Hillbilly Rockstar (5 page)

“Yep. This dude followed her to Denver from Kansas City. They were going at it like rabbits. We were in the room next to theirs,” Odette said.

Then Tay took a swing at him with her laptop bag.

The guy ducked, jumped back into the truck and sped off, tires spitting gravel.

“Looks like another breakup to me,” Crash muttered. “Can't wait for her and Jase to start fucking and fighting again . . .
Not
.”

Jase, the laid-back lead guitar player, and Tay, his keyboard player and backup singer, had an on-again off-again relationship. Their fights—and subsequent makeups—were loud, obnoxious and the main reason after Odette . . . Devin never got involved with a woman he worked with.

“Is Jase here?” he asked, watching Tay head toward the band's bus, Odette hot on her heels.

“He left with the equipment truck,” Gage said behind him.

“Wise choice.”

“A hundred bucks says they're back together by Friday,” Leon, his steel guitar player, said.

“Whose turn is it to run the pool?” Steve asked.

“Gage did it last time,” Crash said. “I reckon it's Devin's turn.”

“Get your bets and money to me by showtime.”

“Who're we waiting for?” Gage asked.

Just then a gorgeous baby blue Mustang pulled up. The driver's-side door opened, and a pair of boots hit the concrete. He saw only a flip of the woman's hair and her jeans-clad backside—and sweet baby Jesus, what a sweet backside it was—before she was hidden, rooting around in the open trunk.

Even as his suspicions surfaced, his head was telling him
no
, that couldn't possibly be her.

The trunk shut, and she started toward him. Wind tousling her shoulder-length auburn hair, her hips swaying in jeans that hugged her every curve. With a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and another one clutched in her other hand, she flexed her well-defined arm muscles. Her cherry red lips curved into a smirk as she fastened her gaze on him.

Holy mother of God. It was a miracle that he managed to keep from drooling. Or from cursing at the sky because the fucking universe had a sick sense of humor.

Or maybe this is karma beating you with the stupid stick for boldly proclaiming that you didn't find Liberty Masterson attractive. And for challenging her to look the part of your groupie entourage.

What a cruel joke—his groupies never looked that goddamn good.

Devin had about ten seconds to prepare himself before she reached him. Good thing he had his sunglasses on—maybe they'd keep his eyes from popping out of his head.

That's when his gaze landed on not one but two bruisers behind her. One guy carried two suitcases; the other guy hefted an enormous cooler.
Given the sheer size of the first guy, he could've been a Broncos linebacker or a WWE wrestler. The second guy was a mirror image of the first.

Liberty offered a quick smile. “Sorry I'm late. I had to grab a few last-minute things.” She set down her duffel bags. “Which bus is ours?”

Devin pointed to the forward bus.

“Sweet upgrade. Guys . . . do you mind?”

Immediately, Hulk #1 and Hulk #2 carted the suitcases and cooler aboard the bus. Then they were back, awaiting Liberty's instructions.

She stood on tiptoe to get in Hulk #1's face. “You'll make sure she's protected? No matter what?”

“Baby girl, don't worry. I promise I'll take as good care of her as you do, okay?”

“Okay.” She smiled and pressed something into his hand.

Then the guy picked her up off the ground and spun her around, giving everyone his massive back so no one could see if he was laying a big steamy kiss good-bye on her or copping a feel or what. Then he tossed her to Hulk #2, where she received the same treatment, except Hulk #2 slapped her ass and whispered in her ear before he set her down and lumbered back to the car.

It was surprising the King Kong twins fit into the front seats.

She didn't turn around until the car was out of view. “Sorry. I have separation anxiety.”

“At bein' away from them?” Devin asked sharply.

Liberty gave him a
you're-an-idiot
look. “No. From my car.”

“That's
your
car?”

Another
you're stupid, Captain Obvious
look from G.I. Jane.

Crash said, “Happy to have you with us, Liberty.”

Odette rejoined them. “And who
are
you exactly?”

“Liberty Masterson. I'm Devin's personal assistant.”

A beat passed, and then she laughed in Liberty's face. “Right. So how long have you been
personally
assisting him? Since you met him in the bar last night?”

Liberty didn't respond. She merely stared at Odette until she backed down.

Devin stepped forward, taking his life in his hands when he draped an arm over Liberty's shoulder. Not only did she look good; she smelled good. “Liberty is handling the venue logistics, my promotional appearances, and all that stuff I hate doin' and Crash is too busy to deal with since I'm headlining this time. So to keep everything streamlined, she's traveling on my bus.”

Looks were exchanged, eyebrows were lifted and Odette nudged Tay and muttered, “Personal assistant, my ass.”

Then Devin introduced Liberty to his band.

“Nice to meet all of you. But if you'll excuse me, I have to get the rest of my shit on the bus so we have an on-time departure—since keeping Devin on schedule is part of my job.”

Her bright smile was totally fake; Devin choked back a snort.

She reached for the straps on her bags and Devin moved to help her. The damn woman was so stubborn that they played tug-of-war until he shouldered her aside. “Now, sweetheart,” he said from gritted teeth, “what kind of a man would I be if I stood by and watched you struggle with your luggage by yourself?”

She smiled—the devious one that made his stomach drop. “You'd be like every other man on the planet.” She picked up the smaller bag and hoofed it to the bus.

Devin was so focused on the mesmerizing way her butt jiggled that he didn't budge until Crash elbowed him.

“Quit standing there and move it. I'm right behind you.”

He snagged the handles and let out a grunt. Had she packed cannonballs in here? He trailed behind her, trying like hell—and failing miserably—to keep his eyes off her ass. So he nearly plowed into her when they entered the bus.

“Holy friggin' hell.” Liberty had stopped in the living area and was gawking.

“Keep movin'. I've gotta get these bricks unloaded,” he grumbled.

“Funny. Which bunk is mine?”

“Both. Since you're the only other passenger.”

“Sweet. I wondered where I'd put everything.”

Devin dragged the duffel bag the last few feet. “I figured you'd be the type to pack light, not drag four bags along.”

“Guns and ammo take up a lot of room.”

She had to be joking.

But the look on her face said she wasn't.

Devin pointed to the area below the first bunk. “There are locking drawers for all your firepower.”

“Thanks.” Liberty didn't ask for help hoisting her bags.

“All right. See you guys in Salt Lake because I don't plan on stopping.”

Liberty looked at Crash. “You're on the other bus?”

“I'm driving the other bus.” He grinned. “How do you think I got my name?”

“I'm thanking the universe I'm not riding with you.”

After Crash departed, Devin stood there like a dumb-ass, staring at her.

Of course she caught him staring. “What?”

“You look . . . different.”

Her gaze sharpened. “You
told
me to look different, remember?”

“Yes, but I didn't think you'd look like this.” His admiring, borderline lustful gaze swept her body from head to toe and back up.

“Seriously? I get the slack-jawed response that Sandra Bullock got in
Miss Congeniality
after her makeover and there's no one around to see it?”

“And that's where the comparison ends, because there ain't nothin' congenial about you.”

She blushed but kept her stubborn chin lifted.

Feeling ornery, he didn't let it go. “I find the section of blue hair . . . interesting. Why'd you do it?”

“I swear a blue streak and thought my new, improved look should reflect that.”

Devin laughed. “It worked. You look”—fucking fantastic—“incredible.”

Her silvery eyes turned a dark, stormy gray. “It's a damn good thing you're not attracted to me in the least, don't you agree?”

Now he looked away. That'd been an asshole thing to say. And the fact she'd overheard it? Now he knew why she'd given him the cold shoulder at
the GSC offices. “Takes two to two-step, darlin'. You swore I'm not your type either.”

Her startled expression indicated she'd forgotten that.

“Now, we done with this who's hot and who's not sniping so I can show you the rest of the bus?”

“We're done.”

“Come on.”

Liberty was properly awed by their luxury traveling coach. “I spent so
many years riding in the back of transport trucks and in Humvees, I doubt I'll get used to this. This place is way nicer than my apartment. It's a little surreal.”

“For me too,” he confessed. “Even after a dozen years in this business, I keep expecting I'll wake up and find it's all been a dream.” Why had he told her something so personal? Now she probably thought he was even more of a pussy.

Yeah, you hauling her luggage proved you're one badass dude.

Three knocks sounded outside the door. “Just wanted to let you know we're taking off.”

Liberty moved and offered her hand. “I'm Liberty, Devin's personal assistant.”

“I'm Reg.” The rotund guy in his midfifties shook her hand with much enthusiasm. “Happy to meet you, ma'am. If either of you needs something, hit the intercom switch. It'll turn on the light on my dashboard. Since I wear headphones, it's best that you approach me that way and not through the beer window. Better not to scare the dickens out of me and I end up wrecking the bus.”

“Good point.”

Devin watched as Liberty put away her groceries—every bit of it labeled. “You don't have to do that,” he said when she added a big
L
to the side of the milk. “I ain't gonna steal your food.”

“Sorry. Habit left over from military life.”

“Why'd you bring your own food anyway?”

“Because when we're out, I have to eat where and when you do. But because we're in public, I'll be so busy watching the perimeter, I forget to
eat. I make sure to have decent food available for when I have uninterrupted time.” Then she pulled out her own one-cup-at-a-time coffeemaker.

Devin didn't know why that annoyed him.

Yes, you do. That means she won't be making coffee for you.

“Once you get settled, we need to go over a few things,” she said.

“I'm settled now. What's on your mind?”

“This job is unlike a normal job where I work twelve hours and then I'm off shift for twelve hours. I won't have a partner to relieve me. And it'd be
unhealthy and unwise for me not to have any downtime. I certainly hope you don't expect me to work twenty-four hours a day for the first three-month leg of the tour without a break.”

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “Don't forget I'm used to bein' alone on my bus, doin' what I want, when I want, with no distractions and no one to answer to.”

“You're most protected when we're traveling, so I'll take my downtime when we're on the road. That'll give you the quiet time you need to work. I'll just hang out in my bunk or I'll stay in the part of the bus that gives you the most privacy.”

Devin nodded. “That'll actually work really well for me.”

Relief crossed her face. “Good. But as soon as the bus stops, I'm with you at all times. No exceptions unless I'm handing you off to an event security team.”

“Then what will you be doin'?”

“Limiting access to you.”

He snagged a Red Bull from the refrigerator and kept his temper in check. “Limiting access meaning . . . keeping groupies away from me? Because we already discussed my conditions on that.”

Liberty studied him. “And I said I didn't give a fuck who you fucked as long as they pass my safety parameters. Which are: None of the ladies can bring purses, handbags or backpacks into your ready room. No more than two women at a time in your ready room. I will be stationed outside the door the entire time you're . . . entertaining your fans.”

Was she fucking serious? She'd be listening outside the goddamn door?

She shook her finger at him. “I'm not a pervert; nor will I get off hearing
you getting off with your groupies. But this is a nonnegotiable point, Devin.”

“Fine. Whatever. Let's practice havin' separate downtime starting now. I'll be in my room. See you in Salt Lake.”

S
ee you in Salt Lake.

Talk about dismissed.

She couldn't help but feel relieved Devin had squirreled himself away in his master suite. The sooner they got used to each other and a routine, the better.

Yet after Liberty had gotten settled, she still felt . . . unsettled. She paced the length of the bus, worried for the first time that she wouldn't last three days in this situation, let alone four months.

Think about the money.

Taking a deep breath, she crawled into her bunk and pulled the curtain closed. She surfed the Internet, answered e-mail, checked out the new real estate listings in the Denver metro area. She killed two hours.

She exited her bunk and realized the soundproofing in the bus must be fantastic because she hadn't heard any music.

Her stomach rumbled, so she fixed herself a sandwich. Since she hadn't figured out how to operate the TV system, she brought her laptop into the eating area and watched two episodes of
Dexter
. She'd just washed and dried her lunch dishes when Devin appeared.

“Hey.” He glanced at the dish towel. “You already ate?”

“Yeah.”

“Shoot. I was lookin' forward to you fixin' my lunch.”

Liberty's eyes narrowed.

Devin laughed. “Kidding.” Then he opened the pantry door. “Always interesting to see what gets stocked for me.”

Of course he wouldn't do his own food shopping. He had minions for
that. She said, “Heads will roll if they bought the wrong kind of peanut butter,” a little snottily.

He peered around the fridge door at her. “You think I'm some spoiled-ass male diva, don't you?”

“Are you?”

“With some things. Mostly on the performance side. Expecting a certain kind of venue and promotion from the record label. When I reached the level of success that I could request things like uninterrupted time before a show, a private ready room, and my own bus, I figured I'd earned it. I did my time on the road, playing in every small-town bar across the country, livin' out of an equipment van with three other guys, eating peanut butter sandwiches three times a day because that's all I could afford, sneaking into truck stops to shower because we couldn't scrape together enough money for a motel room.”

She felt her cheeks heat at her preconceived ideas about him.

He rolled a can of diet soda between his hands. “I know what it's like to starve to make music. It sucks to play to a crowd of ten people who'd rather have country music piped in than listen to a live band. At my lowest point, I had to get a job at a horse farm and stop touring because I was flat broke and didn't have the cash to replace our shitty van that died.” He cracked open the soda and drank. “I had a shyster agent who promised me the world and basically put me in performance hell for a year. I damn near gave up when a scout for a big Nashville label deigned to attend one of my shows and told me I'd never make it in the music business. But I decided to prove him wrong.” He grinned. “Yeah, I'll admit it's sweet revenge every time I see him now and pretend I don't know who the hell he is.”

Liberty smiled.

“I've been on both sides. And, darlin', it's just plain human nature to prefer the side that offers more creature comforts and fewer creatures.”

Devin rummaged in the refrigerator and dumped a prepackaged salad into a big bowl. Then he sprinkled chopped chicken on top and poured
dressing over everything. After he slid into the bench seat opposite her, he looked up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Surprised that I'm eating something green?”

“Maybe a little.”

He speared a chunk of chicken and spinach. “I learned the hard way, after my first tour, not to exist on snack food and junk food. I put on twenty pounds, and it sucked havin' to get it off.”

“It's obvious you take care of yourself now and keep in shape. You look great.” Shit. Why had she said that?

Devin smiled before he shoveled in a bite.

Liberty let him eat without asking questions. She peeled an orange and ate half.

When he finished his meal, he washed and dried his dishes and put them away, which surprised her.

Maybe you shouldn't be making assumptions about Devin McClain. You didn't like him making them about you.

Then he took his seat again and looked at her. “Go on and ask the questions I see in your eyes.”

“So you weren't an overnight success?”

“Guess that depends on who you talk to about the definition of overnight success. I started playing in local bands in Wyoming when I was seventeen. Moved to Nashville when I was eighteen, confident I'd hit the big time in a year, dumb-ass hick kid that I was.” He shook his head. “I landed my first real recording contract at age twenty-four. The album did well right outta the gate, so everyone assumed I was an overnight success. When I heard the stories from really talented guys who had a much longer, harder road than I did, I guess six years could be considered overnight. It's been a decade since that first album was released.”

“So when did the money, the fame and the groupies become a way of life?”

“That happened really damn fast.
Boom
. I had two number-one hits off that album and two that hit the top ten. I won the best new artist award. I opened for Brooks and Dunn; at the time they were the biggest act in
country music. I spent a year on the road. When I got back to Nashville, I bought a house, a couple of cars. Lots of guitars.” He reached for her orange and tore off a segment. “I burned through a helluva lot of money in a short
amount of time. The label had been pressuring me to put out another record. Problem was, I didn't have enough material.”

“What does that mean?”

Devin looked at her. “You sure I'm not boring you with the
This Is Your Life, Devin McClain,
story?”

“No. It's fascinating. Having fame, fortune and an entourage is so different from my life, or the life of anyone I've ever known. As your personal assistant, I should have a better idea of who you are other than what your official media bio says.”

His penetrating blue gaze roamed over her face—almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. “Ain't no one gonna believe that you're just my personal assistant, Liberty.”

A wave of heat steamrolled her. Holy crap, the man simply oozed potent sexuality when he put his mind to it. Her heart raced and her palms sweated just from the smoldering way he looked at her. What would it be like to have him touching her as he murmured in her ear with his deep, raspy voice?

Sheer. Fucking. Heaven.

She managed to toss off a breezy “Guess we'll see, won't we?”

He grinned, well aware that he'd gotten to her. “First off, as my personal assistant, you should know that my legal name is Devin McClain Hollister. When I started out, there was an artist with the name Gavin Hollister, so we used my middle name.”

“It'll be easiest if I stick to calling you McClain. Finish the story.”

“I'd written all my own songs on my first album. I had finished maybe . . . four during that yearlong tour. So the label handpicked another half a dozen songs from other songwriters for me. I didn't like a single one of them. But I was new to the business and the label, which had successfully put out hundreds of records, had to know what they were doin', right? Rather than delay the release of a new record, I fell in line—against my gut instinct—and recorded those shitty, clichéd songs.”

“What happened?”

“The album tanked. Big-time. Only one song cracked the top hundred—a song I'd written. I still went on tour to promote the album, but
wasn't part of the primo gigs. I wasn't a failure, but I'd slipped a notch.” He popped an orange segment in his mouth and chewed. “That slip gave me some clarity. I understood there'd be an ebb and flow to my career, no matter if I hit that upper level of megastar success that so few do. I needed to be prepared for when I started the descent back down because it would happen at some point—it happens to everyone.”

That was way more insightful than she'd expected.

“I realized two things. First off, for me it was about putting out music I was proud of—no more slapping crap on a record just to make someone else's deadline. I needed to surround myself with other musicians who had the same vision, which is why my band has stayed together. The music we create in the studio and on the road is because we gel as a group. I retained control of the only part of the business to me that matters, and that's the music.

“Second, I had to make my time on the road productive. The best thing I ever did was learn to write music anywhere—on the bus, in a restaurant or in a hotel. I stopped limiting myself to havin' the perfect conditions, and the result was the music became . . . truer somehow. But at the end of the day, I'm an entertainer. I'm not curing cancer. I hope I'm providing songs that hit home for people, make them think or laugh or cry, or just provide them with a catchy chorus they can sing along to. I'm lucky I get to do what I love every damn night. And I'm gonna enjoy the hell outta this journey while I can.”

Liberty let that sink in. It didn't sound like Devin was repeating a PR company's suggestion, but rather his true thoughts.

“You're awful quiet over there, G.I. Jane. Whatcha thinkin' about?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Honestly? I get the
life is a journey, not a destination
mind-set, but when did your fans start thinking you belonged to them? I read the case reports, and you've had some crazy things happen over the years that would've made me hire a full-time bodyguard a long damn time ago.”

“Which incident?”

“Inez Vanderpol.”

He sighed. “My first superfan.”

“Didn't she stalk you too?”

“As much as a sixty-six-year-old woman can stalk someone, yeah. She ended up in a mental hospital in Ohio.”

“What happened?”

“It's really fuckin' bizarre. After my third album, she joined my fan group. When she learned that I'd been born on the same day her first husband had died, she was convinced he'd been reincarnated in me.”

Her mouth dropped open. “No way.”

“Yep. And get this: Her husband had also been a musician. So she started following me on tour. I saw her at every concert. She left flowers, and, uh, inappropriate gifts for me at every stop. I was new to that sort of attention, so I thought it was harmless.”

“Meaning that she was harmless.”

“Exactly. Then, when I had my final fan meet and greet for the year in Nashville, she literally tackled a woman I was talkin' to—just for talkin' to me. She was hitting her, screaming at her to keep her hands off me—her husband. Big public mess. I had to get a restraining order. Then I didn't hear anything from her until my next album came out. She showed up at concerts again and wrote me really long, really sexually explicit letters.”

“What format did she send them in?”

Devin looked uncomfortable. “She e-mailed some to the contact e-mail on my Web site. The ones she handwrote?” His gaze met hers. “She stuffed them under the door at my house.”

“Jesus.”

“Then the letters took an even more bizarre turn toward crazy town. She threatened to kidnap me so she could help me remember my previous life.”

“As her husband.”

He nodded. “I had a two-week break from touring, came home and found her in my house.”

Liberty's stomach pitched. “Did she hurt you?”

“No. She tripped the alarm when she broke in and evidently she hid in my closet when the cops came. They didn't find her and locked up the house. When I got home later that night, she was waitin', naked, in my bed.”

“Oh, Devin.”

“It was so fuckin' sad. I felt bad for her, but at the same time, it pissed me off she'd gotten into my private space and was snooping through my stuff. It bugged me so much I sold that house and bought one with a gate around the entire property. I also purchased a cabin and some land up by Flathead Lake in Montana.” He offered a sad smile. “I figured if I ever needed total privacy, no one would find me there.”

“What happened to the woman?”

“The cops came and took her in. Her grown children were shocked by her delusions and got her psychiatric help. I didn't follow up on her. I haven't seen her since.”

Liberty got up and grabbed a bottle of water.

“Is there something you're not tellin' me? Has she been released or something?”

“No. But Garrett did have GSC follow up on her. Just to see if there was a link to the attack on your bus driver. But she's been in an Alzheimer's care facility since two weeks after the incident at your house.”

“So there's no connection.”

“Nope.”

“I think the attack on JT was random. Some meth-heads breaking into a fancy bus, lookin' for cash or drugs or something to pawn. Not some psycho fan wantin' to harm me,” he stated flatly.

They were back to this again.
The promotion company is overly paranoid and I don't need you
argument.

Liberty stared at him suspiciously. “I might believe that if the reincarnation lady was the only example. But we've seen the files, Devin. There have been lots of other incidents. Even paternity cases.”

“
One
paternity case three years ago. I knew the woman in question would be a problem because she showed up at rehearsal the day after I banged her, claiming I'd proposed to her. She even wore a big fake diamond. After security threw her out for trespassing, she swore she'd get even with me.”

“Is she the one—”

“Who sent her two brothers to my next gig so they could beat the fuck outta me? Yeah.”

She frowned. “I don't remember a report like that.”