Chapter Five #2
He lifted his head and checked out the room, which, thankfully, wasn’t spinning.
Small but tidy, with one of those antique wooden commodes with a porcelain basin and pitcher on top and a cloudy mirror that turned a human face into a Picasso.
The wood floor had been painted a dark cobalt blue.
The wallpaper was pale blue with pink and green flowers.
Sheer curtains swelled on puffs of air from an open window with wavy glass that looked like a thin layer of ice.
He’d seen a setup like this on a school trip to a museum when he was nine. It was still a damned sight better than the first accommodations he’d been given. But where the hell was he?
The bed had a hand-carved headboard and a mattress with a slight sag in the middle, and the springs protested vigorously when he moved.
Its sheets were crisp and clean. The blankets, thick and soft.
The top of his head no longer felt as if it were about to explode, although thinking still took too much effort.
His guitar case, propped in a corner against his backpack and tote, screamed grievances at him.
The Martin. His pride and joy. He bought it when he was eighteen with money his grandmother had set aside for his college education.
He hadn’t been popular when his family discovered he was busking full-time rather than studying engineering.
He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about the Martin but being kidnapped had taken up most of his attention. Now it was all he could think of. There’d be no more rest until he was sure it hadn’t been damaged.
The light from the window said more time than he cared for had passed, but that a few hours of daylight remained.
He heard the kind of silence that only an empty house could produce.
The locals had some sort of shindig going on, if his memory was right, so maybe that was where the good doctor had gone, meaning he was alone.
He had a more immediate and pressing concern than even his guitar, however. He was in desperate need of a bathroom, and the two-handled metal chamber pot someone had thoughtfully left next to the bed was so not going to happen.
He sat on the side of the bed for a moment, assessing his various aches and pains.
All seemed no worse than they had before.
He limped to the door to explore the hallway outside, then added heart attack to his list of ailments because he almost stepped on the good doctor.
She’d fallen asleep on the floor outside of his room, one arm cradling a pillow and the other tucked under her cheek. She didn’t stir.
She’d traded the weird dress and boots for stretchy black short shorts and a long, swingy T-shirt that might cover her perky ass if she were standing, but right now, gave him something to stare at.
Her long legs and slender bare feet, too.
He dragged his eyes upward. Dark brown curls spilled off the pillow and draped over her arm.
Dark lashes brushed sleep-pinkened cheeks.
He’d thought he might have imagined how pretty she was, but no. She was a looker. As far as kidnappers went, there were worse, he supposed. Good thing she had a boyfriend, even if they weren’t quite yet at that stage. Pretty women were trouble. He’d learned that lesson from Jen.
She opened her eyes, looked confused for a second, then let out a scream. He jumped, landed on his bad ankle, and screamed along with her. She shot upright and slapped a hand to her chest, meaning he wasn’t the only one with a weak heart.
“Don’t you know better than to stand over a woman like that when she’s sleeping?” she wheezed.
Her chest heaved, drawing his attention to her breasts, which were about average size, but perky, too.
“I was looking for a bathroom,” he said, generously overlooking the double standard, because he distinctly recalled her looming over him earlier that morning when he awoke.
She brushed the tangle of curls out of her eyes and rubbed her cheeks, then pointed at an open door across the hall.
He stumbled toward it, a little afraid of what he might find.
If it was another chamber pot, then he’d have a problem.
He didn’t think he’d make it down the flight of stairs at the end of the hall and hobble outside in time to wee in the bushes.
But no, the small bathroom was modern. Or modernized, because the floor was the same painted wood as the rest of the upstairs. It had a sink, a combined tub and shower, and, best of all, a toilet that flushed.
He did his business, washed his hands as best he could because of the splint on his finger, then checked out his reflection. Usually, he wasn’t too interested in his appearance. He was okay to look at. Under normal conditions. But he couldn’t make that same claim today.
His forehead’s mosh dance with the parking lot asphalt had left a bloody scrape and nasty bruise, although the swelling had begun to recede.
His eyes weren’t the deep, intriguing blue shade of the doctor’s.
His were paler in color, red-rimmed and bloodshot, and one was going to turn black.
His hair, a dirty blond, had picked up debris and now was plain dirty.
The Motorhead T-shirt hid the dirt but there was no hiding the dried sweat. It clung to his skin.
The homeless guys who used to sing with him when he busked in the subways had looked better than this. A lot of them smelled better, too. Thank God his boxer briefs were in good shape. Wherever his pants were, they were likely okay, too, since they’d barely been worn.
He poked his head into the hall. Doctor Belle was leaning against the wall, waiting for him. Dang, she was cute. How annoying was that?
“Mind if I take a shower?” he said.
“Not at all. I’ll get your bag for you.” She sprang into action and brought it to him. “Do you need any help?”
So many things he could say…
She got that same snitty look on her face she’d worn during her dull spat with her boyfriend. “I’ve seen men naked before.” Then she seemed to realize how that might sound and added, “I meant, do you need any help because of your ankle and your hand. Because I’m a doctor.”
Winding her up was too easy. He’d have to put more effort into it later. “I’m pretty sure I can manage.”
He stripped, tossed his dirty clothes into the hall for the maid service to deal with, since according to everyone here he was their guest, then he hobbled into the shower.
He soaped up with some great-smelling shampoo, because why waste his own, and broke into a hard rock rendition of “I Love a Rainy Night.” He was a huge fan of David Draiman and loved to play around with the same raspy growl.
While he showered and sang, he did some more thinking.
He had to get his priorities in order. After his shower, he’d check on his guitar.
He was hungry, too, but not so much that it couldn’t wait.
The bread he’d eaten earlier had stuck. He was curious to see how long the doctor planned to stick to her bird flu story, however.
Once he had all of that sorted out, he’d contemplate his next moves.
Now that he was thinking straight again, a few things became clear. He didn’t give a damn about any contracts, because kidnapping, hello. And while Leon might be an asshole, at this stage in his career, Beau was likely worth more to him alive.
But after that brief glimpse of his surroundings from the jail, he realized escape was out of the question.
He was no more a mountain man than he was a cowboy.
And he’d been dreaming when he’d thought he could disappear for two months on his own.
How was he supposed to make that happen without plastic surgery? His voice was hard to disguise, too.
So, change of plans.
He was as well-hidden here as he was anywhere else in the country.
All he really needed to do was renegotiate the terms of his contract.
He’d stay for two months. He’d work on new metal songs.
He’d satisfy the network by observing how real cowboys behaved—ones like cowboy Jesus and Marlboro Man—because hands-on experience was not going to happen.
Learning how to rope calves and yell giddy up weren’t exactly the sort of life skills a singer required.
Blake Shelton didn’t do that sort of crap, no matter what his publicists claimed.
The broken pinky was a nuisance more than an obstacle. The sprained wrist was tender, but a lot less so than his ankle. In a few days, he should be good to pick up his music.
He didn’t plan to be a good sport about any of this, however. He hadn’t asked for it. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. How’s that for cowboy parlance, Leon, you bastard?
He finished his shower, towel-dried with a pretty pink bath sheet that he dropped on the floor when he was done with it because he knew from experience how much women loved that, then shaved and dressed in clean clothes.
He brushed his damp hair with a brush he found in the cabinet under the sink, next to the fresh box of tampons.
He messed up her makeup kit for extra good measure—another thing he knew women loved.
He limped into the hall in a much better mood. She was waiting for him, although he noticed his dirty laundry was gone. He hoped she hadn’t burned the Motorhead shirt. It was his favorite. He didn’t dare think about where his boots might have landed.
“So, sweetheart,” he said, because what woman didn’t love being called that? “I feel a lot better. I’m hungry, and I’m willing to take my chances on the bird flu thing being fake news. Why don’t you go grab me a big bowl of that lamb stew your pregnant friend mentioned?”