The Rock Star and the Cowgirl

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

The air brakes of the luxurious tour bus hissed in the early morning quiet as the driver, Charlie Brewster, a robust, cheerful Irishman, leaned over the large steering wheel and squinted at the sign ahead.

FOOD GAS MOTEL 2 MILES EXIT 14A

“Thank you, tour gods,” he sighed, and gently pressed his foot on the accelerator. “I hope there’s a gas station open this early.”

It had been an hour since the bus had suggested it wasn’t feeling very well, and Charlie, a mechanical psychic, was not taking any chances with his famous passengers. They might be late getting into Manhattan, but better late than stuck on the highway waiting for help. He’d been there, done that, too many times to count.

The narrow side road came into view, and he expertly maneuvered the giant vehicle off the interstate. Tall trees lined his path as he drove forward, carefully following the twisting, turning road.

“Where are we?” a groggy voice asked.

Charlie looked in his rearview mirror and saw Cash Colt staggering forward. The international rock star zipped up his expensively torn jeans, and yawning, ran his fingers through his thick, black, unruly hair.

“She’s not feeling right, best check her out,” Charlie replied. “There’s a town up ahead and I’m praying there’s a decent garage.”

“Damn, I need coffee. I hope there’s a diner as well.”

“Are the boys still sleeping?”

“Yep, the boys and the girls. Not surprised after last night.”

“Gotta hand it to you, Cash. How you can be around those drugs and all that alcohol and just nurse a beer for hours is truly miraculous.”

“Hey, I couldn’t do what I do if I got stoned and drunk all the time. I’d kill myself.”

“Yes, you would, and you wouldn’t be the first,” Charlie remarked.

Through the many years Charlie had been driving the rockers, old and young alike, he’d seen it too many times.

“Besides, I can’t write if my brain is mush,” Cash added. “Looks like there’s life up ahead. Better throw a shirt on I guess.”

Charlie glanced back at him, marveling at the perfectly toned body. Cash had practiced martial arts for years, and it showed.

Wandering back to his small, curtained-off area, Cash found a clean white shirt, pulled on socks and sneakers, and ran a comb through his hair in a vain attempt to tame the thick, black mop on his head, grateful that he’d cut off his long locks before the tour. He was fastidious about his appearance. He was a famous face, his music was played all over the world, and he knew the kids looked up to him. He wanted to set an example, be the rocker who didn’t think drugs were cool, or smashing up hotel rooms was the way to party, and the guys who played in his band were required to keep their extracurricular antics discreet, but he wasn’t completely innocent. Cash pursued a different kind of recreation. It wasn’t drugs and booze that had him hooked or made him high, and it wasn’t the music, though music spoke to his soul and had made him a very rich man.

Cash was utterly addicted to spanking the beautiful backsides of the many women who happily jumped between his sheets, and though there were willing girls lined up behind the gates at every venue, there was a problem.

The fabulous female laying across his lap had to truly enjoy his hot, smacking hand, as much as he loved landing it on their precious posteriors. If they pretended, a cold, empty feeling would permeate his being, and he would gently withdraw his attentions, claiming a headache or fatigue.

His life had afforded little opportunity to develop relationships of great depth, and even though he had special ‘friends’ in several of the larger cities, he often found himself questioning their attraction to him. Were they interested in him, the man, or Cash Colt, the wealthy, famous rock star? It was an impossible and frustrating situation. As much as he wanted a special someone, he knew even if he did meet a woman to whom he was attracted, the question would lurk at the back of his mind.

Grabbing his black, wool, double-breasted pea jacket, he moved to the front of the bus and sat in the seat behind his driver. The small town was coming into view, Main Street, USA revealing itself.

“There you go,” Charlie declared, relief in his voice. “That’s what I’m looking for.”

A service station with two large bays beckoned him forward, and as the bus rolled towards it, Cash spied a flickering red light in the distance. Standing up and leaning over Charlie’s back, he stared intently ahead watching a neon sign spring to life. He grinned. It read BECKYS.

“That has to be a diner,” he declared.

The air brakes whistled as Charlie brought the vehicle to a stop, and leaning back he sighed heavily, relieved to have found the mechanical oasis.

“I’m going to wait for the mechanic,” Charlie announced. “Don’t want to stop longer than we have to. Can you bring me something back?”

“Sure,” Cash replied.

Charlie flipped open the doors, and Cash was greeted by a blast of cold air as he trotted down the steps.

“Wow, that feels good,” he declared, and with a wave of his arm headed down the desolate street.

Turning up his collar and stuffing his hands in the deep, warm pockets, he glanced in the windows of the closed stores as he wandered by, and as he neared the diner he could almost taste the delicious breakfast he knew was waiting. Pushing open the door he discovered the predictable row of booths running the length of the window, and tall chrome stools at the counter. The question that followed him wherever he went invaded the serenity of the empty restaurant. When he was recognized would the quiet morning become a fiasco?

He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. With no sign of life in the street he decided to risk a booth, and as he sat down at the spotless table, he thought back to the days when he had $10 in his pocket and an inexpensive diner was his best friend.

The days when he and his band would make a plate of French fries and bottomless cups of coffee last forever.

The days when eating out meant that, eating out, not dodging reporters and signing endless autographs.

The days when the girl at his side was there because she had a crush on him, a struggling singer who spanked her silly and bought her a $1 rose at the grocery store on Valentine’s Day.

The days when his tour bus was a van that broke down with alarming regularity.

Cash had not been born into a penniless family, quite the contrary, but his father was old-school. If his son wanted to earn his living as a musician that was fine with him, but Cash would have to carve out his path however he could. Cash had no problem with his father’s decree. His family had instilled in him a strong sense of independence and pride, and while there had been times he’d stare at his terrifyingly low checkbook balance, his determination had never faltered.

How things had changed. His tours were now airport to airport, flying thousands of miles in his private jet. This tour, however, he had mandated that the last two weeks he would travel the open road. He wanted to relive his early years, and while the bus was vastly different from the van that carried with it an odd array of interesting aromas, he had enjoyed every mile.

“Be right with you,” a female voice called, and looking up he spied the back of young woman dressed in a long-sleeved pink shirt, white skirt and white cowboy boots. Her long hair was a multitude of varying shades of honey, evidence of the bleaching sun from hours outdoors. He smiled. It was a refreshing change from the dark roots to which he’d become accustomed.

Pulling the plastic covered menu from its metal holder, he saw the standard fare, and decided that eggs, hash browns and toast sounded outstanding.

“French Press or regular coffee?” the waitress called from behind the counter.

For a brief moment Cash forgot the concern about his fame and considered the surprising question. French Press coffee in a country diner?

“French Press,” he called back, adding, “this is the first diner I’ve been in that serves French Press coffee.”

“Folks around here like good coffee,” she remarked. “I’ll be right there.”

Staring back down at the menu he read through the various items, and discovered more interesting selections, especially in the desserts. Apple/blueberry crumble and a walnut raisin torte were listed among several mouthwatering suggestions.

“What can I get you?” the waitress asked, approaching his table.

She was carrying the glass decanter with the hot brewing coffee, along with a white mug, the name BECKY’S scrawled across it in bright red letters.

Cash took a deep breath. It wasn’t a question of if she would recognize him, it was a question of her reaction when she did. Slowly he lifted his face, his gaze meeting hers.

He wasn’t prepared for what greeted him.

Luminous blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes, freckles speckled across the bridge of the cutest nose he’d ever seen, and full pink lips; the kind he knew women paid dearly for. Her honeysuckle hair literally sparkled, like a golden frame around her glorious face. Her beauty was breathtaking, but what astounded him the most, was that she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup.

“Sir?” she asked, blushing red. “Are you feeling all right?”

He realized he was staring, and feeling somewhat embarrassed, he ran his fingers through his mop of hair and smiled.

“Sorry, yes, I’m fine. Still waking up.”

“What can I get you?” she smiled back, and he saw not a flicker of recognition in her mesmerizing eyes.

“Two scrambled eggs, hash browns and bacon.”

“Won’t be long,” she promised, and walked away.

Cash stared out at the barren street, trying to recall the last time he had sat down for something to eat and not been immediately identified. It had been so many years he couldn’t remember,

“Hey, Becky!”

A deep, booming voice filled the empty space, and Cash glanced up to see a tall, strapping young man striding towards the counter. The waitress turned around, and from the look on her face, the loud visitor was not good news.

“Roy, you know you’re not supposed to be coming in here.”

Cash could hear the fear in her voice, and knew instantly the man was an unwanted admirer.

“Dammit, Becky, I’m tired of all this shit. You know I love you and you know you belong to me. I’m sorry about the other night. Can’t we just forget about it?”

Cash had imagined Becky to be a mature woman who’d run the place for decades.

“No, please leave! Don’t make me call Sheriff Hollister. Please, Roy.”

It was obvious the intruder was in a foul mood, and he pounded his significant fist on the counter. Becky jumped back in fright, and as loathe as Cash was to become involved, he felt bound to help the young woman. He was about to hasten to her defense when the door to the kitchen swung open, and a balding, portly man, carrying a serious frown, moved slowly forward, gesturing Becky to stand aside.

“Now, Roy, don’t go getting yourself all riled up,” the man said calmly, his voice steady and even. “You’re already in a mess of trouble. Don’t go making it worse. I already called the Sheriff and if I don’t call him back in two minutes and tell him you did the right thing and walked out of here, he’ll be coming over to take you away in his car. Come on now, son, don’t be foolish.”

Cash watched, ready to jump into action. Roy was big and probably strong, but he’d be no competition. Cash would have him pinned across a table in thirty-seconds.

“Sorry, Mr. Turner,” the lad grumbled, “I’m goin'. Becky, I’m gonna win you back, ya hear?”

“Out,” the portly man said sternly.

Turning on his heel, Roy marched out, slamming the door behind him, and Cash looked on as the man from the kitchen hugged the quaking waitress, telling her not to worry.

The entire scene had been disturbing, and he couldn’t help but worry that the big lummox called Roy, would pay the pretty young woman another unwelcome visit.