Somethin' Dirty: Country Fever, Book 4 (3 page)

He got up then unbuckled the side straps holding Lyric in a semi-reclining position. She loved her seat, as she was afforded a good, nosy look around the kitchen.

She cooed and fisted him in the side of the face. He blew a little raspberry on her fingers then passed her to Nana.

While his mother talked to Lyric, he got up and washed out his coffee mug and Lyric’s last bottle. Worry dragged at his gut. Could he survive calving season on top of these other obligations?

Damn Miranda for running. What he needed was a mother for his child, but he wasn’t about to go hunting for one. Most women his age came with their own baggage—kids, ex-husbands, mortgages. And the younger women were too busy getting doctorates and taking spring breaks to want to take on him, his daughter…and his ill mother.

“Shit,” he said under his breath. He turned, leaning against the counter. “You gonna be okay for a bit with her, Ma? I need to see to the animals.”

She waved without looking at him, involved in opening and closing her mouth for Lyric’s enjoyment.

With mud boots and Carhart jacket on, he went out into the cool spring air. The last of the frost had fled a week ago. The sun’s warm fingers slid over his face. Stopping mid-stride, he tilted his face up and let the heat bathe his skin.

The only kiss he’d felt for a long time.

As he tended the few horses he kept and those cows in the barn with calves, he tried to force away the knot of despair in his chest. It was time to man up and hire some help.

But would he hire a ranch hand or a nanny who might assist with the house as well as Lyric? Maybe both.

Having assistance on all fronts would free his time to help his mother by taking her to appointments. Maybe he could move her into the spare room. As soon as the thought struck, he laughed out loud. His independent mother would no sooner move in with him than ride a bucking bull.

He grabbed a pitchfork and dug into the hay, breaking off fresh bits for the cows. Damn, these new hires he was planning would tax his wallet even more. Miranda’s demands stretched him thin already. Add health care for a private rancher and his infant daughter and he was nearly poor.

I’ll tighten the belt. Sell the motorcycle. What the hell do I need a motorcycle for, anyway?
He couldn’t exactly strap the car seat on the back. And it didn’t look as if he’d have a woman to wrap her legs around him anytime soon.

Which led to thoughts of his body’s needs. Fuck, he needed to get laid. A real, flesh and blood stress-reducer.

An hour later, muscles warm from exertion and all his animals in the barn tended, he went inside to find his mother and daughter asleep on the couch. Lyric was snuggled belly down, one little fist wrapped around his mother’s index finger. It was impossible not to notice the tear tracks on his ma’s face.

With a lurch in his stomach, he went in search of the phone book. What he needed to do was place a wanted ad.

Nola shook her hands, trying to flick her anxiety from the ends of her fingertips. The coffeehouse was packed, and she was up next for open mic night. She’d planned this date for a month—sing her heart out to the crowd here, then move on to The Hellion for karaoke and all-you-can-drink Hump Day.

Sure, she’d probably have one too many, but she’d enjoy herself after the rush of performing. And besides, The Hellion provided transportation for all drinkers on these special Wednesdays.

“Ready?” Molly appeared at her side, bouncing on the toes of her red cowgirl boots.

Nola glanced down at her sister’s boots. “Take ’em off. Your boots match my outfit better.”

Molly’s mouth fell open in an O of surprise.

Nola struck with another big-sisterly command. “Now. Hurry. I’m almost up.”

“No one is lookin’ at your feet,” Molly said, hitching up one leg and yanking off her boot. She dropped it and Nola exchanged it with hers.

“If I’m gonna be famous someday, I can’t look like a hick. What if someone snaps a photo, and it’s sold to the media? I have to look the part.” Nola pulled on the other boot and stamped her feet to conform the leather to her shape.

The singer before her—a young guy with an acoustic guitar and a fantastic voice—finished his song on a long, emotional note.

Nola turned to Molly. “How do I look?”

Molly’s gaze skimmed her tiny denim skirt and red plaid shirt, knotted just above the waist and exposing a sliver of flesh. She tipped Nola’s straw cowgirl hat a bit lower over her eyes. “Perfect. You look mysterious and sexy.” She shoved Nola toward the abandoned mic. “Now kick some country ass, sis.”

Nola gave her hands one last shake and stepped behind the microphone. Wow. The house really was packed. Every table was filled, and it was standing-room only. She gave a sweeping smile and opened her mouth.

The notes spiraled out, her voice rich and true, just as she’d practiced a hundred times. The recorded music picked up partway through the first verse, as planned. Nola pivoted to Molly and dropped her a nod and a smile of thanks for always being there to back her up.

As she sang, the crowd began to stir, and pretty soon some were on their feet, swaying to the upbeat tempo. This song was a knock-off of a popular ballad. She’d twisted it into a fast song, and it worked pretty well, in her opinion.

She grabbed the microphone from the holder and bent forward, stomping a boot and unleashing her voice’s full power on a long note.

The music shut off in perfect timing. And Nola finished the song a cappella—her true strength. Just her and her voice on stage, reaching for the souls of the listeners.

She finished to rousing applause. She fist-punched the air and did a little twirl. Several whistles sounded, and heat infused her face. While she’d dressed to be noticed, it always threw her off-balance.

Male attention wasn’t something she wanted or needed at this point in her life, no matter how much she craved it. And whoooeeee, there were a few smokin’ hot cowboys in the crowd who could tease her senses.

She gave a final wave and stepped off the small stage. Molly bounced up to her, and they hugged.

“You were great—really strong. All that singin’ in the shower paid off.”

Nola smacked her and laughed. For her entire life, Molly had made fun of her for singing in the shower. “What can I say? Good acoustics and all that. Let’s get outta here. Karaoke’s started.”

As they moved through the crowd of the coffee shop, Nola accepted praise with a smile, nod and thanks. Once she hit the cooler air, she drew a lungful of breath and calmed a bit.

The performance high lingered though, bubbling just under the surface. A couple of songs at The Hellion, and she’d be flying. This was better than any drug. Hell, it was better than sex.

Maybe not good sex.

Molly drove their grandpa’s old pickup with the rusty bed while Nola mulled over her sex life—or lack thereof. Why was she dwelling on it now, of all nights? She’d gone six months without so much as a peck on the cheek from a date. Now she spotted a few pairs of Wranglers and some battered hats, and she was ready for a romp.

“What songs are you going to sing?” Molly asked.

“Umm.” She named a few. “That’s if that cow Jenna doesn’t steal one of them first. You know how she loves to compete with me.”

In high school, Jenna had badmouthed her, spread rumors about her and generally did everything in her power to keep Nola from earning the solo performances in choir. Years later, she still tried to steal the spotlight.

Nola waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. She’s a good singer, but I’m not competing. My only competition is in Nashville.”

Molly turned sad eyes on her. Whenever Nola spoke of leaving Reedy, her sister clammed up and gave her the sad-eye routine.

“Oh c’mon. You know I have to try,” Nola said. “Speed up so we can get there and snag a good table.”

“Maybe I can get a few twirls on the dance floor with Jamie Poe.” Molly’s voice grew breathy at the mention of the cowboy she’d been crushing on for months. Jamie Poe was as badass as they came—beautiful physique in ripped jeans, worn boots and an anti-smile that made girls cream themselves. When he leveled that glare at someone…

Nola just hoped it was never her. If anyone got a chance with Jamie Poe, it should be Molly.

The Hellion parking lot was jammed with old trucks and beater cars, looking like submarines in enemy waters. Half of the cars belonged to the designated drivers and the other half to those who planned to take advantage of the all-you-can-drink Hump Day special and then catch a ride home with a sober friend.

One price, as much beer and whiskey as a person could put down without falling over. Most of Reedy would stumble into work bleary-eyed and nauseated the next day. Thank goodness The Hellion only hosted this special once a month.

Nola had no plans to imbibe on that level, but letting her hair down tonight seemed like fun.

And if I find a cowboy to grind with on the dance floor, even better.

She shook herself. Where did that come from? Damn, she was intoxicated on the fumes coming from inside The Hellion. Maybe she should stop at one beer, just to be safe. The last thing she needed was a one-night stand. Escaping for Nashville would be harder with a besotted guy tagging behind.

Or worse, what if she became besotted?

She climbed out of the truck and crossed the gravel to the front door of the bar. Determination steeled her spine. No, she was just here to sing and have fun with her sister. No boyfriends, no sex. Just her and a Lady Antebellum song or two.

Inside was hopping. Someone was cranking out Van Halen at the top of his voice, trilling through the octaves as if he were David Lee Roth.

Molly cringed and stepped up to the bar. “Two drafts.” She smacked down some bucks, and Nola reached for the wad of cash she’d somehow managed to fit into her skirt. Molly waved her away. “I’ve got it, sis. You go put your name on the list and choose your songs.”

Grinning, Nola swung off through the crowd, pushing against sweaty, excited bodies. The dance floor was wall-to-wall with line dancers and a few couples grinding against each other.

She reached the stage where the karaoke DJ had a binder full of songs. Nola flipped right to her favorites and scribbled her name on the list for three. When scanning the penned names, sure enough, she spotted Jenna’s.

Good, let her yodel her way through Taylor Swift.

She whirled to return to Molly, when she lifted her gaze and saw him. Standing against the wall, arms folded, dark eyes hooded as he watched her.

Jesus. Where had this guy come from? Did Reedy even boast of such amazingly hot men like him? He must be an out-of-towner.

Six-one with messy dark hair that was too long. And damn, he wore a beard with a soul patch under his lip that made her press her thighs together.

His biceps strained the seams of his white and gray western shirt. From here, she saw his jeans conformed to his body, outlining the fact that he was very aware of her.

She shuddered. Confusion gripped her, and before she could do anything remotely stupid like walking up to him and asking for a dance, she spun off into the crowd.

Bodies pressed close, and faces flashed around her. She pressed a palm to her chest, trying to still the manic rate her heart had adopted.

Be careful. A man like that is a dead weight—a stone tethering you to Reedy
. A hand stopped her, and she looked over to find Molly. Her sister cradled two beers against her tight denim shirt.

“Thanks.” Nola took one drink. “Let’s get a seat.”

Molly laughed, pitching her voice high enough to be heard over the blare. “Where? Maybe that chandelier up there isn’t taken.” She tilted her head back. “Nope. All clear. Let’s climb onto the piano and jump on.”

“Okay, we’ll stand.”

Molly gestured with a nod toward the wall. “Looks like some good standing room over there.” Her voice took on an insinuative tone as she obviously spotted Mr. Thigh-Clenchingly-Hot.

“No, not there. We won’t be able to see the singers very well.”

“You need to see them? Since when?” But Molly followed Nola clear across the room to the opposite wall. An entire dance floor stood between her and that man who, in seconds, had made her forget all dreams of Nashville, and was making her think more and more of how long it had been since she’d had a man’s arms around her.

Or a soul patch rubbing my clit
.

Oh hell no. This wasn’t happening. She drank off half of her beer in a few long swallows and stared at the crowd. A lot of people she knew. She waved at friends and nodded to acquaintances, but her mind remained latched to the man against the wall.

She tipped onto the toes of her boots to see him.

A couple shifted on the dance floor, and she caught a perfect view of Mr. Thigh-Clenchingly Hot.

And he was—

“That guy’s staring at you. Jesus Lord, Nola.” Molly fanned herself. “If a guy was looking at me like that, I’d…”

Nola’s mind lost track of Molly’s words. Everything around her vanished but those two dark eyes pinning her down.

A movement from Molly snapped her out of it. She looked up in time to see her sister had raised her glass in greeting to Mr. Thigh-Clenchingly Hot.