Coming Undone (3 page)

“If you can keep up.”

He could, but only because he’d found a spot in the garage not far from where she’d parked. He’d barely turned over the engine in his rented SUV when she peeled out of the garage like a bullet from a .45, and he had to remain alert just to keep her in sight as she headed out of town. In between driving like Dale Earnhardt Jr. in order to stay on her tail, he spent time on his cell phone finessing arrangements with the hotel they’d just left.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the graveled lot of a huge clapboard tavern with the name Guitars and Hot Cars spelled out in flaming red neon across the roof. P.J. had hopped out of her pickup and was striding toward the honky-tonk’s massive double doors before he’d found a spot to park in the acre-wide lot.

The joint was jumping when Jared let himself in a few minutes later. The lights were dim, the music loud and the dance floor packed. There were a lot of women wearing straw Stetsons and skintight jeans. He was beginning to think P.J. had given him the slip out the back when he spotted her sitting at the bar talking ninety miles an hour to a bartender with no neck, tattoos on his massive biceps and a blue bandana tied around his bullet-shaped shaved head. For all his tough appearance, the man had a stunned look in his close-set eyes as he divided his attention between pouring a shot from a bottle of Wild Turkey and staring at her. Jared could identify, knowing from experience that P.J. could talk the balls off a brass monkey.

“The band’s about to break. I’ll go get Burt,” the bartender was saying as Jared walked up. “He’s gonna flip that you actually showed up.” Placing the shot glass in front of her, he gave the bar a meaty slap and laughed.

“Thanks, Wayne.”

“Are you kidding me? He thought you was playin’ games with him for sure. He’s gonna be so jazzed.” Shaking his head, Wayne pulled the towel from his shoulder, wiped a drop of bourbon off the countertop, then called someone over to relieve him. Surprisingly agile for a man his size, he hopped the bar as soon as his replacement arrived and disappeared down the back hallway.

Jared took the vacant stool next to her. “Got a hot date?”

He thought she was going to ignore him, but after a second of silence she hitched the shoulder nearest him. “You bet.” She tossed back the shot, shuddered a little, then turned to look him in the eye. “I’m primed. I’m pumped. Raring to go. Me and Burt are gonna do the bed boogie till we burn down the house.”

To his surprise, he discovered that the thought ground at something deep in his gut. He could barely wrap his mind around P.J. as a woman, much less a sexual woman who sat in bars tossing back shots and talking about doing a stranger. But that was his problem, so he merely gave her a cool-eyed gaze. “Obviously you’ve had a change of heart about sex since the last time I saw you.”

Swiveling her stool in his direction, she gave his forehead a light rap with her knuckles. “Hello! I was thirteen years old the last time we discussed sex. Of course I’ve had a change of heart.”

“Well…good, then. Fine. That’s real healthy.”

Her clear amber eyes looked into his as if she could read his soul and her mouth quirked up in a knowing smile. “Isn’t it just?”

An older, heavyset man bustled up just then, and, treating Jared as if he were suddenly invisible, P.J. twisted her stool around an additional quarter turn to face the new arrival. Her face lit up in a million-watt smile. “You must be Burt.” She thrust her hand out.

The man grasped it and pumped enthusiastically. “Oh, man. It really is you. I thought for sure Wayne was shittin’, er, that is, foolin’ me.”

“No, sir. As I told you on the phone, I’d really like an opportunity to perform with the band, if they don’t mind.”

“Oh, man,” he said again. “They’re gonna go ape. Why don’tcha come with me and I’ll introduce you.”

“That would be great.” She turned to Jared. “And here you thought I’d come to have sex with the man.”

Burt looked aghast. “What? Why would anyone think such a thing?”

“Darned if I know,” she said sorrowfully. “There are some people in the world who are just sick puppies.”

The older man shot him a look of disgust and cupped a protective hand around P.J.’s elbow.

Jared watched them walk away. “What a card,” he said through tight teeth as they disappeared into the crowd. Ignoring the pretty blonde in the leopard-print cowgirl hat who offered him an inviting smile as she slid onto P.J.’s vacated stool, he reached for the bowl of peanuts on the bar. This had been the longest goddamn day.

And apparently it wasn’t over yet.

P.J.
FINISHED STRATEGIZING
with the band over the order of the playlist and walked up to one of the two mics, adjusting it to her shorter height. “Hell-o, Pocatello! My name is Priscilla Jayne and Cold Creek has kindly agreed to let me play with them this evening. I hope you don’t mind my horning in.”

The audience roared its approval and she grinned, flooded with pleasure. God, she loved this. Singing was the only thing she’d ever had that was hers alone and when she performed, all the crap in her life just disappeared for a while. Her glance went to Jared at the bar, but immediately she brought her attention back where it belonged—with her audience.

“You probably already know Cold Creek’s lead singer, Ron Taber. He and I have never sung together before—but if you won’t hold the occasional screw-up against us, we promise to give you the best show we possibly can. Now, we know you came here to dance, so let’s hear those boots out on the floor, because we’re starting out tonight with Shania Twain’s ‘I Ain’t No Quitter.’” Leaning into the microphone, she sang,
He drinks…

The drummer and steel guitarist jumped in with a two-note counterpoint.

He smokes…

As the band repeated the counterpoint, Ron Taber leaned into his mic, made a half turn to look at her, and joined in.

He curses, swears and he tells bad jokes…

The bar patrons poured onto the dance floor and P.J. and the band kept them there by playing everything from “Billy’s Got His Beer Goggles On” to “Hick-town” to her own “Let the Party Begin.” Not until the dancers nearest the stage looked good and sweaty did P.J. say, “We’re gonna slow things down now with a little number called ‘Mama’s Girl.’”

Some of the dancers snickered, and she acknowledged them with a crooked smile. “I know, I know—it’s an ironic choice, given the headlines in the rags these days.” Her gaze involuntarily sought out Jared. Then she snapped her attention back where it belonged. “But do me a favor and don’t believe everything you read, okay?” She turned to the band. “Hit it, boys.”

They launched into the intro and she brought the mic to her lips. Looking beyond the lights to the shadowy tables ringing the dance floor, she sang:

It
was
ironic, all things considered, but despite everything she still loved this song. Her friend Nell had written it, and from the very first time P.J. had heard it, its story and haunting melody had resonated with her. It’d also accessed feelings she was ashamed to acknowledge. For how did one admit to all the guilty longings for the kind of mother she’d always wished she’d had? “Mama’s Girl” had hit on her most heartfelt, number-one fantasy—a mother who loved her daughter unconditionally and made sacrifices to assure her child’s happiness.

It was a pipe dream, of course, but every time she sang the song she could almost make herself believe that it was true—that the saga of a single mother whose every thought began and ended with her daughter’s welfare was
her
story. Even now, after Mama had tried to rob her blind and had smeared bits and pieces of her life across the media, the emotional connection to the mother of her song kept sucking her back into the fantasy.

Unfortunately, that had caused her to dig herself into a great big pit with the media when “Mama’s Girl” started racking up airtime. But what should she have said when they’d asked if the lyrics were based on her own experiences—that the woman in the song was so far removed from her real mother that it wasn’t even funny? That she sang an ode to a nameless, faceless woman she’d give her left arm to have been raised by?

No, not faceless, P.J. admitted. She had never forgotten Jared’s sister, Victoria, or the way she’d treated her daughter, Esme. Had never been able to erase the memory of the love stamped all over the woman’s face whenever she’d looked at her little girl. Nor had P.J. forgotten Victoria’s generosity—not when Tori had given her the most beautiful dollhouse she’d ever seen when P.J. had left Denver to go back to live with Mama.

So every time she sang this song, Victoria’s was the face she envisioned.

By the time they finished the set, P.J. was all jacked up with the euphoria of performing. Fans stopped her every two steps as soon as she left the stage, but she smiled and laughed and happily talked with them. She was in a fine mood by the time she reached the bar.

“Great show,” Wayne said.

“Thanks, it was fun. Can I have a large,
large
club soda, please?”

“You bet. You want something stronger to go along with it? Another shot of Wild Turkey, maybe? It’s on the house.”

“No, thanks. One shot lubes up my pipes. Anything more throws off my timing. But I appreciate the offer.”

He brought her a tall club soda and she drank it down in one long swallow. Laughing, Wayne took the glass from her hand, refilled it with the soda gun, squeezed a wedge of lime into it and handed it back to her. A second later the waitresses converged on the bar and he left to attend to the break’s rush orders.

“Looks like you’ve got this crowd wrapped around your little finger,” Jared’s voice suddenly said directly into her right ear.

Sensation shivered from the point of entry all the way down her side and she swiveled to face him. He was wedged between her stool and the one next to it, looking hot in his worn jeans and white tank top with a white shirt hanging open over it. He smiled down at her. She noticed, however, that the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. That seemed to occur a lot—and she realized anew that although she’d known the boy almost inside out, she didn’t know squat about the man he had become. “I enjoy meeting fans,” she said coolly.

He slid onto the stool next to hers. “You were really good up there.”

Okay, she’d admit it: his praise thrilled her. But attributing it to a momentary blast from the past, she merely inclined her head. “Thanks.”

“So what are you doing in a podunk bar when you’re slated to begin a tour of big-time venues?”

“Doing what I love best—jamming with other musicians.” She shrugged. “And if I can exert a little damage control with the fans at the same time, so much the better.”

“You’d do a lot more damage control if you gave an interview to one of the magazines or CMT.”

“Well, thank you for that advice. If the time ever comes when I wanna see my private life dissected in front of millions, I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.” She shook her head in disgust. “I thought you’d be the one person to understand the effect all this media attention has on a person’s psyche. But I guess you’ve changed even more than I’d already noticed.” Hopping off the stool, she stalked across the bar to the back exit.

“P.J.!”

She didn’t even slow down.

Dammit, he’d brought her wonderful mood crashing to earth and she resented the hell out of him for it. This had been the happiest she’d felt in almost two weeks.

Losing the performance high, however, was nothing compared to the way he’d crushed her second-favorite fantasy. For years she’d carried the dream of him around in her heart. For a brief while he’d been her hero, and she’d missed him like crazy when her mother had first let her come home after Rocket rescued her and Jared from the streets. But she’d seen the mansion Jared lived in, and the seeds of Mama’s insistence that a rich boy like him had no time for a girl like her had found fertile ground. So when she and Mama moved mere days after reuniting, she’d let her relationship with Jared lapse.

She’d dreamed of him, though. God, had she dreamed of him! And long before she’d ever believed she might have an actual shot at realizing her fantasy of becoming a country singer, she’d made up scenarios in her head of one day running into him. She, of course, would be the hottest singing sensation since the coalminer’s daughter. He would be so struck by her beauty and talent that he’d beg her to marry him on the spot. And they’d live happily ever after in a nice house with a really big yard full of dogs and cats and stuff.

“Juvenile bullshit,” she muttered now, pushing through the back door into the brisk evening air.

She shivered. It had been about seventy degrees earlier today but the town was nestled in the western foothills of the Rockies and the temperature felt as if it had dropped thirty degrees. Rubbing her arms as the sweat she’d worked up onstage encountered the chilly air, she eyed the cartons of empties stacked next to the Dumpster. She separated out one and sat on it. Planting her elbow on her knee, she rested her chin in her palm.

After a moment it occurred to her that although she was tired of being jerked around, just sitting on her butt stewing about it didn’t seem to be getting her anywhere. So maybe it was time to get up and actually do something.

She marched back into the bar, located Wayne and walked up to him. “See that guy over there?” She indicated Jared with a lift of her little finger.

“Yeah. Seen him talking to you a minute ago. Then I seen you taking off, lookin’ mad enough to chew nails. He bothering you?”

“Yes. Can something be done about it?”

“You betcha.” He pulled out a sawn-off oar from beneath the bar and raised it in the air over his head.

“Whoa, whoa,
whoa!
I don’t want him beaten up.”

He grinned at her. “I’m not gonna hit him. This is just to signal Bubba.”

“Who’s Bub—Whoa.”

A man the size of a refrigerator appeared next to her, and Wayne jutted his chin toward Jared, who was sitting down the bar a ways, killing off a bowl of peanuts. “Man in the white shirt is bothering the lady here,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry about that, ma’am,” Bubba said in a quiet, surprisingly high-pitched voice as he politely inclined his head to P.J. “I’ll see to it he doesn’t do that again.”

“Without violence, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He started to turn away, then turned back and gave the front of his white straw cowboy hat a courteous tug. “Enjoyed your singing.”

“Thank you.” She turned bemused eyes to Wayne as Bubba ambled away. “Big boy.”

“Oh, yeah.”

They both watched as Bubba walked up to Jared, leaned down and said something in his ear. Jared turned his head to stare at P.J., his face impassive but eyes hot, before nodding and climbing to his feet. He dropped a couple of bills on the bar then strode across the room and out the front door.

Take that,
she thought, watching until the door closed behind him.
How do
you
like being the one with no power over what’s happening to you?
She turned back to Wayne. “You have any bottled water?”

“Sure.”

“Let me have one of those, wouldja? I need something to sip onstage.” She wasn’t stupid—she knew she hadn’t gotten rid of Jared permanently. But for the moment at least he wasn’t sitting there raining on her parade. She was used to being in charge of her life, but too many things had been happening lately without her input. It had to stop.

And to that end, she felt as if she’d taken her first steps. Maybe only baby steps, but it felt good all the same to be proactive again. Her heart regained some of the lightness she’d been feeling before Jared had ruined her mood.

By the time she and Cold Creek closed down their final set at close to two in the morning she was flying high. She talked to the band while they broke down the drums and packed the stringed instruments in their cases. But when they invited her to join them for an after-hours drink, she declined. The shot she’d tossed back before the first set had long worn off, but she didn’t think it was a good idea to have another drink just before she climbed behind the wheel. Plus she wanted to get out of town before the press got wind of tonight’s gig and hunted her down—but she could use a few hours’ sleep first. So she thanked them, thanked Burt and Wayne and Bubba, and headed out to the nearly empty lot.

Jared’s SUV was still parked across the lot, but she shrugged and headed for her truck. If her luck held, maybe she’d make it back to the hotel and gain her room without having to talk to him. Laughing, she dashed to her pickup. So far, so good. No headlights flashed on the Lexus and its engine didn’t fire up. She unlocked the driver’s side and opened the door.

“Took you long enough.”

“Holy crap!” Her breath exploded from her lungs and her heart slammed up against the wall of her chest. She slapped a hand to her breast to contain it. Seeing Jared lounging on his tailbone on the passenger side of the bench seat, a black felt cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes and his long legs crossed at the ankle and propped up on the dashboard by the steering wheel, made her good cheer go up in smoke. “What are you
doing
here? How did you get in? And where did you get that hat?”

“Waiting for you. Picked the lock. And I found the hat behind the seat. I look pretty hot in it, don’t I?”

He did, dammit. “The color’s appropriate, anyhow.”

“Bad guy, black hat?”

“Why, yes, now that you mention it.” She gave him her best wide-eyed innocent look, as if that wasn’t exactly what she’d implied.

“At least I know enough to look inside a vehicle before I climb in.”

She rolled her eyes. “So do you often help yourself to other men’s stuff?”

His eyes were a now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t gleam beneath the brim. “Can’t say that I do. But I had lots of time to kill, and when I found this—” he touched a lazy finger to the hat’s brim “—I realized I need a nice Stetson if I’m going to be on a country-music tour. Want to fit in, don’tcha know.”

“Well, get your own. That one’s Hank’s. And it’s not a Stetson, city boy. It’s a Resistol.” She smacked his calf. “Get your feet off my dash.” When he complied, she climbed in and closed the door. The overhead light blinked off.

“Who’s Hank? Your boyfriend?”

“My fiddle player.”

Jared didn’t know why he gave a damn one way or the other, but he was glad to hear it belonged to a member of her band. He looked at her as she fired up her truck. She had pretty skin; it looked creamy even washed by the faint green-and-gold glow thrown off by the dash. He cleared his throat. “You okay to drive?”