Jace, page 4
“Yes, ma’am. Thanks to my grandmother.”
Try as she might, there was no way she was going to get into the truck cab without showing a lot of skin. Considering his grandmother wouldn’t take kindly to how much he was already appreciating the view of her long legs as she attempted to climb into his truck, he did what any gentleman would do.
He’d intended to lift her up and into the truck. That was the plan. But her scent slammed into him with dizzying impact. And once his hands settled on her waist, his brain short-circuited. Her fringed costume hid the fact that her midriff was exposed. Now, her skin, smooth as silk, electrified the tips of his fingers and had him seriously rethinking the gentleman thing.
She stared up at him, all emerald fire and pure temptation. A temptation he’d do well to resist. Getting caught up in Krystal King would be the stupidest thing he could do. He wasn’t stupid. With a heavy sigh, he lifted her, set her on the truck seat, and released her before he did something he’d regret. Regret washed over him the minute he let her go.
“You are a gentleman. I’ll have to thank your grandmother,” she said, smiling. “The gentleman is a dying breed.”
“I’m sure she hears you.” He winked, pushed the passenger door shut, and made his way around the front of his rental truck.
“I’m sorry,” Krystal said when he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago. Good to talk about her, keeps the memories alive.” He started the truck, his gaze sweeping the parking lot. No sign of Mickey Graham or Luke.
“They’re gone?” she asked, her voice rough.
“Looks like it.” He glanced at her. “You okay?”
“Fine. I’m tough, don’t you know?” She looked at him, an edge to her voice. “Hard and cold and…unfaithful and irrational. I’m sure, somehow, tonight is—will be—all my fault.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window.
“I was there.” He assured her. “His fault.”
She didn’t respond, but he thought he saw a glimpse of a smile on her face reflected in the truck side-view mirror. She had every right to be upset; he was fired up and it wasn’t even his problem. But if he could distract her, he would. “How’d the VIP thing go?” he asked. “Anything exciting?”
“That was it.” She shuddered. “He was there, hanging on Momma’s arm, smiling that sleazy smile.”
There was so much wrong with that statement he didn’t know where to start. No matter how hard she denied it, she was hurting. So changing the subject might be the best option. “You always play acoustic guitar?”
She looked his way then. “Yes.”
“You use it when you’re composing?”
“It’s what I learned to play on.” She nodded. “One of Daddy’s old ones, all scratched up and faded teal. But when he gave it to me, it was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. And it’s still the best present I ever got.”
He respected Hank King. Anyone who knew country music knew about the man’s humble roots, his determination to succeed, and his independence. His marriage to oil-princess CiCi Beaumont didn’t slow his drive or sway his ambition—he’d turned his career into a family affair. And, clearly, it had worked well for the family. “He knew what you had inside.”
“What do I have inside?” The tone of her voice changed, softening.
“Music.” He glanced at her then. “Your sister and brother can sing, but you…channel it, you create it. It lives inside of you. And when you sing, people feel it. Anyone who watches you would say the same thing.”
She stared at him, her gaze sweeping over his face before locking onto his mouth. The longer she stared, the harder it was to concentrate on his driving. When she bit the red fullness of her lower lip, he was damn near breathless.
He cleared his throat. “What?”
“I’m trying to decide what you want?” The question was soft and thin.
He frowned, unsure how to proceed. Right now, with her looking at him, he wanted something. Her. Not as Krystal King from the music videos, TV interviews, or songs that filled his truck to and from work. But this Krystal King, sitting here in the dark with him, staring at his mouth, wanting him. Like he wanted her. Badly. “Right now? Directions to where I’m going.”
There was that smile and her husky laugh. When she looked at him again, he pretended not to notice. “My bus.” She shook her head. “Back the other way. Through the security gate.”
He turned around and followed her directions to one of the large black buses waiting.
“King’s Coach?” he asked, put the truck in park, and opened his door. He jumped down and came around to get her.
She slid out of the truck cab and into his arms. “Yeah, we get a lot of mileage out of the whole King thing. Never gets old.” She smiled up at him, her hands resting on his chest.
Every breath she took pressed her curves more tightly against him, kicking his pulse into overdrive. The slow smile on her lips was all it took to make him rock hard and aching. Did she know how bad he wanted her? Having her in his arms was a sweet sort of hell.
Her eyes narrowed, just a bit, setting off warning bells. Was this some sort of test? For all he knew she was toying with him—and loving every minute of it. Either way, this had to stop. Now.
It took effort to ease his hold, to lift his hands from the warmth of her bare flesh. But he did it. Damn it all. “Night,” he whispered, stepping back and giving her space.
With a nod of her head, she walked the short distance to her bus—fringes swinging in time to the sway of her hips. He bit off a groan, leaned against the truck hood, and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets.
But when she reached the bus, she paused and looked back, studying him. “I guess this is goodbye, Jace Michael Black. Thanks for the ride.” She wavered, as if she had more to say, then thought better of it. With a flounce of fringe and sparkling boots, she disappeared inside her bus, the thud of the doors closing echoing in the parking lot.
“Well, hell,” he ground out, resting his head on the hood of the truck until he could think straight again.
Chapter 3
The black windows of their SUV were heavily tinted, but the bright Texas sun filtered through—not helping the pounding in Krystal’s head. She’d already asked their driver to slow down a little, the world flying by making her stress-headache nausea that much worse. She didn’t need to be here. Nope, she needed to be barricaded in her nice dark bedroom between crisp, clean sheets with her dog, Clementine, at her side, pretending that the best thing she’d ever written wasn’t being recorded without her. But Daddy put his foot down, insisting she come along as “creative consultant.” Maybe he thought keeping her involved in the creative process would make this hurt less.
He was wrong. She’d had two days to accept she wasn’t singing her song, but making her watch Emmy Lou and Jace do it was mean.
It didn’t help that her nightmares had been worse since her run-in with Mickey. Not that Mickey had ever hurt her, but still. Being alone with him. Having him invade her space. He dragged her back to a time and place she didn’t want to go to—trapped, in the dark, knowing there was no one to hear her. Or stop what was happening. She’d pushed and fought only to jerk awake, crying and drenched in sweat.
Jace’s timing had been perfect. Jace—who her sister had been chattering about since they left the ranch and made the drive into town.
“He is gorgeous,” Emmy Lou said. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
Krystal sipped her skinny vanilla latte. She’d noticed, all right. Since meeting him, Jace Black had starred in far too many daydreams. But it was purely physical—because he was hot. So hot she wished he’d followed her onto her bus. She’d waited inside, hoping against hope, holding her breath until the lights of his truck and the roar of his engine told her he’d driven off. He was, apparently, a real gentleman. It was surprising in a good way. And disappointing. Sleeping with him would have been a colossal mistake. But she was pretty sure it would have been worth it.
“I thought we were off men together?” she asked, leaning against her sister. Even though it had been years since Emmy’s breakup with football player Brock Watson, her sister hadn’t moved on. Emmy rarely mentioned her ex. Partly because it still hurt to talk about him and partly because talking about him brought out Krystal’s super-protective side.
Brock had been the one. Well, everyone had thought he was, anyway—especially Emmy Lou. He was a too-cute, all-American, Mom-and-Dad-approved, apple-pie-loving, high school sweetheart and soon-to-be professional football star. Emmy had given one hundred percent of her heart to him, and he’d shredded it into a million tiny pieces before chasing after his dream—a dream Emmy Lou had always supported.
Things went from bad to worse when her sister had learned about his engagement and subsequent over-the-top wedding to a lingerie model. Emmy had cried and cried and Krystal had vowed never to let anyone hurt her sister like that ever again.
“Not all men are like…Brock.” Emmy drew in a deep breath. “Anyway, Jace seems nice.” Emmy glanced at her sister. “What did you think?”
So far, yes. He seemed nice. But she wasn’t ready to buy the whole gentlemanly, nice hot-guy thing. He seemed a little too good to be true. “My head hurts. It’s seven thirty and I’m having my first cup of coffee, Emmy.” She dodged. “I’m not thinking about anything. Except my coffee.” Which was a lie. Thanks to her sister, she was definitely thinking about Jace. His smile. His laugh. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes. That smooth-as-velvet voice. The touch of his fingers against the skin on her back. And the way his faded jeans hugged an ass worthy of notice. She’d definitely noticed him.
Emmy laughed. “Well, he seemed to like you.”
Krystal almost choked on her coffee. If he’d really been interested, she wouldn’t have slept alone. “You have an overactive imagination, Emmy. He was in shock, like a deer in headlights.”
To be fair, he’d handled himself pretty well, all things considered. No matter what he was feeling on the inside, he stayed cool and collected, barely tripping over his words when he talked to her father. And after, with Mickey. If he hadn’t shown up, what would have happened? She owed him a thank-you. She could think of a dozen or so ways she could repay him. One or two of them might be clothing optional. She smiled as she sipped her coffee. “But he’s nice. Maybe.”
He was still an ass for stealing her song.
“I’m sorry your head hurts.” Emmy looked pointedly at her choice of attire. Her sister looked perfect, as always. She didn’t leave the house unless she was ready for a photo shoot. Hair, makeup, actual pants versus yoga pants or leggings, and some cute, ruffled blouse.
“Don’t get all judgy on me.” Krystal stared down at her cheetah print leggings, black Converse, and oversized black T-shirt. She adjusted her black cap and pushed her sunglasses up her nose. “It does hurt. I’m upright, wearing clean underwear and a bra. I’m not trying to impress anyone. Besides, I’m only here as a technical adviser.” Something she’d tried to get out of. The song was done. Since she wasn’t singing it, they could do what they damn well wanted with it. A point that had already been made perfectly clear to her since she wasn’t singing it.
“What do you mean?” Emmy turned to look at her.
Krystal peered over the edge of her sunglasses. “Um, you and Jace.”
“Me and Jace what?” Emmy Lou froze. “You mean… Wait. But I thought you were singing—”
“You thought wrong.” A sharp spike formed in her throat, so she sipped her latte.
“But this is your song.” She shook her head.
Krystal didn’t say a thing. It was her song.
Emmy chattered away. “Momma said it was the best thing you’d ever written it. She was so excited about it.”
“Momma says a lot of things. What she means is something different,” she interrupted. Her dear, precious mother. The incident with Mickey had only reinforced how much she disliked the woman who’d birthed her. It was wrong, she knew it, but CiCi King brought it on herself. What sort of person tormented her child for profit or attention? How would that help the band? She would do anything, anything, to keep the Three Kings front and center. Like bring the man that forever tarnished her reputation to a VIP mixer hoping to stir things up. And suggesting he replace their opening act. She wouldn’t put it past her momma to have planted the drugs in Josephine and Frankie’s bus. But that seemed far-fetched, even by CiCi King standards.
Then again, it wasn’t completely implausible.
This was the same woman who’d dismissed her accusations against Tiger Whitman all those years ago. Krystal, according to her mother, was “looking for attention” and lying to get it. Her mother was furious—with her—for making up such vile, dirty stories about a dear family friend. Tiger, Uncle Tig to those who knew him, was a fine, upstanding pillar of the country music business. He’d helped so many careers along the way, including her daddy’s. The man was practically family. He’d never ever hurt her—Momma refused to believe otherwise.
But Krystal knew the truth. She lived with it every day.
Panic gripped her, pulling her muscles tight and pressing the air from her lungs. And she hated it. Hated the slimy bastard. Hated the weakness. Hated being locked in her head—in fear—when she was safe and sound sitting by her sister.
“Oh, Krystal.” Emmy took her hand. “I can’t do it,” she whispered. “How could she?”
Because it’s what Momma does. Stir things up. Keep drama front and center. As long as she was in charge, she was happy. Somehow, she knew her mother had pitched it to the Wheelhouse Records VP, a man she had firmly in her pocket, as a vehicle for Emmy Lou. She wanted to believe her father hadn’t played a part in that. Her daddy was a businessman, but he loved his children and that always came first.
How Jace Black wound up part of the deal, she didn’t know.
The car came to a stop and they made their way inside the studio her family owned. Between her father and the Three Kings, it had made more sense to build one than rent one every time they needed one, which was often. Of course, her daddy had a pretty open-door policy, when he or the Three Kings weren’t working on something.
She nodded at the sound manager and sipped her latte, wishing the caffeine would take the edge off. But there wasn’t enough coffee in the world for that. Mickey, her mother, her song—the song she’d written hoping to put some of her demons to rest…
“Are we late?” Emmy whispered, nodding toward the recording booth.
Jace Black was already waiting. Still way too hot. She pretended to take a long, slow sip of coffee to give him a thorough once-over.
His faded jeans did only good things to his perfectly sculpted ass. And the worn John Deere tractor shirt hugged his upper arms just right, hinting at his impressive muscles. The throb in her head was challenged by the throb of want flooding her veins. It’d help if he wasn’t smiling at her. Or he wasn’t so tall. Or so bone-meltingly gorgeous. The things she was imagining right now, with painstaking attention to detail and in slow motion, took more of the bite out of her headache.
“Morning,” he said, all dimples and white teeth.
She grunted.
“Jace,” Emmy Lou whispered. “Nice to see you.”
“You too,” he said.
“Krystal, rough morning?” her daddy asked. “Headache?”
She nodded, sipping her coffee.
“Before we get started, there are a few things we need to work through. You’ve all heard about Josephine and Frankie. We had a few guests step in the last two concerts since their arrest, but we need a solid opener.” Her daddy sat on a stool. “Jace, with the duet and all, Luke thought you might be interested.”
Krystal choked on her coffee. There was a vague recollection of him being mentioned that night, with Mickey, but she’d been too distracted and upset for it to register. Until now. Jace. On the road. Being nice and funny. Too hot for his own good. Driving her out of her mind—wanting him. In close quarters.
But her mother’s alternative—Mickey Graham—would make her life a living hell.
“Are you serious?” Jace asked, stumbling back a step to sink onto a stool.
Her father nodded.
Krystal was struck by Jace’s reaction. The man was truly shocked that her father would suggest such a thing. And, for some reason, it touched her. She had yet to discover if Jace was talented, but her father saw something in him. That spoke volumes.
Jace stared around the room, glancing at Emmy Lou, then her father, before his grey eyes locked with hers—and held. His gaze fell away, and he rubbed his hands on his thighs. He stood, eagerly shaking her father’s hand. “Thank you.”
Why had he looked at her like that? Was he going to say no if she objected? She should. Really. Nice or not, he made her nervous. Not about him, but about the way she reacted to him. “If he said no, we’d be stuck with Mickey?” she asked. Surely there were other options—less complicated options.
“Of course not.” Emmy Lou cleared her throat. “Daddy would never do that to you. To us.”
She smiled a hard smile at her sister. “Daddy might not.”
“But you are interested?” her daddy asked Jace again.
“Yes, sir. Without a doubt.”
“We’re good.” Her daddy stood. “Luke said you have enough songs to start putting together a few singles? Let Krystal take a look at them, tweak things up.” He glanced at her. “Okay?”
She nodded. Sure, why not? What she really needed was more time with Jace. That way they could really torment each other. She sighed. Maybe Jace was working with her mother. His job was to drive her to distraction. Because if he was their opening act, she’d get to see him all the time and want to stay with the Three Kings versus exploring a solo career. Not CiCi’s best plan—but not her worst.
