The Country Star's Wild Assistant

Chapter 1

ONE

June

Never meet your heroes. That’s what they say.

My first thought upon seeing Deke “Daddy” Decker sprawled out shirtless in his dressing room with a bottle of Jack Daniels dangling from his famous fingers?

I should have listened.

My uncle Sandy has been working as Deke’s personal assistant for two decades.

Over the years, they’ve become friends, but even Sandy warned me the country music superstar is not what he used to be.

From my place in the doorway, I can see exactly how true that is.

Deke’s face is currently hidden beneath the brim of a black cowboy hat, but I know from recent television interviews that it’s no longer young and boyish.

At forty-two, his countenance is hardened and cynical. His blue eyes no longer twinkle. They’re mean and impatient.

That physique of his must be one hundred percent natural, however, because it hasn’t disappeared along with his charisma.

His six-foot-five frame is still as powerful as ever.

Sure, the muscle definition isn’t as prominent and there is more meat on his bones, but his overall thickness is what I’ve always found appealing.

Even when I was way too young to moon over attributes like thigh sinew.

Or a happy trail. Or the way the zipper of jeans always seemed on the verge of bursting open.

Just like it does now.

Deke’s eyes are covered. That’s probably why I look at it longer than I should.

When a familiar quickening in my tummy starts to take hold, I force my gaze down to the ground and take a deep breath. I thought I’d gotten control of my infatuation enough to cover for Sandy for a few days. Was I wrong?

Maybe this crush I’ve had since I was ten years old will never truly go away.

Deke gives out a low grunt and shifts on the dressing room couch, his hips lifting just slightly, that bulge on full display…and my temperature rises. Rapidly. Much to my irritation.

Honestly. I’m twenty years old.

I shouldn’t be turning red over the mere presence of male genitalia.

Although, Deke’s is somewhat…famous. For being large and in charge.

Apparently, they don’t call him “Daddy” for nothing.

As a virgin, I know nothing about such things.

How big is big enough to earn a nickname?

I have no idea. Unfortunately, I have thought about Deke Decker’s penis a lot.

From the moment I hit puberty in middle school, I swore up, down and sideways that Deke would be my first. He was going to sweep into town with his flurry of tour buses.

One of them would break down on the side of the road.

I would happen by on my bike and invite him over for lemonade and we’d make slow, sweet love under the shade of my elm tree in the backyard of my house.

Obviously, in this fantasy, I didn’t have parents.

Or a functioning brain.

This man is more than twice my age.

Standing so close to him now, that mathematical fact is inescapable. He’s all weathered skin and faded tattoos and rough, calloused hands. I’m on summer break, about to begin my third year at Vanderbilt. My life has barely begun while Deke seems hell bent on putting an early end to his.

My disappointment is just beginning to sink in when Deke lifts the bottle of Jack to his lips and takes a hearty swig.

“Is it time to go on yet?” rumbles in that scratchy baritone.

The one that has sold millions of records and made women around the country scream their heads off for the last two decades.

I clear my throat lightly, check my watch. “You have twenty minutes before you go on stage, sir.”

A handful of seconds ticks by, before Deke Decker flicks up the brim of his cowboy hat, taking in my presence through eyes narrowed against the light. “Who the fuck are you?”

Despite preparing myself for Deke’s bad attitude, my heart sinks down to the floor, though I smile through the ridiculous hurt. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Decker. I’m—”

“I swear to God, you groupies get more aggressive every show.” He tosses the hat onto the nearby dressing table, upsetting a row of empty beer bottles.

“Have to say, you don’t exactly fit the description of my usual admirer.

More like one of their daughters.” He shakes his head at me. “You’re a baby. Go home.”

I’m horrified to find the backs of my eyes prickling.

I’m not a gangly tween anymore obsessing over an unattainable country legend.

I’m a communications major with a very respectable GPA.

I teach online yoga on the weekends. I have a nice, supportive circle of girlfriends who would be flipping this man the bird right now.

But it appears there is some part of me that still believed that as soon as Deke Decker locked eyes on me, he would fall madly in love and ask me to be his wife.

Pathetic, June.

I straighten my spine. “I’m not a groupie. Or a groupie’s daughter. I’m Sandy’s niece.” Deke pauses in the act of sitting up. “His daughter—my cousin—went into labor. I’m filling in as your personal assistant for the next three days of the tour.”

Deke sits up all the way, sets down the bottle of Jack on the floor and rakes all ten fingers through his wild black hair. “Damn. Sandy’s kid is already giving birth? I swear he just told me she was pregnant.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun, I guess.”

He nudges the liquor bottle with the toe of his boot. “This ain’t fun. It’s survival.”

The smell of whiskey wafts in my direction. “I see.”

Deke pushes to his feet, reaching his full height, and my lips part on a silent intake of breath.

God. Even drunk and disheveled, no one could deny the man is magnificent.

He’s a bull of a human being. The godlike presence of him is the reason he’s still selling out shows, even though he hasn’t had a major hit in ten years. “What did you say your name was?”

I wet my lips. “June.”

He turns to the dressing table mirror, making eye contact with my reflection. “Well, like I said before, go the fuck home, June. I don’t need an assistant.”

It costs me an effort not to visibly flinch.

My uncle warned me this man was mean as a snake and he didn’t exaggerate.

My inner child and her shattered fantasies are begging me to drop the bags in my hands and run straight out of the arena.

I’m not a quitter, though, and I don’t want to let Sandy down.

I grew up with a single mother. Never had a father around.

Sandy pitched in constantly to help his sister, my mom, in a tough situation.

He’s a good soul. I’m not going to jeopardize his job because my feelings are hurt.

“I’ve been employed as your assistant for a couple of hours, Mr. Decker, while you were passed out.

” I hold up the bag in my right hand. “In that time, I’ve found a local deli that makes a mean Reuben sandwich.

Pickles on the side. Is that still your favorite?

” I don’t give him time to answer. “I also took a peek at your stage outfit for tonight and made some slight alterations. It should be more comfortable now. Doesn’t anyone around here know your measurements? ”

He stares at me. “Bring me my guitar before you leave. I need to tune it.”

I gesture to the guitar case leaning against the wall. “Already done.”

A pop goes off in his jaw. “Nobody tunes my guitar but me.”

“Maybe that’s why it sounded like a strangled goat.”

It’s kind of satisfying, the way he turns, giving me his full—annoyed—attention. “Excuse me?”

I purse my lips. “I’m way overqualified to be an assistant and you only get me for three days, Mr. Decker.” I set the bag of food down inside the door, hanging up the dry-cleaning bag on a nearby rack. “You’ll be begging me to stay by the end of it.”

We’re facing off across the dressing room when a man rushes in wearing a headset. He does a double take when he sees me, adjusting his glasses. This is Whit, Deke’s manager. “Oh, hello again, June. I see you’ve met Deke.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true,” he snarls.

Whit is unfazed by his boss’s gripe. He’s too busy looking down at the clipboard in his hand. “We have a little bit of a problem. Lorna Paul got held up in Mississippi and she won’t be able to make it as the special guest tonight.”

Deke rolls one of his humongous shoulders. “Oh well.”

“Oh well?” Whit sputters. “Her appearance already leaked on social media. You’re supposed to sing that duet. People are clamoring for it.”

I struggle not to make a skeptical face.

“Clamoring” is a strong word.

It’s a decent song, but it only made it halfway up the country charts.

A lot like Deke’s other recent songs.

There’s no…heart in his voice anymore. It’s just gone.

The duet is a perfect example of that.

“Do we have time to find a local musician who can fill in?” I ask.

“The show starts in ten minutes.”

“Maybe bring a fan on stage to sing it with him. Could be cute.”

“Absolutely not,” Deke growls. “Last time I did that, she grabbed my junk.”

I roll my lips inward to stifle a laugh. I remember seeing the video. “Right.”

Deke raises a lazy eyebrow at me in the mirror. “That’s ain’t funny, June Bug.”

Oh God.

I hate it the way my belly warms.

Deke “Daddy” Decker just gave me a nickname.

“I don’t suppose you can sing, June?” Whit asks me, half joking.

“No,” I blurt. “I mean, not professionally. Just with my mother sometimes.” As always, when talking about my mom, who I love very much, I start to ramble.

“She used to work a second job as a lounge singer in Austin, when I was growing up. Big country and blues fan. She named me after June Carter.” I smile.

“Anyway, she says I take after her, but she’s just being nice. I don’t—”

“We’re desperate,” Whit interrupts.

“No, we’re not,” Deke thunders back. “We’ll take the song off the set list.”

The manager’s expression is cajoling. “Sing us a few bars, June.”

No way.

This isn’t happening.

I am not about to sing in front of Deke Decker.

But Whit is sweating through his shirt, and he’s right, people are expecting Lorna Paul to be here tonight to sing the duet.

This is going to be a letdown. Good thing I’ve been taking public speaking classes and learning methods for how to stay calm under pressure.

They might only be an audience of two, but one of them is a shoo-in for the Hall of Fame.

“Okay…here we go…”

I close my eyes and sing Lorna’s part of the chorus.

It’s a song written from the dual perspective of ex-lovers who blame each other for the downfall of their relationship.

It’s harsh and sassy, but there’s an underlying sadness and vulnerability to Lorna’s side.

It’s only eight bars, but my micro performance seems to stretch on forever, the notes hanging in the stale air of the dressing room.

When I open my eyes again, Deke is frowning at me in the mirror.

“You’re in,” Whit says, cupping my elbow and dragging me out of the dressing room. “Let’s get you into costume.”