68. All my Lorrie Morgan Mojo
ALL MY LORRIE MORGAN MOJO
brIGHTON
I successfully manage to avoid Eli for a while.
In fact, I managed to survive my period no showing in April.
That freaked me the fuck out. I’m chalking it up to stress and sadness.
Between the trauma of losing mom, the grief that never abates, and the mindfuck that is Elias Finchley, shark week ghosted me.
That in itself created another layer of anxiety and worry.
Yeah, we used a condom, but that two percent chance was all I could focus on. That and knowing how damn good it was.
And how I fucked it up.
Again.
By May, the ship had righted and, like clockwork, at the most inopportune time, that particular stress lifted.
I’ve avoided Elias. No good can come from seeing him. I survived him popping by and only had an occasional sighting here and there.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday I basically got sucker punched. And it was a one-two shot. One to the gut; the second to the heart.
Pop called and asked me to rush to Braxton’s. I dropped everything and did. Only to learn that my oldest brother had what amounts to a pregnancy scare of his own. Tragically, the baby’s mother died, and the son that Braxton never knew about is coming home to our ranch.
Elias, as Brax’s attorney, is walking him through it. Yesterday was paperwork and homecoming prep. Today, it’s welcoming Colt Emerick Ranger to his new life and his new family.
Me being a part of this is incredible. Mom not being here, though, is brutal.
Seeing Eli yesterday was a surprise and not in a good way. Seeing him today is more than I can handle. At least today I was prepared and had time to get my guard up.
Besides, the mere idea I have a nephew overwhelms Eli’s presence.
Colt sleeps in my arms. He’s all kinds of Braxton. In fact, I have to wonder about his mom. I don’t see her in him, not that I would know what to look for.
He’s got a shock of dark hair and the Ranger’s Italian nose. His lips have a perfect Cupid’s bow, and his little eyebrows are so delicate, they look painted on hair by hair.
I’ve stared at him. I’ve snuggled him. I’d be lying to say I haven’t sniffed him too. Diaper funk aside, babies smell sweet, and not cloyingly so. Just the clean sweet that doesn’t exist anywhere else.
Eli doesn’t try to engage me. There’s work to do. Besides Brax and Pop are here. He won’t try anything. Please, God, don’t let him try anything.
He leaves with only one long glance, and I close my eyes, pulling Colt just a little tighter into my chest.
A lone tear forms.
I hate being a fuckup. I hate it.
The bitchy social worker leaves too. It’s just we Rangers—three generations of men.
And me.
A second tear tries to form, but I whisk it away. Not today.
I’d stay, but I can feel the melancholia setting in. Besides, someone around here has to work.
“Congratulations, Brax. He’s perfect.”
The awe on Braxton’s face as he takes in Colt might as well be sunshine. I let myself out, Braxton completely mesmerized by the little bundle that just changed his whole world.
I walk toward the stables with the warm and fuzzy feeling I got from watching my brother’s joy at holding his son, mixed with the weight of the last three months. Colt is perfect, and I could spend a week just snuggling him and looking at him.
No doubt Brax needs all the help he can get, and I’ll get my fill of that sweet boy. His shock of brown hair and bright eyes could melt even the hardest person. The single dimple? Well, he’ll get away with murder just having it wink at us.
I can teach him to ride. Or shoot. I’ll definitely be singing to him.
I’m lost in my thoughts, a small smile pulling across my face, when I’m ambushed.
“Brighton.”
I spin and find myself face to face with Elias.
Shit.
I nod. The less I say, the easier this will be on both of us.
“Three months, Bright. Three fucking months. You’ve acknowledged my existence once in that time, and that was yesterday. And today you’re back to the cold bitch you’ve been pretending to be since March. What the hell?”
I cross my arms, lift my chin, and hold his gaze.
“I apologized, Bright. I never meant to hurt you.” He plants his hands on his hips, eyes searching my face.
I don’t know what he’s looking for and I don’t care.
He points between the two of us, his face going hard. “So, this is it? I don’t exist and you’re in full bitch mode with no other setting?”
“I guess so.” I don’t say his name. It scrapes me raw to say it, and I need those emotions, that time in our lives, and my desire for him to stay dead.
“You guess so?”
I look him over, top to toe, pretending I find him lacking when he’s anything but.
He’s ruggedly handsome, his lean body strong.
Strong enough to carry me. Strong enough to break me.
His long-sleeved shirt rolled up almost to his elbows give me a glimpse at his forearms. It’s too hot for that today, but it’s tempting nonetheless.
Seriously, he’s beautiful. But he looks weary.
Not tired, but weary, as if he has too much weighing him down.
When my gaze returns to his face, a smirk plays on his lips. “Like what you see, darlin’?”
Fuck me with that darlin’. No clue why, but it does it for me. It’s not something he would say to multiple people. I know him too well.
I flip my open palm back and forth. “It’s fine, I guess, if that’s your thing.”
“Bright, you’ve been staring at me for a while.”
“Ego much? I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you around, okay?” I turn on my heel, only to be spun around with a hand at my upper arm.
Eli pins me with his gaze, before his face goes hard. “Always thought you’d be worth the trouble…” He never finishes his sentence, though, because he turns and stalks away having landed the death blow with seven words.
I want to shout back ‘you should’ve known better’ or ‘your loss,’ but all I can do is recognize the rightness of his statement.
I’m a hell of a woman. But, he’s right, I am trouble. He’s either not man enough to sort through the latter or not willing to discover the former.
… Or I’m not worth the effort.
I don’t have time to sift through that conundrum. I have horses to check on. The health of our herd requires my time and attention. This drought isn’t helping, and there’s always more to do than time to do it.
When that’s done, though, I have to find the bottom of a bottle. I just killed the desire of the only man I’ve ever wanted. The man I’ve loved since I came to understand what love actually means. I put the final nail in the coffin and hammered myself inside.
This calls for sad songs and lots and lots of liquor.
After work, I take advantage of my favorite room in the house and let the shower jets pound away my day. When that’s worked its magic, I throw my hair up in a twist, flick on some water proof mascara and lip gloss, and head to Crooners.
The local karaoke bar has a summer tourist crowd and maybe four or five locals. They know the drill. The tourists will just be along for the ride.
I order a vodka and Red Bull and waste no time finishing it. I’m on my third when the place starts filling up and I place my requests.
I start with “Tennessee Whiskey.” The crowd watches until several start dancing. I’ll give them a concert. I’ve got nothing but grief, disappointment, and liquor-fueled songs to offer, but I’ll lay them all out there.
Besides, I have the pipes. My mom could sing, and she encouraged me to too.
I finish my second one, Johnny Cash’s version of “You Are My Sunshine”, when I see the note on the machine that the next song isn’t mine. It’s not even country. It’s Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine.”
Well, to each his own. I take a stool at the bar as I thumb through the songs. But when the voice comes over the speakers and that mournful tune flows out, I’m rooted to my seat.
Elias.
Eyes unfocused, he stands on stage, pouring out the hopeless lyrics. When he sings about the daily darkness, though, his eyes fix on mine before flitting away.
His whiskey voice is more tentative than my bold one. But it’s smooth and clear, and his baritone warms me. I had no idea he could sing. Much less like this. Damn.
And his sunshine song directly counters mine.
It also twists a knife in my gut, but I can’t allow that.
I find an old Merle Haggard song and cue up “I Think I’ll Just Stay Here and Drink.
” It would land better if we didn’t have to wait for a group of nearly drunk summer tourists to finish “Friends in Low Places,” but I’m guessing he gets the message all the same.
But I stutter when the lyrics discuss the jukebox, because the lights flit away from the stage for one second, and I can see into the crowd.
It isn’t the packed house that gets me. Or the leering eyes of the older men up front…
all of whom are old enough to be my father’s age and who leer like they want a shot with me.
No.
It’s the waifish blonde standing at the bar with Elias that makes me trip over the lyrics. The beautiful woman poised at his shoulder, looking at him coquettishly, running a finger up his forearm.
I recover from where I falter. Few will notice.
But he will.
And that alone pisses me off more than I can express.
I make a quick exit for the bathroom and avoid the tourists attempting Jimmy Buffet. No one should do Buffet. His songs are fun and easy enough to sing along with, but too iconic. Buffet must either be mimicked or owned. This crew really should just avoid it.
I run a cool, wet paper towel over my face, trying to perk up and remove the sweat from the hot spot lights.
This is bullshit.
I go back to the bar ordering yet another drink, this one straight vodka when I hear him. He’s singing again. This time he’s ruining one I wouldn’t think he’d even know. The problem is he’s not ruining it and he’s staring straight at me singing Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud.” Fucker.
This means war, and it’s on.
I make my selection and practically run him off the stage when I hear the first strums of my musical fuck you to him. I belt out Lorrie Morgan’s “What Part of No Don’t You Understand” until the crowd is on their feet.
I own the lyrics of this song.
And, oh, do I have the vodka flowing through my veins.
I’m eating it up, my vision blurry, my soul warm, when I see the title of the next song, and I just can’t. Just fucking can’t.
Luke Combs. I love Luke Combs. He’s one of the few in modern country that I can enjoy. And I do. Every freaking song. And here comes “Beautiful, Crazy.”
Dear God, please let it be a tourist or one of these gross old men. I can unhear them sing that song, but if it’s—
And, fuck my life, it is.
It’s fucking Elias Finchley singing the best love song of the last decade.
To me.
As I still stand on the stage. Like I’m a magnet inexplicably drawn to him and can’t unstick my feet to walk away.
And damn the lone traitorous tear that escapes my eye, rolling to my chin, betraying me and my badass, take-no-shit, what-part-of-no attitude.
He’s turned fully to me. No one in the crowd can miss the zing of electricity between us. The chemistry is undeniable. Even if I desperately want to deny it.
He pulls deep and sings boldly, unlike before, and he hits every note, eroding away at my resolve, chipping away my defenses.
The crowd is enamored. They’re on their feet singing along, but I can’t hear a thing.
Except Eli.
Eli pouring out his heart.
Publicly. Musically. Boldly.
He’s undoing all my Lorrie Morgan mojo.
And I can’t even be mad about it.
And then he does it again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, would you like a duet? Want to hear the amazing Dr. Brighton Ranger again, if she’s willing to sing with me?”
The crowd hoots and hollers.
He doesn’t see my little head shake. He doesn’t hear the voice in my head. Don’t do this to me, Elias. Don’t make me fall for you. Don’t bulldoze my defenses. I won’t survive losing you.
“I’m going to need more response than that to get her to agree, folks. She seems almost shy.” He turns to me, a smirk playing on his lips. “Brighton, how about Billy Joel’s “To Make you Feel my Love”? What do you say?”
But the song is already playing and the bar owner—flush with money from tonight’s impromptu concert—presses a microphone into my palm just as the piano begins.
And as naturally as if we’d practiced or had been crooning together for years, we sing. We effortlessly weave in and out of the lyrics as if we’d planned it. I find places to support his words with easy harmony.
It’s the fact that he holds my eyes the whole time, the fact that he never looks away as he tells me what he never has.
It’s a big gesture. More so, it’s him saying what he never has, and not quietly or privately, when he’s moving inside me.
There’s nothing to gain for him, immediately or carnally, from this act.
It’s Elias Finchley laying it out there, saying what I’ve always wanted to hear.
I don’t bother to look for the blonde. He’s effectively dismissed her. I’d feel sorry for her—I know how she feels. But I don’t give a shit about anything aside from the man standing in front of me. The man I’ve wanted since I was twelve.