dazzling they didn’t notice the four hundred and fifty pounds of bikers who’ve followed me into the studio. Jigsaw’s been studying the wall of photos behind us. But Rooster hasn’t left my side.
“Weren’t you here yesterday?” Junior asks.
“With the porn star!” Scotty cackles and thrusts his hips in the air. “Considering a career switch, Shelby?”
Huh?
“No,” Rooster growls. “Shouldn’t you start the show?”
“So, what do you do, Mr. Biker Man?” Scotty asks. “Run a bodyguard service for porn stars and pop tarts? How can I get in on that?”
That draws Jigsaw’s attention. He steps up to Scotty, conveniently blocking Rooster from killing the stupid DJ. “What’d you say ’bout my baby sister?” he says in a low, hollow voice that’s downright terrifying.
Uncomfortable laughter rolls out of me. “Easy, big bro.” I pat Jigsaw’s rock-hard shoulder. “I’m sure Scotty just thinks he’s funny.”
Junior slaps his partner’s chest. “Knock it off. Let’s get ready for her segment.”
An assistant comes in and guides me into a seat across from the two DJs.
Greg’s lucky he didn’t accompany me to this interview, or I mighta kicked his ass. I’m already hating it.
“Good morning!” Scotty’s morning announcer voice is just as cheesy as I expected. “We’re proud to say the lovely Shelby Morgan has graced us with her presence this morning.”
I lean in closer to the microphone. “Thanks for havin’ me.”
“So tell us, Shelby, what was being on a show like Redneck Roadhouse like? That’s how you got your start, right?” Junior asks.
“Well, technically I got my start at the local honky-tonk.” I let out a soft laugh that I hope sounds more warm and friendly than brain-dead.
They take me through Redneck Roadhouse, thankfully avoiding some of the less-flattering moments. I doubt it’s to spare my feelings. More like they didn’t research much about me besides my cup size.
“Rumor has it you’re very involved with the children’s charity Dream Makers,” Junior says. “Why’d you decide to do that?”
The question tumbles over me like a bucket of bricks. I guess they did their research after all. But these jerks don’t deserve to hear stories about my beautiful baby sister. “They, ah, approached me when I was on Redneck Roadhouse, and whenever my schedule allows, I like to do what I can.” Good Lord, if I sprinkle anymore Southern sweetness into my voice, I'll have to change my name to Sugar.
“Isn’t that depressing, visiting cancer kids?” Scotty says in a dismissive tone. If he keeps it up, I’m fixin’ to jump this table and snatch him bald. “Is there a charity for teenage boys who want to lose their virginity to a hot chick? Now, that’s a worthy cause.”
Junior lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “Sounds like something you probably still need to sign up for.”
They banter back and forth while I sit there with a polite smile etched on my face, trying not to roll my eyes.
“So, you’re on tour with Dawson Roads right now?” Scotty asks when they finally settle down.
“That’s right. We’ve got a show in town tonight.”
“What’s that like?” Scotty turns toward Junior. “That guy’s a stud. You ever see some of the hot babes he…dates?”
Junior grunts in agreement.
“Are you and Dawson…tight?” The inflection Scotty uses sounds more like he’s asking about the elasticity of my pussy than my relationship with Dawson.
“Dawson’s been kind to me. The tour has been a wonderful learning experience,” I answer carefully. “I’m thankful for the opportunity.”
“I’m sure you are,” Scotty says.
Jerk.
“Tell us about tour life,” Junior says, before Scotty can open his mouth again. “This is your first national tour, right?”
“Yes. It’s been an adventure.”
“Do you have any pre-show rituals you have to do before you go onstage?”
“Well, I like to do a little yoga, meditate and center myself. I’ll do some vocal exercises. Mostly, I just like to stay calm and focus on the show.”
“Are you a diva?” Scotty’s deep tone drips with sarcasm that grates on my nerves. “One of those singers who demands fancy artisan spring water from five-thousand-year-old caves and stuff?”
I huff out a soft laugh. “Hardly.”
“Nah, you’re a down-home Texas girl, right?” Junior teases. “Probably trying to get some sweet tea and lemonade.”
“Well, days I’m singing I usually stick to plain water and a little hot tea with lemon.”
“You don’t let loose after a show and down some shots?” Scotty asks, eyebrows crawling all the way up his forehead.
“I’ve been known to knock back a paloma or two back home.” I force out another friendly, girlish laugh. “Maybe after the tour, that’s what I’ll celebrate with.”
“What the heck’s a paloma?” Scotty gags. “Sounds super-girly.”
“It’s tequila, grapefruit juice, lime juice, simple syrup and club soda. The unofficial drink of Texas.”
