Was that tacky? Probably, but a man was allowed a touch of tacky in his own brain, wasn’t he?
Hell yes, he was.
Mouth dry, he watched Zach bend back and forth, sawing at that fiddle. That would fire fantasies for years, even if supper was crap. He nearly face-palmed himself. Was there anything he couldn’t pervert? He chuckled at himself.
He guessed Greg counted. And pie-judging.
Grunting when he took an elbow in the ribs, Colton moved on around closer to the side of the stage where he could still see, but not be in the mix. Some folks didn’t like cops, and some for good reasons, but he was a good guy and didn’t want to get banged up.
The song changed to something slower, something high and lonesome with mostly mandolin and fiddle. Amazing. Oh damn. Damn. That was fine as cold beer on a hot night, and Colton stood there, more than a little hypnotized by the sound. He was a fan. A real, honest-to-goodness fan. The way Zach poured himself into the song said something about the man’s soul. Coming from a musical family himself—not like that, of course not, but they could all play and sing, and they did, more than once in a while—he understood the power of music. And it wasn’t only in the hearing of it, but the creating of it, the taking of something like sinew and wood and creating magic. That was important.
He tapped his foot and swayed, disappointed when the song ended. Colton had liked that one.
When he glanced up, Zach was staring down, and their eyes met. He smiled, nodded, and Zach grinned right back. Yeah. Okay, maybe he was being played, but no one was pulling the wool over his eyes. He wanted Zach.
He’d make sure to leave his heart in the truck with his cash and his gun.
Someone he didn’t know, someone not local, caught his attention. He immediately took stock; white guy, fancy haircut, toothpick in his mouth, camera up, filming Zach. Weird, because the man was in a suit. Not a redneck tuxedo, either, but areal-life shiny suit. He reminded Colton of the mega church preachers his mama liked to watch on television. Smooth, slick, and utterly full of bullshit. Just out to line their own pockets with money from the poor.
Or maybe he was a music label guy. Did Nashville look like that? He didn’t know.
The guy was seriously focused on Zach. Colton knew because he did it too, but not in that kind of sleazy way. When Zach laid eyes on the man, it wasn’t pretty. Colton hadn’t seen Zach annoyed before, but his expression was damn near grumpy.
He and Zach weren’t a real thing, but the guy wasn’t gonna get near Zach while Colton was around. And tonight he was very around. In fact, tonight he was going to be on Zach like white on rice. Unless he was told to back off, but from the way Zach looked at Mr. Suit, chickens would fly out of Colton’s butt before that happened.
He met Mr. Suit’s gaze, smiling in his best aw-shucks sort of way. Everything in him, though, was setting off alarm bells. Something was askew. He didn’t know what, but that part didn’t matter. His gut told him to watch his back and Zach’s.
He scanned the rest of the crowd, hunting for anyone else out of place. Was anybody else giving Zach weird attention?
Everyone else seemed normal as could be, or as normal as a county fair at night, anyway. This was the chance for teenagers to pretend to be Goths, for college kids to pretend to be hipsters, and hipsters from Missoula to pretend to be hicks.
He chuckled. Kinda like Halloween.
Mr. Suit scooted closer to the stage, and Zach changed sides, clearly getting away from him. Score one for Colton’s instincts. All those years of police work had to be useful some times.
Colton shifted until he was closer—close enough for both Zach and Mr. Suit to see what he was doing and get his message. Mr. Suit stared at him, and Colton gave him a different country-boy look this time. The lizard stare of the small-town cop. This wasn’t Colton’s town, but it was his uncle’s, and that was close enough, dammit. His job was to serve and protect, and he reckoned he’d do both.
And if he happened to do it from very close to Zach, so be it.
