Hillbilly Rockstar

  opponent was big Joe. The man was actually limping as they walked off the mat.

  Devin knew why Garrett had suggested a tour—to show him Liberty in action.

  “Never underestimate her,” Garrett said softly.

  He didn’t respond. He watched Liberty and Joe peel off their protective gear as they continued their conversation—an intense and intimate one, if the familiar way Joe touched her cheek was any indication. When she smiled at Joe, her face full of joy and her eyes shining, it didn’t matter that she was soaked in sweat or what she wore; Liberty Masterson was the most compelling woman he’d ever seen.

  Not attracted to her at all? Bullshit. Maybe that’s your problem. You are attracted to her and she’s not your usual type.

  The next four months in close quarters with this woman just got a whole lot more complicated.

  Chapter Four

  Sparring with Joe hadn’t taken the edge off. Liberty still wanted to beat the shit out of someone, namely one smarmy-ass country singer.

  Because I am not attracted to her in the least.

  Motherfucking son of a bitch, that stung.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that. Usually she blew it off, but this time it weighed on her and she didn’t know why it stung so much.

  Maybe because he’s one of the sexiest men you’ve ever met.

  No lie there. The man had it going on. Lanky—but a holy-shit well-built lanky. Broad chest, equally broad shoulders, muscular arms beneath his tight long-sleeved T-shirt. His face hit the perfect mark between rugged and pretty. His hair had to be ten different shades from pale blond to a rich, dark brown. Neither the color nor the riot of curls that made all those hues stand out had come from a bottle, and damn if those sexy, loose curls didn’t just beg for a woman’s fingers to get tangled up in them. That million-dollar smile of his was way more potent in person than on the pages of a magazine—not that the man had bestowed that infamous grin on her. But even when he had smiled at Garrett, it hadn’t reached his piercing turquoise blue eyes. The constant wariness in them didn’t bother her; in fact, it would make her job easier. Better to have a cautious client than a cocky one.

  Liberty climbed into her car and dropped her head back, closing her eyes. Even the new-car scent of her pride and joy—a baby blue Mustang—didn’t settle her like it normally did. She ran her hands over the steering wheel as her mind raced.

  How was she supposed to completely make herself over into a simpering, insipid, scantily clad groupie in three days? It’d take two weeks to get an appointment with a brain surgeon to suck half her brain out. She snorted. Few besides herself appreciated her sense of humor.

  She didn’t know where to start in assembling a new wardrobe. There’d been an adjustment period after she retired from the army, transitioning from wearing the required uniform to choosing civilian clothes. Comfort, not fashion, was her priority. So, yeah, she could admit her clothing was boring. She had two styles: not work clothes and work clothes. Her not work clothes consisted of ratty sweats and baggy T-shirts, worn jeans, long john tops and camo shorts. Her work style wasn’t any better. She owned one sundress, which she’d bought on a whim. Her official work wardrobe was black, black and gray. Black pants, black jackets, sturdy black shoes. But she’d mixed it up and bought suits in navy blue and dark brown. The good thing was, it didn’t take her long to get ready in the morning.

  Times like this she wished her sister Harper lived closer. Although Muddy Gap was a lot closer to Denver than Fort Bragg, where Liberty had been stationed for years. She glanced at the clock. Noon. Probably Harper was doing ten thousand things at once, but she called her anyway.

  As always, Harper’s breathy sex-phone-operator voice was ruined by little boys’ shrieks in the background. “Hey, sista. I was just thinking about you.”

  “I assume you’re at home?”

  Harper laughed. “How could you tell? Jake, get down. No, Tate. He doesn’t need your help.”

  Liberty grinned. Those two little boys were a handful. But they were sweet as well as wild, and she loved them with a fierceness that surprised even her. “How are my darling nephews?”

  “Needing a nap. Or maybe just Mama is. I’m fixing lunch before I pass them off to Bran for the afternoon. I’m heading in to the store. What’s going on in your life?”

  “I need your help,” Liberty blurted. “Like really need it to the point I’m about to have a damn panic attack.”

  “Hang on a sec. Bran just walked in.”

  Liberty heard, “Hey, hot mama,” and imagined Bran kissing Harper’s neck, like he did whenever they’d been apart for more than five minutes. They were so crazy in love it’d be sickening if not for the fact they shared that love with everyone around them. From the instant Bran had married Harper, the gruff rancher had considered Liberty as much his sister as Harper’s. He’d been such a pillar of strength for both her and Harper in the months during Liberty’s recovery and after leaving the military.

  So she couldn’t be jealous of her sister’s good fortune; Harper deserved the happiness she’d found with Bran. Still, Liberty secretly believed that type of forever, soul-mate love was a fluke.

  “Heya, sis. Come visit us soon. The boys miss you,” Bran said into the phone. Then the sounds of background noise faded.

  “Okay, now tell me why I’m getting a panicked call from you,” Harper said with concern. “You’re never panicked.”

  Liberty exhaled slowly. “After eight months of training, I’ve scored a long-term assignment where I’ll be traveling. At the meeting today, the client insisted that I”—it pained her to admit this to her beautiful, fashionable sister—“look less dowdy and more hip to fit in.”

  “Your jerk of a client said that to you? Good Lord, Lib. How much is the guy limping? Or did you just shoot him?”

  She loved how quickly Harper got indignant on her behalf. “Neither, because he’s right. I have no sense of style. I’ve always told you I don’t care, and that was true when I was on active duty, but now? Now I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m thirty-five years old and I’m so overwhelmed by all of it—girl hair, makeup, clothing—that I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Well, sweetie, you came to the right place. Take a deep breath. We’ll get you through this.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, you’ll be cursing me when I tell you that I’ve been waiting for this day to come, and I’ve prepared for it accordingly.”

  Liberty frowned. “How did you prepare for it?”

  “Please. Did you forget I own a clothing store? I see thousands of pieces of merchandise every year. And ever since you got this job, when I saw something that would look great on you, I’ve set it aside.”

  “Christ. Like some kind of Liberty-becomes-a-fashionista hope chest?”

  Harper laughed. “Exactly. I know you like baggy, comfortable clothes and I kept that in mind when I picked pieces that are . . . absolutely nothing like that at all.”

  Liberty groaned but admitted, “God, you annoy me, but I love you anyway.”

  “I know. I’ve set aside two dozen pieces. Some will work well together, some need another piece to complete the outfit, but they’re all stylish and yet fit with your personality, job and lifestyle. When do you need them by?”

  “We leave Denver on Monday.”

  “Okay. Not a problem. I’ll overnight them to you today . . . under one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That we finish every ensemble tomorrow afternoon—including shoes. Which means you will take me along as your personal shopper and we’ll be on FaceTime for as long as it takes.”

  Don’t groan. “That sounds”—like torture—“good.”

  “You’re such a liar. I’ll include ideas of what I think will finish off the outfits and where you can find individual pieces. We’ll start at department stores.” Harper paused.

  “What?”

  “Is money an issue?”

  “Dep
ends on if you’re sending me shopping at Saks or Kmart.”

  “Places like Nordstrom, Dillard’s, Forever 21, Charlotte Russe and Anthropologie will work just fine.”

  “Then I’m good.” Now that the hundred-thousand-dollar paycheck loomed, she could afford to spend a little of her nest egg.

  “What about hair and makeup?”

  “I was hoping you’d have all the answers for that too.”

  “That’s something you need to handle on your own. But let me ask Bernice if she knows anyone in Denver who specializes in makeovers.”

  Bernice. That crazy woman who told her she had the perfect face for a crew cut. Liberty had enough problems looking feminine without that. “I’m not sure—”

  “Bernice won’t steer me wrong. I promise. As far as makeup, I’ll text you a list of basics you need in your toolbox. Then I want you to go on YouTube and watch ‘how to’ segments. I’d suggest a department store makeup counter, but I know you, sis; you’re hands-on. The best way to learn is to do it yourself. And this time you have to learn. Your job depends on it.”

  Some of the tension melted out of her. “You don’t have any idea how much I appreciate this.”

  “Yes, sweetie, I do. I’m really tickled you came to me first.”

  “As the former Miss Sweetgrass, you’re the expert. I never even considered calling anyone else.”

  “I wish we could do this in person.” She paused. “How long will you be on assignment?”

  “Four months. But I get a ten-day break after three months so I promise I’ll drive up and hang out with you and your boys.”

  “We’d like that. And maybe before you leave you could FaceTime with Tate and Jake? They love the stick horses you sent.”

  She grinned. Spoiling her only nephews was her right. “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll text you Bernice’s salon recommendation and I’ll talk with you tomorrow. Love you, Lib. Thanks for needing my help.”

  “You might be sorry you said that,” she warned. “Love you too. Kiss the fam for me.”

  Four hours later, Liberty was sitting in a beauty chair, facing a mirror. The stylist had spent fifteen minutes offering suggestions about color changes and style.

  Now the decision rested solely in her hands. She looked at her baby-fine, reddish brown hair, which brushed the tops of her breasts. Over the years she’d worn her hair either long or short, no in between. She’d never changed the color. She’d never really cared before now.

  Be daring. And face it—even a shitty haircut eventually grows out.

  “So? What’ll it be?”

  Liberty smiled—although it looked more like a grimace. “Do it all. Cut it. Color it. I don’t want to recognize myself when you’re done.”

  Two days later . . .

  Devin studied the outside of his new tour bus. No gigantic image of his grinning face, no signage at all about who was on board. But there was no doubt this still looked like a rockstar’s bus. The inside was even better. He had a big master bedroom and decent-sized master bathroom. The promotion company had even found a bus with only two bunks instead of the standard four. This one had a second bathroom as well as a small alcove where the bunks would’ve been. The main living area had a half-wall on both sides that allowed for separation from the kitchen. The driver’s area was enclosed like the cab of a semitruck. The only access was through a sliding glass window.

  His roadies had unloaded his bags in his bedroom and stashed his favorite guitars in the closet. He didn’t give a damn if his clothes got wrinkled; he cared that his guitars were protected and accessible.

  Crash wandered over with an update. “We’re loaded. The equipment trucks are gone. The roadies’ bus is following. We’re waiting on Tay, but the rest of the band is ready to roll.” He peered over the top of his sunglasses. “Where’s your new personal assistant?”

  “Who knows? I haven’t heard from her. If she ain’t here in ten minutes . . . we’re still leaving.”

  “Nope. Sorry. I got my orders, Dev. We’re waiting on her.”

  “Goddammit. This is so fucking stupid. I don’t need—”

  As he spoke, two arms circled his waist and he jerked away violently.

  Yeah, maybe he was a little on edge.

  He whirled around and saw the shocked face of his string player and songwriting partner, Odette.

  “Geez, Devin, jumpy much?”

  “Sorry, darlin’.” He hugged her. “You all set?”

  “Yes. Thanks for scoring us a new bus too. It’s sweet. Steve and I will be breaking in that king-sized bed very soon.”

  “TMI, little O. And if you tell me that my drummer’s got the right rhythm, I will put you two lovebirds in a single bunk and rotate Tay, Gage, Leon, and Jase into the bedroom.”

  She whapped him on the chest. “That’s just plain mean. Sounds like someone needs to get laid.”

  “You have no idea.” Although he had groupies lined up for him before and after shows, in the past eighteen months, after all this shit started going down, he hadn’t fucked any of the women he’d invited into his ready room. He’d kept sexual contact to blow jobs and hand jobs. If those women lied and bragged he’d banged them, well, he didn’t give a damn. He couldn’t go back and change the manwhore reputation he’d built over the years—most of which had been exaggerated anyway.

  A jacked-up Ford truck screeched into the parking lot and the driver slammed on the brakes. A scrawny, bearded guy leaped out of the cab and climbed onto the back bumper, lifting suitcases out of the truck bed and tossing them to the ground.

  Just then Tay came around the back end of the truck, yelling obscenities at the man.

  “You have got to be fucking kiddin’ me,” Devin said. “Is Tay an asshole magnet?”

  “Yep. This dude followed her to Denver from Kansas City. They were going at it like rabbits. We were in the room next to theirs,” Odette said.

  Then Tay took a swing at him with her laptop bag.

  The guy ducked, jumped back into the truck and sped off, tires spitting gravel.

  “Looks like another breakup to me,” Crash muttered. “Can’t wait for her and Jase to start fucking and fighting again . . . Not.”

  Jase, the laid-back lead guitar player, and Tay, his keyboard player and backup singer, had an on-again off-again relationship. Their fights—and subsequent makeups—were loud, obnoxious and the main reason after Odette . . . Devin never got involved with a woman he worked with.

  “Is Jase here?” he asked, watching Tay head toward the band’s bus, Odette hot on her heels.

  “He left with the equipment truck,” Gage said behind him.

  “Wise choice.”

  “A hundred bucks says they’re back together by Friday,” Leon, his steel guitar player, said.

  “Whose turn is it to run the pool?” Steve asked.

  “Gage did it last time,” Crash said. “I reckon it’s Devin’s turn.”

  “Get your bets and money to me by showtime.”

  “Who’re we waiting for?” Gage asked.

  Just then a gorgeous baby blue Mustang pulled up. The driver’s-side door opened, and a pair of boots hit the concrete. He saw only a flip of the woman’s hair and her jeans-clad backside—and sweet baby Jesus, what a sweet backside it was—before she was hidden, rooting around in the open trunk.

  Even as his suspicions surfaced, his head was telling him no, that couldn’t possibly be her.

  The trunk shut, and she started toward him. Wind tousling her shoulder-length auburn hair, her hips swaying in jeans that hugged her every curve. With a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and another one clutched in her other hand, she flexed her well-defined arm muscles. Her cherry red lips curved into a smirk as she fastened her gaze on him.

  Holy mother of God. It was a miracle that he managed to keep from drooling. Or from cursing at the sky because the fucking universe had a sick sense of humor.

  Or maybe this is karma beating you with the stupid stick for boldly pr
oclaiming that you didn’t find Liberty Masterson attractive. And for challenging her to look the part of your groupie entourage.

  What a cruel joke—his groupies never looked that goddamn good.

  Devin had about ten seconds to prepare himself before she reached him. Good thing he had his sunglasses on—maybe they’d keep his eyes from popping out of his head.

  That’s when his gaze landed on not one but two bruisers behind her. One guy carried two suitcases; the other guy hefted an enormous cooler. Given the sheer size of the first guy, he could’ve been a Broncos linebacker or a WWE wrestler. The second guy was a mirror image of the first.

  Liberty offered a quick smile. “Sorry I’m late. I had to grab a few last-minute things.” She set down her duffel bags. “Which bus is ours?”

  Devin pointed to the forward bus.

  “Sweet upgrade. Guys . . . do you mind?”

  Immediately, Hulk #1 and Hulk #2 carted the suitcases and cooler aboard the bus. Then they were back, awaiting Liberty’s instructions.

  She stood on tiptoe to get in Hulk #1’s face. “You’ll make sure she’s