Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
Cash saw Becky and the man disappear into the kitchen, and a few minutes later she returned with his breakfast. Though she looked calm enough as she approached, when she set the plate in front of him he saw her hands were trembling.
“This looks delicious,” he smiled, hoping his friendliness would put her at ease, and help to take her mind off the ugly scene.
“I’m sure it will be. Dad is a fantastic chef.”
“That man is your father?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s my dad, David Turner. He used to work at a big time restaurant in New York,” she declared proudly.
“Really?” Cash remarked, genuinely surprised and wondering how a serious chef ended up in a small town diner.
“Will he mind if you join me? I don’t want to keep you from your work but I’d welcome the company.”
“No, he won’t mind, but if some customers come in I’ll have to go,” she replied, sliding into the bench opposite him. “I’m Becky.”
“Cody,” Cash offered, “Cody Cox.”
He wasn’t lying. Cody Cox was his real name. The moniker Cash Colt had been given to him by his first manager, John Nash. Cody had been just fifteen years old and thought it silly, but when the crowds had started chanting, Cash Colt, Cash Colt, all doubt had evaporated.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I assume that angry young man was an ex?”
“Kind of, that was Roy,” she sighed, her happy smile disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. “He was my high school sweetheart, but we’ve been apart for years. Out of the blue he showed up at my house the other night with a ring in his hand and asked me to marry him. He has a righteous temper, and when I turned him down he drove to the bar on the outskirts of town, got drunk and tore up the place. He’s got a good heart, and I do care about him, but...”
As her voice trailed off, Cash felt an unexpected desire to sit beside her and give her a hug.
“I just hope he gets it through his head there’s no future for us. He scares me sometimes.”
“I’m sure he’ll get over it,” Cash offered reassuringly. “It appears your father knows how to handle him, and speaking of your dad,” he added, smoothly changing the subject, “how did he end up here?”
“He was born here. The city became a place he didn’t want to be, so he came back and opened this place,” she replied vaguely.
Cash couldn’t help but wonder about the girl’s mother, but she’d offered no information and Cash didn’t want to pry.
“I guess you’re just passing through,” she remarked, then frowned. “Crazy, I swear I’ve met you before.”
“I don’t think so,” he quickly replied, “and you’re right, I’m only here for an hour or two. My, uh, vehicle needed checking out.”
“If you went to the gas station at the end of the street you don’t have to worry. Jeb Barkley is the owner, and he can fix just about anything with wheels,” she grinned.
“I love the countryside here,” he remarked, wanting to avoid the subject of his ailing ‘vehicle’ as he’d called it, and where it might be. “The rolling green hills are gorgeous. I’m based in Texas. I do love it there, but it’s not like this.”
“What is it you do, Cody?”
“I’m a musician. I’m with my band and we’re on tour,” he replied, still amazed she had no idea who he was.
“Wow. That’s fantastic. I hope to do that one day.”
“You sing?” he asked, his interest piqued.
The physical attraction had been immediate, and as they sat and talked, he found himself captivated by her personality and sweetness. Everything about her was sincere, and she had a warmth that was drawing him in.
“A bit. Every Saturday night I take my guitar to The Cowbell, that’s the bar Roy messed up, and play a set.”
“What kind of music do you like?” he inquired, knowing it probably wasn’t rock.
“Country and I’m a country girl. I love taking care of my horses and our little farm.”
Cash leaned back and studied her. He could easily imagine her galloping across a field, or loping quietly by a creek somewhere. Along with his music and his love of spanking, horses were his passion. It was one of the reasons his manager had given him the last name of Colt, and when his income had ballooned, buying a ranch had been his first order of business.
“I have a ranch too, just outside Dallas, and riding in the open spaces is one of my favorite things to do. I’m really a cowboy,” he confessed. “I’m never happier than when I’m in my boots and jeans, saddling up, watching the foals.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from Texas.”
“I grew up all over the place, went to different schools, but when I’m home for any length of time, it creeps in,” he grinned. “I’d love to meet your horses, but I’m fairly sure we’ll be hitting the road soon.”
She blushed, hoping he was really talking about spending time with her. He was the cutest guy she’d ever seen, with jet black hair and amazing hazel eyes, but most of all he had a calmness about him, as if he wasn’t afraid of anything. The fact that he was a cowboy, loved horses and riding, was like thick, delicious cream on top of an already appetizing apple pie.
“Did you say foals? You have foals?”
“We sure do,” he replied. “Every year I try to be home when it’s time for them to come into the world. I like to be hands on, literally, from the time they stand up.”
“Wow, that would be amazing. You’re so lucky. I’d give anything to witness that.”
Cash saw the sincerity in her eyes, and suddenly had a vision; they were standing together in his mare motel, watching Harry Evans, his vet, helping deliver a new four-legged life into the world.
“Maybe one day you will,” he murmured, capturing her gaze.
An electric stillness settled over them, a mystical moment, when they each felt a connection to the other.
“I should let you finish your breakfast,” she mumbled, being the first to break the spell. “I’ll bring you some more coffee if you’d like.”
“I would, thank you, but before you go, do you have a demo or anything?”
“Me?” she replied, her big blue eyes growing even bigger and bluer. “I’ve never even been in a studio,” she replied, and rising from the table, picked up the empty French Press decanter and headed for the kitchen.
Cash slowly ate his breakfast. The simple fare was as good as he knew it would be, and as he finished, he detected a delicious aroma wafting through the air. Looking up he saw Becky returning with his fresh pot of coffee.
“Two questions,” he said as she placed the French Press on the table and began picking up his empty plates. “What time do people start arriving, and what is that incredible smell?”
“Isn’t it divine?” she declared, rolling her eyes. “Our pies have just finished baking, and as far as our customers, they should start arriving in maybe, ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Your dad’s a pastry chef as well?”
“Um, not exactly. That’s what I do,” she confessed shyly. “I get them ready at night and we pop them in the oven first thing in the morning.”
“You baked them? I absolutely must try one. Bring me two slices of your favorite, but in separate boxes. I’ll take them with me, and bring me the check.”
“Yes, Sir,” Becky replied, blushing but smiling happily.
Cash watched her leave, marveling at her unassuming, humble manner, but the way she called him Sir had stirred his mind and his cock. He could so easily imagine her over his lap, on her knees or tied to the bed. Pushing back the tempting, tantalizing thoughts, willed his growing member to go back to sleep, and took a moment to study his surroundings.
The diner was decorated with a 1950s theme; gleaming chrome, red and white booths, and a black and white tile floor. It was crisp and clean but warm and inviting. Movie posters from the era graced the walls, along with framed pictures of Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, Little Richard, and The Everly Brothers. The place felt hip and fun, and he could imagine the welcoming decor holding an appeal for all ages. Her father wasn’t just a great cook, he was a smart man.
“Here you go,” Becky announced, carrying a large paper sack and placing it on the table. “I’ve put a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a separate carton as well. Didn’t know if you had a refrigerator or anywhere to put it, but if you’re going to have the pie you should have it with ice cream, especially when it’s just out of the oven.”
Cash could already see the look of delight on Charlie’s face. The man loved his desserts, or ‘puddings’ as he called them.
“That is very thoughtful,” he remarked. “I should get moving. What’s the name of that bar again? If I find myself back here on a Saturday night I’d love to come and watch you.”
“The Cowbell. It’s about a mile down the road behind the gas station,” she replied, placing the check on the table. “I hope you manage to make it back here one day,” she added softly.
“You can count on it,” he promised firmly.
Silently sighing, she ambled away, disappearing behind the swinging doors into the kitchen.
Cash picked up the check. It was $22.49 for the breakfast and the two slices of pie, and next to the ice cream was a comment, On the house. Reaching in his pocket he pulled out a $50 bill and left it under the mug, and suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, he realized he didn’t want to leave.
He wanted Becky to reappear through the swinging doors, join him at the table and talk to him for hours. He wanted to know about her, where she learned to cook, how much of the world she had seen, what happened to her mother, the names of her horses, anything and everything.
Regretfully he stood up, then impulsively sat back down and grabbed one of the unused paper napkins still sitting on the table. Searching his pockets he found the tiny pencil he carried with him everywhere. He had learned through the years, even with cell phones and tablets, it was always handy to have a pen or pencil at hand. Pressing the tiny tip of lead against the soft paper he wrote,
This is not goodbye. I promise I’ll be back. Have a wonderful day, Cody.
Taking the $50 bill he placed it inside the napkin, folded it in half so the green of the bill showed on either side, and placing it back under the mug, he picked up the paper sack and headed out.
In the kitchen, as she did every morning, Becky was carefully slicing the pies into equal sections, but her mind was wandering. Cody Cox was more than just cute. He was really, really, really cute, and she wanted to know him, she wanted to listen to his band, and she was kicking herself for not asking what kind of music he played. Did he sing or was he a guitar player, or maybe even a drummer, and what was the name of his band? Where was he headed? Did he pass this way very often?
“Becky!”
Her father’s voice made her jump.
“Watch what you’re doing. Those slices aren’t even. You still upset about Roy?” he asked.
“Sorry, dad, maybe, just a little bit,” she lied.
“Don’t you concern yourself. I’ll make sure Sheriff Hollister knows what happened this morning. He’ll make sure Roy stops pestering you.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she answered, silently thinking, Roy? Roy who?