Epilogue
BOBBY
“Hey, Dallas. I’m Bobby Tannen,” I rumble into the microphone. The crowd instantly screams, chanting my name. It’s wildly, crazily insane, and I will never get used to it. I still think that I’m going to walk out every time and people are going to ask ‘who’s this guy?’ and boo me off the stage.
Tonight is my last show of the tour. My first tour.
It’s been all I dreamed of and then some.
This is what I hoped it would be. Stephen Wheatley has done right by me at every turn—arranging sessions with Miller when I have songs ready, helping me pick a great group of musicians to back me up every night, and managing the tour so that I never have to worry about a thing.
I couldn’t have done any of this without him, or the guys playing with me, or most of all, Willow. She’s been by my side the whole way.
Even when the three months we planned turned into six.
We’d talked it out, called her Mom and Hank, talked to Brody and Brutal, and decided to do it.
Hank had sworn up and down that he was fine, and he even hired another bartender, which made Willow jealous but also less guilty about being gone.
Brody and Brutal promised that the farm was doing well.
They had to hire on a helper full-time, and I’d bristled at being replaced too, but I’d understood.
Brutal had bitched about having to teach the guy how to plant and harvest and said he didn’t know shit from manure, but I think that was mostly to make me feel better.
Still, even with everyone singing along with me, I’m ready to go home. Both Willow and I are.
The last note of the last song fades into the night. “Thank you everyone!”
It’s done. The tour is over, officially.
The guys invite me to party with them—nothing too hardcore, we keep it pretty chill—but I turn them down. I’m exhausted and need to fall into my girl and nothing else.
We did it. We actually fucking did it. Together.
On the tour bus, I jump in the shower to wash the sweat of the stage off.
Willow curls up on the couch, sipping tea and flipping through pictures on her computer, waiting for me.
It’s our nightly routine these days, but tomorrow will be a totally different thing.
I can’t wait and have already made my requests for fried chicken, fried okra, green beans, macaroni and cheese, and honey biscuits with Mama Louise.
Wearing only boxer briefs, I flop to the couch next to Willow. Her soft smile fills that Willow-shaped spot inside me, making me complete.
Golden shining gray eyes, I fall into your sway, knowing you will save me every time.
I run my fingers through her hair, brushing it behind her ear so I can see her profile.
She tilts the laptop my way, smiling. “What do you think of these?”
She clicks through several pictures she took from the wings of the stage.
She’s already started processing them, changing some of them to black and white and cropping others.
I’m front and center of every shot. I shrug, knowing it’ll be what she wants in the end.
“Anything you want. That’s your area of expertise, sweetheart. ”
It is. She’s been taking pictures of our entire tour, compiling them into a Tour One book with stories and excerpts from me and the band.
I’d laughed when she told me the book’s name, so sure that there’d be a tour two.
Funny thing is, she’s right. Stephen’s already making plans, but not for at least a year.
I miss having my hands in the dirt, working by Brutal’s side, and having dinner around Mama Louise’s table every night. Plus, we’re not bringing a newborn on the road and Willow is due in a few short months.
Yeah, she’s having my baby. Another Tannen generation of a badass boy or maybe a sweet girl.
We won’t find out until the baby is here.
Willow wants it that way as a bit of a surprise, and I couldn’t possibly deny her anything.
What Willow wants, she gets. I’ll move hell and high water to make it so, no matter the request. But this had been an easy one.
She clicks through the pictures again, humming to herself.
Does she even know she’s humming one of my songs?
I look back to the screen to see what’s got her so enthralled, a zing going through me when I see that it’s me.
She keeps working hard, and I try to wait patiently, though it’s difficult when I want to be the focus of her attention. The real me, not the me on the laptop.
But she’s dedicated, spending time every day prepping for the book and posting to her blog.
The tour book will be published under a pseudonym because Willow has been exceedingly careful to keep her identity as my wife and her blog persona very separate.
She’ll go out in whatever city we’re in—explore museums, visit street vendors, and see the sights.
She always comes back excited, telling me about the architecture, the gardens, the colors, and the life as she shows me each shot.
I’d love to go with her, but I’m a bit too recognizable now, so I live vicariously through her.
I don’t have any interest in museums, anyway, but I am interested in her and making sure that she has every reason to smile that soft smile every single day.
I think she’s right that people prefer the anonymity of the blog, though, finding themselves in some aspect of the pictures she takes. Whatever it is, it’s working well for her because her number of followers keeps rising higher and higher.
“Ooh!” She startles and grabs her phone. Zooming in on my boots on the floor, she takes several shots. Click.
Those boots have seen a lot of miles, Tannen Farm dirt, Bennett Ranch cow shit, and roads all over the nation. And now they’ll see home again.
“I’ve already got a heart and a comment,” she murmurs a second later.
“What’d you caption for my dirty old boots?” I ask, snuggling into her side. I’m done with pictures and singing, ready to fall into bed with her.
“Love my rough country man. With a diamond ring and a heart emoji,” she says smugly, knowing I’ll like that.
“I love you too. Let’s go to bed and then go home.”
I place my large palm over her belly, but I need to feel the satin of her skin. I push her shirt up over the growing bump, and she wiggles, trying to silently argue against letting me see the few pink marks that recently appeared there. I still her with a gentle kiss to each one.
“You’re beautiful, always. You do everything for everyone, and now, you’re doing the most amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me, carrying my baby.”
As if the baby hears my voice, I feel a small bump against my hand. I gasp, grinning at the feeling. When I look up at Willow, she’s holding her phone low in front of her.
Click.
I growl, shoving the phone down and climbing up her body. I hold myself up on my arms, keeping my weight off her, but I need to kiss her to celebrate. I need to feel her . . . under me, around me, owning me, and letting me claim her.
The kiss is sweet, our lips smacking as we smile against one another. But as always, it turns heated quickly.
“Fuck, sweetheart, flip over. Let me inside.”
She moves, following my order. Kneeling with her arms on the back of the couch, I stand behind her, glad the bus won’t move for a few hours while the crew breaks down the stage equipment. I run my hands down her back, and she arches for me, her bucking hips telling me how much she wants my cock.
“Tell me, Willow. You ready for me?”
“Always,” she gasps.
“What do you want?”
“Fill me.” She knows that’s not enough, not by a mile. I squeeze her hips, denting the supple flesh there, and she groans. “Fuck me.”
Shit. I lose control when she says anything slightly filthy, and she knows it, uses that knowledge to push me to the edge of sanity. I know what she wants too.
“I’m gonna fuck you, Willow, fill this sweet pussy with my cock, rub that little clit, and make you come for me. Over and over. I’ll decide when you’re done coming because this pussy is mine. You are mine.”
The words meant to drive her wild affect us both. When I push into her, she’s slick and her body gives for me easily. “Yes,” she groans.
I grunt in bliss. “How do you feel like heaven every time?” I murmur, lost in the sensation of her pussy gripping me tightly.
Though I mean to fuck her hard and fast, I can’t do it right now. I need her slow and tender. My Willow, my girl, the mother of our child.
I don’t know how I got so lucky. I’m just a rough country asshole, but this sweet woman saw something in me worth taking a chance on, and I’m so thankful. Every day, I show her how much I love her. I might not have the words, but I show her every way I can.
Chasing down my dream so I can give you yours.
The proof of a man is in his woman’s eyes.
Storm for me, shine for me, show your soul for me.
And I’ll dig down deep to get mine so you can have yours.