Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When Becky’s father came in from his work shed for lunch, he discovered Becky had set the table and prepared a salad, but she was nowhere to be seen. It was odd, but he didn’t think much about it until she appeared with her hair freshly washed, and a huge smile on her face.
“Dad, I have a friend coming this afternoon. I invited him to park his bus under the oaks on the far field. I hope that’s okay.”
As the bittersweet feeling moved through his heart, David Turner kept a poker face. The special someone she had met was a musician, and on tour no less.
“That’s fine, honey,” he smiled, attempting to keep his voice even and calm. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
“How did you know he’s a he?” Becky asked as she sat across from him.
“A father’s instinct,” he replied with a wink. “When does he arrive?”
“In about two hours or so, but the bus is coming separately. He’s having it dropped off. He called it a place to rest his head.”
“Why doesn’t he just stay at the motel down the street?”
“He said he needs the bus. I didn’t want to ask too many questions, but you’ll like him, dad, I know you will,” she said earnestly, then decided to change the subject.
Following lunch, Becky kept herself busy cleaning the house, then trying to decide what to wear. After going through everything in her closet she came to the conclusion that she had absolutely nothing. It was mid-afternoon when she saw the tour bus heading up to the far field. Running out to meet it, she jogged alongside and guided it into place. It was half the size of the one she’d seen at Jeb’s, but it was white and sleek with dark windows, and was towing a late model sedan.
The driver rolled to a stop under the trees, but before he turned off the engine and stepped out, she heard a whirring sound, and realized the car was being disengaged from its towing mechanism. She stood patiently by as he finally opened the wide doors and jumped down.
“Are you Becky Turner?”
“Yes,” she replied, surprised he knew who she was.
“Here are the keys. I was told to give them to you or leave them in the bus, so here you go.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking them and dropping them into her pocket. “Is Cody Cox a well-known musician?”
“Sorry, I don’t know who that is,” the young man replied, moving to the back of the bus and unhooking the vehicle. “I don’t know any of the details. I just deliver and pickup. I’ll be back in the morning.”
Jumping into the car he drove away, leaving Becky standing in the field, staring up at the sleek, modern bus parked under the trees.
“Gee, Cody, you must be really successful to afford something like this,” she muttered.
“I’d agree with that statement.”
Turning around, she found her father had walked up behind her.
“It’s a beauty,” he continued. “Let’s look inside.”
“Do you think we should?”
“Honey, it’s a rental. There won’t be anything personal inside.”
“Oh, right, of course.”
The driver had left the doors open, and she climbed in ahead of her father, but stopped and stared in disbelief.
“Oh! My! Gosh!” she exclaimed, shocked by the luxury surrounding her.
Her father shook his head.
“Incredible,” he mumbled, thinking the musician might not be so bad after all.
The decor oozed luxury.
The entire area was trimmed in burled walnut, and sported a cream leather couch, large matching chairs, a mahogany dining table, a fully stocked bar, and a flat screen TV. Walking through the stunning cabin to the rear of the bus, Becky opened a door and discovered a bedroom that could have been in a fine hotel.
“No wonder he didn’t want to stay in the motel,” David remarked.
“Dad, the bus that broke down, the one at Jeb’s the other day, it was twice, maybe three times this size. I wonder what that was like inside.”
“I remember you telling me how big it was.”
“Jeb told me last night it belonged to Cash Colt. Do you know who I mean?”
“I’m not that old,” he chuckled. “Of course I know Cash Colt. I love his stuff.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I do. Don’t you listen to what I play in the diner?”
“Not really,” Becky admitted. “Not unless it’s Faith Hill, or Shania Twain or Carrie Underwood.”
“Are you serious? You don’t like rock?”
“Um, no, not really, though there are some songs you play that are decent, but I couldn’t tell you who the artists are.”
“This thing is ridiculous,” he continued, returning the conversation to the expensive appointments surrounding them. “This young man is trying hard to impress you, or has done very well for himself.”
“All I know is that he’s a musician and his name is Cody Cox.”
“Never heard of him,” her father said, shaking his head. “I wish I had.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about the stuff, I just really like him.”
“You’re a good girl,” he said softly, abruptly wrapping her in a hug. “You just keep thinking that way and you’ll be all right.”
Becky felt an odd lump in her throat, and sensing her father was becoming emotional as well, she pulled back.
“Don’t go getting all mushy on me,” she said with a grin. “I have to start getting ready.”
“You’ve been in that room getting ready all afternoon.”
“I know, and I have nothing to wear!”
“Then you’d better get back and find something.”
“Yes, I need to, right now,” she exclaimed, turning and walking back to the open doors with her father following, But once outside, she stared at the keys, then back to the bus.
“How do I close it?”
“Here,” he said, taking the keys and punching the small, red button on the remote.
“Now I just feel stupid,” she grunted. “God, I hope I don’t totally embarrass myself when he gets here.”
“Come on,” her father said, putting his arm around her shoulders, “let’s get back to the house. You have to get ready for this Cody character, whoever he is.”
* * *
The small jet in which Cash was traveling had just landed. As it taxied to a stop, he saw a young man standing next to a convertible Ford Mustang. Putting on a baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, Cash disembarked and walked quickly across the tarmac.
“Bruce Milburn?” the young man asked.
“That’s me,” Cash replied.
It was the name Andrew used whenever Cash needed a cover.
“The keys are in it. Could you sign here please?”
Cash took the pen from the young man’s hand, scribbled an indecipherable signature across the paper, threw his bag in the back of the car, then jumped in and sped away. Once out of view of the airfield, he pulled to the side of the road, retrieved his personal phone and called Becky.
“Hi, Cody, are you almost here?” she asked eagerly.
Cody smiled. There was no guile or pretense about her.
“I’ll be there in about thirty-minutes. Did the bus arrive?”
“Uh-huh. It’s really nice.”
“Great, maybe we can have dinner in there. Is there a good place for take-out when Becky’s diner is closed?”
“My kitchen.”
“Good answer,” he chuckled. “I’m going to hang up now. I pulled over to call you. I don’t like holding a phone while I’m driving a car and I didn’t want to mess with setting up the bluetooth.”
“Do you know where you’re going?”
“I’ll just plug your address into the navigator. See you shortly.”
“Yes, you will!”
Ending the call, he entered her address, and listened to the soft, lilting female voice as it directed him back on to the highway.
* * *
Back in Manhattan, Marilyn had woken up to find a handwritten note on her nightstand.
Order whatever you want for lunch, then call me at the number on the attached card.
Sam Reed.
Not understanding why there would be a message from Sam and not Cash, she stumbled into the living room and noticed the doors to Cash’s bedroom were wide open. Walking in, she discovered his belongings were gone. Dismayed and disappointed, she cursed herself for behaving so badly, then cursed him for bailing, then cursed her whole, damn, rotten life. Finally staggering back into her own bedroom, she flopped down on the bed.
“Damn him and his stupid manager,” she grunted, then fishing around in her bag, she found the aspirin and headed into the shower.
As the hot water splashed across her head, it washed away the rough, edgy feeling, and she began to recall some of the previous night’s events. Sam Reed had been interesting, and she smiled as she recalled his confidence and style.
Deciding food would help her head and general malaise, she ordered room service. Half an hour later, she was devouring two thick slices of insanely delicious cinnamon french toast coated in real maple syrup, and downing several cups of coffee. By the time she finished, her head was clearer, and she felt back in control.
“Okay, Mr. Sam Reed,” she muttered, “I need to find out how long I can stay in this lovely suite, and if you have something else on your mind?”
Returning to the bedroom, she picked up the business card, retrieved her phone from her bag, and carrying them back to the living room, she sat on the comfortable couch and punched in the number.
“Reed Management,” a pert female voice answered.
“Sam Reed, please.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Marilyn Sanders.”
“Hold, please.”
Classical music began playing through the phone. Irritated and impatient, she began drumming her fingertips on the sofa arm.
“Mr. Reed said he’ll have to return your call. May I please take your number?”
“Fine, whatever,” she muttered, then gave the girl her number. “When will he be calling me back?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Can you find out? I don’t want to sit around here all day.”
“Do you have a cell phone where he can reach you?”
“I just gave you my cell phone number. Never mind,” she snapped, and clicked off the line.
Out of sorts and not having the energy to go shopping, she found the television remote control, and began flipping through the channels. Finding nothing of interest, she was about to leave when the room service waiter arrived to collect the lunch trolley. As he rolled it out the door, she grabbed her phone and placed another call to Sam.
“Reed Management,”
“This is Marilyn Sanders again. Is Mr. Reed available yet?”
“One moment, please.”
Marilyn stood up and began pacing.
“He’ll be with you in a few minutes, or he can call you back.”
“I’ll wait, no, yes. I’ll wait, but not for long.”
“Very well.”
The irritating classical music came back on. Unable to listen to it, she hung up the phone, then decided to go down to the lobby store and have a quick look around. She was in her room picking up her bag when the hotel phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Marilyn, it’s Sam Reed.”
“Oh, hi,” she muttered, caught off guard.
“A bit hung over?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Why is your office open on a Sunday?”
“There was some mopping up to do.”
“Cash has left,” she announced, “but of course you know that. What’s going on?”
“Yes, Cash was called away. You can stay in the suite tonight, then you’ll have to vacate. I’m happy to arrange transport back to wherever you’d like to go.”
“Um, no, that’s okay. I think I’ll stay in New York for a few days. Tomorrow I’ll just get a smaller room. I like this hotel. I like the service.”
“Marilyn, I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”
She smiled. Dinner with Sam Reed, one of the most powerful managers in the business was not to be sneezed at.
“Thanks. I think that would be a good distraction from my bolting rock star.”
“He didn’t bolt. The band is here in my office getting ready to leave for the airport,” he declared, though it was a half-truth. “You had a lot to drink last night, and you were still sleeping when he left. He’ll call you when he can.”
“It’s fine, whatever,” she said flippantly. “Sure, let’s have dinner.”
“I’ll pick you up around 7:30.”
“See you then,” she replied, and hanging up the phone, she felt her anxiety beginning to ease.
* * *
Standing up from his desk, Sam walked to his window and stared down at Central Park. He took great delight in spanking a girl while enjoying the view, though his miscreants were usually blindfolded and didn’t have the same opportunity to savor the sight. Marilyn was interesting. Initially he’d thought she was typical, and Sam didn’t deal with typical. But she wasn’t. She was complicated and difficult, but not typical.
He was a patient man. He would let things develop, and watch how they crinkled out. The first order of business with Marilyn was making it clear The Spanking Rockstar was not an option. After that, he’d let the road reveal itself, but one thing he knew for sure, if he did end up involved with her, she’d be spending a great deal of time pressing the palms of her hands against the very cool glass, through which he was admiring his very expensive view.