Hillbilly Rockstar (8 page)

Reg stood when he saw Devin. “We ready?”

“Yeah. Did Check bring my guitar?”

“It's inside.” Reg punched in the code and turned the key to open the door. “I need to hit the john, and then we'll be on our way.”

Devin grabbed his guitar and disappeared into the back.

Only then did Reg say, “A couple of guys were hanging around tonight. Both in their midtwenties. Don't know if they were together, but it
concerned me enough I tried to take their pictures, but the damn things didn't turn out. Too dark.”

“Did they say anything? Ask you whose bus it was?”

“Nope. They just paced about fifty feet away like they were waiting on someone.”

“Thanks for keeping an eye out, Reg. But from here on out, I'd rather you were in the driver's seat or in the arena. You sitting out there during the performance is just inviting trouble.”

He nodded. “Will do, Miss Liberty.”

As soon as they were on the road, Liberty ditched her personal assistant clothing. She slipped on a pair of baggy athletic shorts and dragged on an old army T-shirt. Then she washed the gunk off her face, slathered lotion on her skin and returned to the kitchen to make herself a sandwich.

Strange to think her life on the road tonight wasn't much different from her normal routine. She checked her phone for text messages and settled in to flip through her stack of Denver real estate magazines.

With the hundred-thousand-dollar bonus, she could jump up a price bracket in her house search. She'd focused on condos close to work rather than a place in suburbia, but the possibility of that money meant she could consider other options—like a funky loft in downtown Denver.

“House hunting?” Devin said behind her.

Liberty quickly slammed the magazine shut. “Give me a fucking heart attack. I didn't expect to see you tonight.”

Devin pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge. “I thought we agreed to have a beer.”

“I'm not sure if that's such a good idea. I'm still on duty.”

“Technically, you're off the clock and on your own time since I'm safely ensconced on the bus.”

She studied him, seeing he'd changed into loungewear. His feet were bare. He looked relaxed. Like a normal man. Not a superstar who'd just rocked an arena with ten thousand screaming fans. “Fine. One beer.”

Devin grinned and passed over a Shock Top. He sat on the opposite end of the couch so their feet met in the middle of the cushion. “Why'd you say you were surprised to see me?”

“You snatched your guitar. I've already figured out that means you'll be working.”

“I snapped a string on it tonight and I wanted to make sure Check had fixed it because I plan to use it tomorrow during the day.”

“How many guitars do you have?”

“On tour? Six acoustic. I use two a night. Jase, my lead guitarist, has more than a dozen with him.”

Silence fell between them.

Liberty sipped her beer and looked anywhere but at him or his stupidly sexy feet. God. Who had sexy feet? Devin McClain did. The man had sexy everything. She should've stayed in her damn bunk. Besides, she didn't do casual
let's have a beer
chitchat very well.

“Why'd you tense up?” he asked.

“Because this is fucking weird.”

“For me too,” he murmured. “But it doesn't have to be. Let's get to know each other.” He playfully stroked his bare toes across hers, which sent an electric zip of awareness up her legs. “I'll go first. Who were those two guys who dropped you off in Denver?”

“Zeke and Spike.”

“How do you know them?”

“They're bodybuilders who weight-train with us at GSC. I've struck up a”—
fuck-buddies relationship
—“special friendship with them outside of work.”

“Both of them?”

“Why not? They're hot, they don't talk much and they like to share. Double the pleasure, double the fun.” She silently dared him to say something snarky about her sex life.

He studied her for a beat. “Any problems tellin' them apart?”

“Does it matter in the dark?”

Devin laughed. “Nope. Now you ask me something.”

Liberty thought about it for a moment. “When did you learn to play guitar? And not the slicked-up official bio version.”

That question seemed to surprise him. “A guy I went to school with had one. He never played it, but every time I was at his house, I picked it up and
dinked around. My folks were in such a state of grief after Michelle died
that they would've said yes to anything, so bein' a typical selfish teen, I asked them to pay for lessons. The guy I initially learned from was an old bar cowboy. After him, I studied with a high school music teacher. He taught me how to write music. After I moved to Nashville, I hung around with studio musicians and realized I'd never be lead guitar material.”

“So do you have to practice?”

“Nope. But I do play every day, especially if I'm working on songs.” He swigged his beer. “Do you play anything?”

Liberty shook her head. “We moved around. There wasn't money for instruments or lessons. Singing along with the radio is the extent of my musical skill.”

“What kind of music do you listen to?”

She smirked. “Will you yell at me if I admit I'm not a big fan of country music?”

“That's it. You're fired.” Devin sighed. “What do you listen to? Opera? Jazz fusion?”

“Hilarious. No. I listen to metal and pop. But I downloaded two of your songs.”

The beer stopped short of his lips. “You don't like country but you bought my music? Why?”

“I liked the songs.”

“Which ones?”

“‘Chains and Trains' and ‘Better Days.'”

“Really? Those aren't my most pop-sounding songs.”

“They're the only ones I recognized during your sets. But I'm sure I'll know the words to everything by the time this tour is over.” Way to sound like a simpering fan girl. “Which is your favorite song to perform?”

“I get asked all the time which songs I've written are my favorites. I can't admit publicly that some of my bestselling songs are my least favorite ones to perform.”

“Why?”

“Not because I'm sick of playin' them, but because I wasn't in a good
place when I wrote them.” Devin started to pick at the paper label on the beer bottle. “That doesn't seem to stop me from writing the darker stuff.”

“What are you working on now?”

“Something light, pop-based and fluffy that I can sell for a shit ton of money. Dixon Davis has asked for some demos.”

“Have you written for him before?”

“Nope. Every one of his songs has gone number one in the last five years. It'd be major if he recorded one of my songs.”

Liberty held her bottle to his for a toast. “Here's hoping the muse works overtime for you.”

Devin touched his bottle to hers. “Amen.”

With the warmth of his body close to hers and the ease of them being together, she realized how easy it'd be to get sucked into his raw magnetism. Because the really disconcerting thing? He gave off pure male charisma without even trying.

Her stomach gave a little flip, imagining him aiming his I-wanna-fuck-you smoldering stare at her on purpose. She tried to tell herself she wouldn't become weak-kneed and slack-jawed like all the other women in his orbit, but she knew it was a lie.

Especially when she looked over at him and witnessed that breath-stealing smile dancing on his lips.

Her head screamed
retreat
.

She dropped her feet to the floor and forced a yawn. “Wow. Look at the time. Am I tired. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Liberty didn't run to her bunk—but it was damn close.

Devin counted to ten. Then twenty. He drained his beer, which didn't curb his desire to chase her down.

Problem was, he didn't know what he'd do with her once he caught her.

He traced the mouth of his empty beer bottle. Ever since the moment she'd stepped out of that baby blue Mustang, he'd known he was in deep trouble. Maybe it made him a dick, but her transformation had floored him. He sure as hell hadn't expected her to look like that. The woman he'd met in the GSC offices was commanding, but very much a plain G.I. Jane. And, yeah, he'd issued the challenge because he figured she'd blow him off. That
she'd show up wearing a lipstick smirk as the extent of his demand that she blend in with his crew. In fact, that was the woman he'd wanted, because it would've been a fuck ton easier to keep her at arm's length. To keep their relationship professional.

So here it was, two goddamned days into this tour, and he wondered how the fuck he'd keep his hands off her for the next four months.

His raunchy, I-wanna-fuck-everything-that-walks side jumped in.
Jesus, what is your deal? You had two hot groupies blowing you six hours ago. And tomorrow night, you could have two more. This is your life—and what a great fuckin' life it is. Gorgeous women throwing themselves at you, agreeing to your every sexual demand—including hot girl-on-girl action.

Somehow he managed to shut that greedy voice down, because that wasn't him.

When had sex become a spectator sport for him? He'd jerked off more in the last six months than at any time since his teen years. The only difference now was the sexual scenarios happened live in front of him instead of on his computer.

He hadn't been balls deep inside a woman's pussy in ages. He'd become content letting his groupies blow him. Then he'd watch two—or sometimes three—naked chicks sucking and licking each other in an effort to turn him on. Which it did. But near the end of the live sex show, he ended up jacking off, or he'd gotten a hand job, before he sent the ladies on their way.

Today had been no exception.

After leaving the hospital, Liberty had taken his hand, almost without conscious thought. And he'd had the urge to pull her into his arms and hold her until the desolate feeling subsided. But on the drive back, he reverted to that mind-set where he needed mindless physical contact, not thoughtful consideration.

So he'd given in to the lure of quick sexual thrills, but all the while he'd heard Liberty's throaty laughter outside his ready room.

That'd fucked him up big-time—because he realized he'd rather be out there with her.

The woman was wreaking all sorts of havoc with his life as he knew it. Only time would tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

L
iberty wasn't sure how the first day of their long bus ride together would go. She knew Devin had given instructions for the bus not to stop until they needed gas. He hadn't indicated whether that meant he planned to load up on truck stop food, or if he'd leave his bedroom and fix himself something to eat at some point.

Since she was off duty when they were confined to the bus, she settled in her bunk. Next stop she'd get more pillows because two wasn't cutting it. Should she watch the backlog of movies she'd been saving on her laptop? Or catch up on the TV shows she'd been dying to watch?

Best get business out of the way first. She logged into her e-mail account. Garrett didn't require daily reports, but after years in the military, she preferred a daily log of her duties and any issues. That way, if there was a problem, she could usually narrow down the parameters on where the misstep had occurred.

Maybe it was overkill, giving intel on the groupies who'd ended up with Devin. But Liberty suspected if she didn't jot down the details, at the end of four months, she wouldn't remember a single one.

How did Devin keep them straight? Or was he beyond the point that it mattered? When had he become the kind of guy who used and discarded women? After his rise to fame? Or had he always had women dropping to their knees in front of him?

Not your business.

True. She attached the report she'd finished and sent it off. She surfed the Internet and quickly got bored with page after page of useless
information. Slipping on her headphones, she lounged against the wall and cued up the first season of
Sons of Anarchy
.

She'd made it through the first three episodes when she heard footsteps pass the heavy curtains.

Looked like the songwriter was out of his sanctuary.

Her stomach rumbled. Should she fix herself lunch? Or would Devin prefer to eat by himself? Would he ignore her? Engage her in conversation?

God. When had this professional situation morphed into junior high school lunch table drama?

When you admitted to yourself that you're attracted to Devin in a big way.

With that thought in mind, she ignored the stomach growls and watched the next two episodes. She finally ventured out and heard muffled music from behind Devin's closed door.

She'd just finished a “healthy” microwave meal when the bus slowed. Liberty peered out the window as they started up the exit ramp, seeing one of those super truck stops spread out on the right. She watched the other tour bus carrying the band pull into one of the gas bays. As soon as they stopped at the stall behind, she could see the interest two high-end tour buses generated.

Liberty headed toward the back of the bus and knocked on Devin's door.

“It's open.”

She stepped into Devin's domain. His bed was made. He wore camo shorts with a white wifebeater. His feet were bare. He hadn't shaved. Didn't look like he'd combed his hair either. But he still looked damn good—too good. He'd propped himself against the padded headboard, amid half a dozen pillows. A notebook was spread open on his right side, and he held an acoustic guitar.

“Hey. What's up?”

“We've stopped for gas. I wasn't sure if you were getting off the bus or not.”

“Hadn't thought about it.” Strum, strum. “Why?”

“If you get off, I get off too.”

When Devin aimed that famous grin at her and drawled, “Sounds fair to me, darlin',” she blushed crimson.

“You know what I meant.”

“Any idea on how long we'll be here?”

“Are some stops longer than others?”

“Yes. If the bus needs an oil change or tires rotated, it can take up to a couple of hours. If that's the case, I hit the fitness facility and run on the treadmill.”

“Since when do truck stops have fitness facilities?”

“Years, I guess.” Devin reached up and pressed a button on the intercom system. “Reg?”

Half a minute passed before Reg's voice boomed through the speaker. “What can I help you with, Mr. McClain?”

“How long is this stop?”

“Probably take an hour before it's all said and done.”

“Cool. Thanks.” Devin set his guitar aside and scooted to the edge of the bed. From a bottom drawer, he pulled out a pair of running shoes. His gaze met hers after giving her a thorough toe-to-head inspection. “You workin' out with me?”

“Depends on the security of the facility.” She retreated. “I'll get ready in case. Don't leave the bus.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

Five minutes later, Liberty was trying to figure out where to put her stun gun—damn yoga workout pants were skintight—when she felt Devin's breath on the back of her neck. A tingle traveled down her spine.

“You're seriously takin' a stun gun into a workout room at a truck stop in the middle of bumfuck Arizona?”

She snagged a nylon jacket and slipped a stun gun in the pocket before she spun around. “That's my job. I'll sit outside while you're working out.”

“I see how it is. You just don't want to hop your cute buns on a treadmill.”

Liberty snorted, ignoring the cute buns comment. “You wish. On the treadmill or on the track, I'd wipe the floor with you, guitar slinger.”

“Bring it.”

“As much as it pains me to decline . . . I'll have to.” She punched in the code to unlock the door and exited the bus first. As she waited for Devin to alight, she noticed a small crowd had gathered.

Devin had slipped on a brown and gold University of Wyoming ball cap and a pair of sunglasses. A white wire for his earbuds was draped around his neck and he held an iPod. He stopped in front of Liberty and spoke loudly. “I don't think he's getting off the bus. Said something about takin' a nap.”

Clever man. Making the people think the real “star” wasn't showing his face. Liberty closed the door and armed the alarm. Then she put herself between him and the crowd as they walked to the closest door.

Crash waited inside for them. “Fitness room is yours for one hour,” he said to Devin. Then he looked at Liberty. “No offense, but it'll look weird—not only to bystanders, but to the band—if you're manning the outside door. Better for me to hang out here and you to stay with him inside.”

Devin grinned again. “Appears we can have us a treadmill race after all.”

They turned the corner, and Crash led them to a wide, heavy door with a square glass window inset. Liberty peeked inside. The room had two treadmills, an elliptical machine, a rowing machine and a weight station. Unlike other fitness rooms, this one had no windows. No mirrors either.

Devin ditched his shades, but kept on his cap. She hung her jacket over the back of a chair after she removed the stun gun. She shoved it into the cup holder and climbed on the machine.

He whipped off his shirt.

The man definitely kept in shape. The thick slab of his chest was sculpted from his pectorals down to his rippled abs. His broad shoulders, biceps, triceps and forearms were well defined.

She managed to tear her gaze away and focused on poking buttons to warm up the ancient machine. But she felt him staring and glanced over at him again. “What?”

“Ain't you gonna take off your T-shirt?”

“No.”

“It's hot in here.”

“So?”

“So, I'll bet you're wearin' a sports bra under that shirt.”

No, she was wearing a compression bra. Her large breasts were the bane of her existence. She downplayed them with the help of athletic clothing. “I'll pass.”

“Well, sweetheart, when you're feelin' like passing out from heat exhaustion in this tiny airless room, don't say I didn't give you a chance to level the playing field.”

“You're such a gentleman. But I'll remind you I spent years in the desert. I ran in full combat gear when it was one hundred and ten degrees out. So,
sweetheart
, I'm sure I'll be just fine.” She laughed again at Devin's look of alarm. “What?”

“You're bluffing.”

“Only one way to prove it.”

“Fine. I'm in. How about . . . whoever gets the most miles in thirty minutes wins?”

“What's the prize?”

“Loser has to cook supper for the winner after the show tonight.”

“Deal.”

Devin slipped in his earbuds. “Ready, set, go.”

Liberty watched the display as she started to run. Keeping her mind on her progress and not letting her gaze wander to Devin proved harder than she'd imagined. She adjusted her breathing at the five-minute mark and again at ten minutes. By the time she'd hit the halfway point, she'd found her rhythm.

She wished she would've grabbed a towel; sweat ran down her face. She swiped it away with the back of her arm and saw five minutes left. Time to sprint. Liberty bit back a laugh when Devin's footsteps hit the rubber harder and faster.

By the time the machine shut off, she was very winded. And she wondered how smart it was to be exhausted; she was supposed to be protecting Devin, not competing with him.

He gasped, “How far did you get?”

“Four point five miles,” she wheezed. “How about you?”

“Three point nine.” He hopped off the machine and tossed her a towel.

“Throwing in the towel?” she taunted as she mopped her face.

“Yes.” He bent forward, bracing his hands above his knees. “I might puke. That's my fastest fuckin' time ever and I still didn't beat you.”

She chugged a cup of water from the dispenser. “How often do you do cardio?”

“Three times a week. Usually forty-five minutes at a whack.”

Liberty said nothing. She just took another long drink.

“What's your cardio workout?” he asked.

“Thirty minutes. Six days a week. Sometimes seven. Plus an hour of other physical workouts that vary.”

“How do you stand it? I fuckin' hate this shit.”

She handed him a cup of water. “First, it's my job to be in top physical condition. Second, if you'd ever been injured to the point you worried you'd ever be able to do what you used to . . . staying fit becomes a priority.”

Devin's gaze snapped to hers. “Shit. I'm sorry. I said that without thinking again.”

She shrugged.

He glanced at the clock. “I'm ready for a shower.”

Liberty peered through the window but didn't see Crash. She slipped on her jacket, pocketed her stun gun and said, “Come on.”

But Devin reached the door first. He looked over his shoulder. “Can't a guy catch his breath? Not everyone is a supersoldier like you.” He opened the door.

She started to follow him out. “Suck it up. I used to smoke a pack of cigarettes a day before I got fit.”

“I was fucked before I hit that first mile, wasn't I?”

Her laughter died as a guy charged at Devin from out of nowhere.

Just as she moved to intercept, Devin pushed her back into the room. Then he was slammed against the door.

“I knew I recognized you, you son of a bitch,” the guy yelled. “It's your fault that she left me!”

Seething about Devin shoving her out of the way, she pushed against the door, trying to move the psycho's fat ass.

Before Devin responded, Crash was there, pulling the guy free and
knocking him to the ground. His eyes met Liberty's, and he shoved Devin the opposite way so she could get out.

“Get him to the bus.” When Crash hesitated a half a second, she bit off, “Now!”

They disappeared, but she didn't look away from the assailant still on the floor. He could've been twenty or forty; hard to tell beneath his ginger-colored beard. “How long have you been following him?”

The guy looked confused. “Just from the parking lot. Saw them buses and knew someone who thought they were hot shit had to be on them. Then I heard the name Devin McClain and figured I could get a little payback.”

“Payback for what?”

“He ruined my fuckin' life. My wife left me because of him.”

“Let me get this straight. Your wife was sleeping with him?”

“Are you stupid? She left me after she heard that song he wrote ‘Good for Nothing.' She said it was a wake-up call for her and I ain't seen her since.”

“Looks like maybe she wised up.” Liberty leaned closer. “You oughta wise up too. I'd better never see you anywhere around him again or he'll press assault charges. Understand?”

He nodded, and she noticed he had sunflower seeds stuck in his beard. Gross. After she pushed to her feet and backed away, she looked around. Thankfully, the incident hadn't drawn an audience.

Liberty took her time returning to the bus, attempting to keep her temper in check.

Devin figured Liberty would barrel into the bus, loaded for bear, hissing and spitting and yelling. He half feared she'd zap him with her damn stun
gun to show her displeasure with him for reacting . . . like a man. He'd acted instinctively. She couldn't fault him for that.