Country Heaven (32 page)

She was thinking about making his cake a few hours later as Rye was preparing to finally share his surprise, back from a rehearsal with the band.

“You ready, darlin’?” he asked from the bathroom.

Sitting on the bed, she couldn’t contain her grin. What in the world did he have in mind?

“Ready.”

When Rye walked into their bedroom, her mouth dropped open.

“What do you think? No one’s gonna recognize me as an Elvis impersonator.”

He smoothed a hand over a sleek black wig and struck a pose. His body was not the older Elvis. It was the hot, make–chicks–scream body out of
Jail House Rock.
He put a hand to his stomach and did that hip gyration that had made countless women swoon.

“Oh. My. God.”
Sometimes Rye Crenshaw defied words, and this was one of those times.

“Do you like it?” His voice was sultry and low, mimicking the King.

Tory jumped up and circled him, noting how good his butt looked in the white jumpsuit with the buckskin fringe. “You shaved your goatee,” she accused. It felt odd seeing his face without it, especially with the wig and press–on sideburns.

“Part of the collateral. Elvis only went for sideburns.”

His strong chin had a sexy dent, she noticed for the first time. “You are certifiable.” And so sweet for doing this, she almost added.

He ran a finger down her nose, making her aware of the numerous rings on his fingers. “It’s the perfect disguise. Now I can show you the city without fans stopping me every five feet.”

Her throat grew tight. He was doing everything he could to keep things private between them, and it only made her love him more.

“I love it,” she said, instead of
I love you.

He leaned in to kiss her lightly on the lips. It felt weird to kiss him without his goatee, and he clearly felt the difference too, since he pulled back with a grimace.

“You’re going to have to do better than that. You’re my girl for the evenin'.”

She laughed, hoping a little levity would ease the tension in her chest. “Please, Elvis wouldn’t be seen with a girl like me. I don’t have big enough breasts.” Tory let her hands cup them. “Or big enough hair.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare say that! You’re about as perfect as they come.”

So much for easing the tension in her chest. She could all but feel the clock ticking down the rest of their time together.

God, how was she ever going to leave him?

“I’m gonna show you Memphis,” he said, kissing her on the lips. “Feed you BBQ from Rendezvous. Fried chicken at Gus’. Show you Beale Street.”

“Sounds like an awful lot of food,” she mused, and what a change of pace not to be the one cooking it.

“Honey, one of the reasons you come to Memphis is to eat. Speaking of which, have you ever had fried pickles?”

“No.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. They’re incredible.”

She stroked the side of his face. “It sounds wonderful.”

Pulling her close, he ran his hand down her hair. “Good. I’ll give you anything you want tonight, Tory.”

Since their time together in Meade, he’d done nothing but. He bathed her in pleasure, anticipating anything she could ever want. Sat with her while she worked. Played his guitar for her and sang her requests, laughing at some of her taste in music. Soon her life would be empty again, and she couldn’t bear to think about it.

“Do you have any ideas about how we’re supposed to handle the heat?” she asked in an attempt to distract herself. “It’s hot as Hades out there.”

He led her to the door. “We’ll find you a super–size hurricane. You won’t notice the heat after that.”

He was right. Her first raspberry–colored Hurricane did the trick. It also began a decadent evening of food crawling. They popped into all his favorite food joints, from Rendezvous to Bigfoot. The BBQ was incredible, falling away from the smoky bone with barely a bite, and the fried pickles were a strange new delight, full of tartness and crunch. By the time he led her down to Beale Street, she was clutching a full stomach. So far no one had identified him, and she’d gotten used to people greeting him as Elvis.

Beale Street was flashy and packed with people. Loud bars played competing and complimentary types of music, from blues to country to Elvis, and Rye hummed along as they went by. Electric signs cut across the hazy night sky. They passed street performers with guitars and drums. One of the men had a set of spoons that he used to create a beat against his knee. And there were men doing back flips and handsprings down the middle of the closed–off street. Police patrolled, looking bored, like there was little they hadn’t seen before. Rye pulled her to a take–out window bar to order another Hurricane.

When they reached Club 152, one of his favorite haunts, he led her inside, and they wound their way to the back. Another Elvis impersonator was performing on the well–lit stage, and he gave Rye a collegial nod. She and Rye found a table in the corner, and they both sat down.

Tory took in their surroundings. The club was an open, airy space that featured a combination of brick walls and dark wood paneling. While the stage was small, it only gave more gravitas to the Elvis look–a–like in his black jumpsuit bejeweled with rhinestones. He had fake side burns like Rye’s and dark, retro sunglasses. His chest hair protruded from the X stitching on his chest. A white sash was wrapped around his relatively trim waist like a Civil War soldier, and he was wearing French cuffs that trailed to six golden nugget rings on his fingers. The microphone in his hand sparkled as brightly as the disco ball above his head.

The patrons clapped along to a lively rendition of “Viva Las Vegas.”

Rye ordered whiskey sours for them. She hated mixing, but tonight was special. His family was arriving in town tomorrow. It was the last time she’d have him to herself.

After another four songs, the crowd had grown quiet, and a few people left.

“Well, folks,” said the man on the stage. “It seems I’m not the only Elvis on Beale Street tonight. Perhaps we can get the other guy to show us his stuff.” He tipped the microphone in a challenge at Rye. “Then y’all can decide who you like better.” He strutted forward, his bell bottoms swinging.

A few of the patrons gathered closer to the stage, intrigued by the prospect of a competition. Tory thought his strategy was ingenious, but she knew something he didn’t: he was going to lose tonight.

Rye stood and rubbed her arm. She caught his devilish wink and smiled after him as he walked onto the stage like the star he was. There were perhaps thirty people in the audience. Little did they know that they were getting a free concert from country music mega–star Rye Crenshaw.

Rye gave a nod to the other Elvis. He’d relinquished the stage to his competitor for the moment and was sitting at the bar with a beer. Rye put the microphone to his hip and scanned the crowd—giving each person just enough attention to feel that he was really looking at them.

“Well, it seems we have a lot of good lookin’ ladies in the house tonight. It makes me want to sing something special for y’all. Honey, why don’t you come on up here with me?”

Since he was pointing at her, she frantically shook her head.
No freaking way.

“Why don’t you folks put your hands together for my girl? She’s a bit shy. And it’s her first visit to Memphis.” He crooked his finger, giving her a challenging look.

That did it. She never backed down from a direct challenge. Taking a fortifying gulp of her drink, she climbed onto the stage.

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” He grabbed a silver bar stool from the back of the stage and gestured to it grandly. Tory sank into it, heat breaking across her body as the lights beat down on her.

Rye rubbed her shoulder. “So, y’all, what song do you want to hear?’

“‘Love Me Tender’,” a woman called out.

“Ah, one of my favorites. Ladies, I hope you’ll find a man who can love you tender—just like Elvis sang it.”

His deep voice took on that magical Elvis quality as he began to sing, “
Love me tender, love me sweet…”
He made eye contact with the audience and had them in thrall before turning those deep hazel eyes on her. The words made her heart burst open.

As he continued, singing about how she made him complete and he never wanted to let her go, she blinked back tears. His eyes seemed to glow under the lights, and there wasn’t a hint of a smile on his face…

It was too easy to believe he meant every word.

She reminded herself that someone had requested the song, but her heart didn’t care about that logic, and her throat grew thick with emotion.

He gave the song his all, managing to watch both the audience and her. A few of the women in the audience sighed, as if they were as transported as she was. Well, why wouldn’t they be? He was a beautiful man crooning out a beautiful love song. People edged closer to the stage, spilling over from the bar, as Rye took the song home—and with it her expectant heart.

Applause reverberated in her ears. Rye turned to her and kissed her hand before putting the microphone close to his chiseled lips and giving a perfunctory, “Thankya very much.” Bowing, he led Tory down the steps and handed the cordless microphone to the other Elvis, who looked glum, his plan having backfired quite epically.

“Can we go back to the hotel?” she asked as they left the club, the excitement of being on Beale Street gone.

“Sure thing,” he replied, taking her hand.

When they arrived back in their room, she turned to him. “Make love to me, Rye.”

He tossed the wig aside and tunneled his fingers into her hair. Tory surrendered, desperate for the distraction. Her mind was still playing “Love Me Tender,” and her heart was still eager for more.

***

The arms clutching him were unusually desperate, and Rye felt his own rawness answer hers. He thought back to the way she’d looked under the stage’s lights while he sang to her. God, she was beautiful, and it was getting harder and harder to accept that he wouldn’t get to keep her.

Every moment counted. As he stripped off his clothes and hers, he treated each touch as if it were their last. He wanted their lovemaking to be slow, and he wanted to memorize her face as he made her come again and again.

When his hands covered her breasts, she traced his chest in an answering touch, and they continued to caress each other with their hands and mouths, paving a trail of desire.

He brought her to her first peak, and then licked his way up her body, igniting her all over again. His name was a hoarse cry on her lips, and in that moment, he could no longer hold back. He slipped between her legs after putting on a condom and slid slowly into her until he was fully sheathed, knowing she liked him deep. Her eyelids fluttered, and her body rose to greet him.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

Their eyes met, and all his senses were attuned to her—her skin, the way her neck arched when he stroked in deep. Soon they both needed more, and he picked up the pace as they fisted their hands together. When he lowered his mouth to kiss her, she tugged on his bottom lip.

“Come with me,” he urged, drawing her knees up higher.

She moaned and moved with him, lost in the sensation of them coming together. When she came, he followed her over the edge.

When he regained his senses, Rye rolled to his side and pulled her against him. “Making love with you is damn near perfect,” he whispered in her ear. And it was true. He couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else after her. He pushed aside the thought.

Tory pressed her face against his chest. “For me, too.”

His emotions, which had been tangled since that moment in Club 152, picked up on her melancholy. “What’s the matter?”

She let out a jagged breath. “Nothing.”

It was a lie, but he didn’t press. He didn’t know what to say, so he tilted her face up, stared at her for a long moment, and then kissed her.

The gentleness and quiet passion in that kiss was mixed with something more potent. When she finally pulled away, Tory burrowed her face into his side.

Rye ran his hand up and down her arm. “About tomorrow night. As you know, my family is coming for the concert… I was hoping you might go with them.”

The first and last one she’d been to was in Minneapolis.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she whispered.

“I’ve got another surprise for you tomorrow,” he rushed on. “But I promise it’s not a PR thing. Will you trust me?”

A gentle smile spread across her face. “Yes, I’ll trust you.”

The simple words had his heart pounding, his ears ringing. “Good,” he said, so grateful that they’d learned to trust each other. He knew it didn’t come easily for either of them.

When her body relaxed and her breaths lengthened, Rye was still awake. She hadn’t talked about how she felt about him or said anything about staying in touch. And while she’d become a vital part of his life, she had her Ph.D. to finish, and he was facing the new challenge of integrating his family into his life. The timing was bad for a long distance relationship.

And beyond that, there was the issue they’d faced since day one: he was a country singer, and she didn’t like to be in the public eye. Plus, she was the marrying kind, and while he cared for her deeply, he feared he would eventually resent the idea of being tied down.

But under the lights, singing “Love Me Tender” to her, he’d felt something more powerful than he’d ever experienced before and had almost bumbled a few of the lyrics.

Letting her go would be the hardest thing he’d ever done, but like everything else in his life, he’d just have to suck it up and do it.

I met an angel in a place called Diner Heaven,
Her eyes were a shiny bottle green,
She had a smart mouth,
Perfect for me.
She’s a bull–riding fiend,
And oh, what she cooks for me,
Makes me fall to my knees.
Oh baby, baby, please set me free.
She’s strong as steel,
And as tough as they come,
Life’s been one hard road.
But she don’t quit.
Keeps ploughing on.
But I know she has to go,
We’re at the end of the road,
‘Cause even in the country,
Angels have to go back to the heaven that sent them.