Coming Undone Page 4

  “Doing what I love best—jamming with other musicians.” She shrugged. “And if I can exert a little damage control with the fans at the same time, so much the better.”

  “You’d do a lot more damage control if you gave an interview to one of the magazines or CMT.”

  “Well, thank you for that advice. If the time ever comes when I wanna see my private life dissected in front of millions, I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.” She shook her head in disgust. “I thought you’d be the one person to understand the effect all this media attention has on a person’s psyche. But I guess you’ve changed even more than I’d already noticed.” Hopping off the stool, she stalked across the bar to the back exit.

  “P.J.!”

  She didn’t even slow down.

  Dammit, he’d brought her wonderful mood crashing to earth and she resented the hell out of him for it. This had been the happiest she’d felt in almost two weeks.

  Losing the performance high, however, was nothing compared to the way he’d crushed her second-favorite fantasy. For years she’d carried the dream of him around in her heart. For a brief while he’d been her hero, and she’d missed him like crazy when her mother had first let her come home after Rocket rescued her and Jared from the streets. But she’d seen the mansion Jared lived in, and the seeds of Mama’s insistence that a rich boy like him had no time for a girl like her had found fertile ground. So when she and Mama moved mere days after reuniting, she’d let her relationship with Jared lapse.

  She’d dreamed of him, though. God, had she dreamed of him! And long before she’d ever believed she might have an actual shot at realizing her fantasy of becoming a country singer, she’d made up scenarios in her head of one day running into him. She, of course, would be the hottest singing sensation since the coalminer’s daughter. He would be so struck by her beauty and talent that he’d beg her to marry him on the spot. And they’d live happily ever after in a nice house with a really big yard full of dogs and cats and stuff.

  “Juvenile bullshit,” she muttered now, pushing through the back door into the brisk evening air.

  She shivered. It had been about seventy degrees earlier today but the town was nestled in the western foothills of the Rockies and the temperature felt as if it had dropped thirty degrees. Rubbing her arms as the sweat she’d worked up onstage encountered the chilly air, she eyed the cartons of empties stacked next to the Dumpster. She separated out one and sat on it. Planting her elbow on her knee, she rested her chin in her palm.

  After a moment it occurred to her that although she was tired of being jerked around, just sitting on her butt stewing about it didn’t seem to be getting her anywhere. So maybe it was time to get up and actually do something.

  She marched back into the bar, located Wayne and walked up to him. “See that guy over there?” She indicated Jared with a lift of her little finger.

  “Yeah. Seen him talking to you a minute ago. Then I seen you taking off, lookin’ mad enough to chew nails. He bothering you?”

  “Yes. Can something be done about it?”

  “You betcha.” He pulled out a sawn-off oar from beneath the bar and raised it in the air over his head.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! I don’t want him beaten up.”

  He grinned at her. “I’m not gonna hit him. This is just to signal Bubba.”

  “Who’s Bub—Whoa.”

  A man the size of a refrigerator appeared next to her, and Wayne jutted his chin toward Jared, who was sitting down the bar a ways, killing off a bowl of peanuts. “Man in the white shirt is bothering the lady here,” he said softly.

  “I’m sorry about that, ma’am,” Bubba said in a quiet, surprisingly high-pitched voice as he politely inclined his head to P.J. “I’ll see to it he doesn’t do that again.”

  “Without violence, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He started to turn away, then turned back and gave the front of his white straw cowboy hat a courteous tug. “Enjoyed your singing.”

  “Thank you.” She turned bemused eyes to Wayne as Bubba ambled away. “Big boy.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  They both watched as Bubba walked up to Jared, leaned down and said something in his ear. Jared turned his head to stare at P.J., his face impassive but eyes hot, before nodding and climbing to his feet. He dropped a couple of bills on the bar then strode across the room and out the front door.

  Take that, she thought, watching until the door closed behind him. How do you like being the one with no power over what’s happening to you? She turned back to Wayne. “You have any bottled water?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let me have one of those, wouldja? I need something to sip onstage.” She wasn’t stupid—she knew she hadn’t gotten rid of Jared permanently. But for the moment at least he wasn’t sitting there raining on her parade. She was used to being in charge of her life, but too many things had been happening lately without her input. It had to stop.

  And to that end, she felt as if she’d taken her first steps. Maybe only baby steps, but it felt good all the same to be proactive again. Her heart regained some of the lightness she’d been feeling before Jared had ruined her mood.

  By the time she and Cold Creek closed down their final set at close to two in the morning she was flying high. She talked to the band while they broke down the drums and packed the stringed instruments in their cases. But when they invited her to join them for an after-hours drink, she declined. The shot she’d tossed back before the first set had long worn off, but she didn’t think it was a good idea to have another drink just before she climbed behind the wheel. Plus she wanted to get out of town before the press got wind of tonight’s gig and hunted her down—but she could use a few hours’ sleep first. So she thanked them, thanked Burt and Wayne and Bubba, and headed out to the nearly empty lot.

  Jared’s SUV was still parked across the lot, but she shrugged and headed for her truck. If her luck held, maybe she’d make it back to the hotel and gain her room without having to talk to him. Laughing, she dashed to her pickup. So far, so good. No headlights flashed on the Lexus and its engine didn’t fire up. She unlocked the driver’s side and opened the door.

  “Took you long enough.”

  “Holy crap!” Her breath exploded from her lungs and her heart slammed up against the wall of her chest. She slapped a hand to her breast to contain it. Seeing Jared lounging on his tailbone on the passenger side of the bench seat, a black felt cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes and his long legs crossed at the ankle and propped up on the dashboard by the steering wheel, made her good cheer go up in smoke. “What are you doing here? How did you get in? And where did you get that hat?”

  “Waiting for you. Picked the lock. And I found the hat behind the seat. I look pretty hot in it, don’t I?”

  He did, dammit. “The color’s appropriate, anyhow.”

  “Bad guy, black hat?”

  “Why, yes, now that you mention it.” She gave him her best wide-eyed innocent look, as if that wasn’t exactly what she’d implied.

  “At least I know enough to look inside a vehicle before I climb in.”

  She rolled her eyes. “So do you often help yourself to other men’s stuff?”

  His eyes were a now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t gleam beneath the brim. “Can’t say that I do. But I had lots of time to kill, and when I found this—” he touched a lazy finger to the hat’s brim “—I realized I need a nice Stetson if I’m going to be on a country-music tour. Want to fit in, don’tcha know.”

  “Well, get your own. That one’s Hank’s. And it’s not a Stetson, city boy. It’s a Resistol.” She smacked his calf. “Get your feet off my dash.” When he complied, she climbed in and closed the door. The overhead light blinked off.

  “Who’s Hank? Your boyfriend?”

  “My fiddle player.”

  Jared didn’t know why he gave a damn one way or the other, but he was glad to hear it belonged to a member of her band. He looked at her as she fired up her truck. She had
pretty skin; it looked creamy even washed by the faint green-and-gold glow thrown off by the dash. He cleared his throat. “You okay to drive?”

  “Sure. I had one drink when we first got here, but I sweated it all out by the time we finished the first set.” Putting the pickup in gear, she released the brake.

  And drove the hundred yards to the other side of the lot, where she stopped next to his Lexus. “Don’t let the door hit you in the butt.”

  “You seem to say that to me a lot,” he said, fishing his keys from his pocket and climbing out. He leaned in to speak to her through the crack in the window. “Lock your damn doors, okay? I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

  She made a rude noise, and the minute he stepped back, she peeled away, leaving the smell of scorched rubber and exhaust in her wake.

  He just grinned, because he’d had plenty of time to study his map while he’d waited for her. Driving hell for leather on the alternate route he’d memorized, he made it to the hotel ahead of her. He collected his room key, detoured through the coffee shop to grab a handful of spoons and forks off the table nearest the door and was in time to smile at P.J.’s disgruntlement when he stepped onto the elevator with her. “Déjà vu.”

  “Ha-ha.” She eyed the leather satchel in his hand and the canvas backpack slung by one strap from his shoulder. But it was his fistful of cutlery that she addressed. “You’re stealing hotel silverware? What, you lose your trust fund or something?”

  “Nah. I gave it away.”

  She pushed away from the wall she’d been leaning against. “You gave away all your money?”

  “Not all of it. Just the lion’s share.”

  She stared at him openmouthed. “But that’s…that is so—”

  “Philanthropic? Altruistic? Unbelievably generous?”

  “Nuts. That’s just plain nuts. A person has to work too damn hard for his money to just give it all away.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t earn the money that I donated to charity. It came, as you so astutely pointed out, from a trust fund set up by my father and from the bearer bonds that got him killed. Or maybe you didn’t hear about the latter.” A tinge of bitterness he couldn’t prevent entered his tone. “After all, you’d taken a powder by then, hadn’t you?”

  She tipped her head so he could no longer see her eyes in the shadow of her hat brim. “I did so hear,” she muttered.

  The car arrived at their floor and he waved her out ahead of him. She stepped into the alcove with alacrity but then hesitated and turned back to him. “I’m sorry,” she said grudgingly.

  “Are you? What for?”

  “For making those rich-boy cracks.”

  He laughed. “Honey, I’m still rich. I’m just not obscenely wealthy like I was before.” He followed her off the elevator.

  She backed up a step. “What are you doing?”

  “Would you believe walking you to your door?”

  “This isn’t a date! I don’t need to be walked to my door.”

  “In that case, I’m walking me to mine.”

  She blew out an aggravated breath. “Fine. Whatever. I’m too tired to figure out your riddles. I’m going to bed.” She turned on her heel and stalked off.

  Once again he found himself walking behind her, eyeing the irritated twitch of her butt. After her performance with the band, he figured she had reason to be tired.

  She’d knocked his socks off tonight. He’d heard her music before, of course, so he’d already known she had a powerhouse voice. But listening to a CD and watching her perform live was like comparing silver to platinum. A record didn’t showcase the incredible contrast between her raspy speaking voice and that full-throated way she had of belting out a melody.

  And she moved onstage. From the instant she’d sashayed up to the microphone, she’d been in motion. Either her hips had been swinging, or her arms had been in the air or she’d been bopping in place while holding the mic out for the audience to sing the chorus of a song. All that energy in motion had been like a time warp back to the days when she used to dance backward in front of him so she could talk his ear off while they walked the sidewalks of Denver. Except tonight there’d been a confusing overlay of vivid woman superimposed atop the memory of the child she’d been then.

  An overlay he was dead determined to ignore.

  She stopped at the door to room 617 and inserted her card. When the light turned green she pushed down the handle. She was halfway into the little hallway inside the door before she appeared to notice him opening the door to room 619.

  She shot back out into the corridor and faced him, hands on her hips. “You’re next door?”

  “Handy, isn’t it? We have connecting rooms.”

  She made a sound like pressure escaping a steam valve and stormed into hers. “I’ll be sure to lock my side,” he heard her say as she slammed the door shut.

  “Nah, really?” he murmured as he closed his own door behind him. Opening the closet, he dumped his satchel on the luggage rack, then sloughed the backpack off his shoulder as he continued into the room. Dropping it and his fistful of flatware onto the bed, he sat down and stared at the wall as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. It had been a long day.

  And it wasn’t over yet. Pulling the backpack closer, he unzipped it and rummaged through the main compartment until he located a spool of fishing line. Then he moved up the mattress until his back pressed against the headboard, laid out the utensils he’d taken from the coffee shop and started tying them, one next to the other, on the line. He fastened one end of the filament to the nightstand lamp’s finial, then fed out the line down the short hallway, looped it around the doorknob to the open bathroom door and ran it between the threshold and the bottom of the door to the hallway. Quietly making his way to P.J.’s room, he looped the line around her door handle, tied an angler’s knot and cut the remainder of the spool free.

  Returning to his room, he stripped down, brushed his teeth and went to bed.

  The sound of his bathroom door slamming and a half dozen forks and spoons clanking together as they danced on the line next to the bed woke him half an hour later. Rolling from bed, he tugged on his jeans and headed for the door.

  As he pulled it open he heard a muffled thud and P.J.’s voice exclaiming, “What the—?”

  Strolling out into the corridor, he saw her bending over to peer at the line stretched across her doorway. Her suitcase lay on its back half in, half out of her room.

  “Going somewhere, P.J.?”

  She raised furious eyes. “What the hell is this?”

  “A rudimentary but effective alarm system. Checking out?”

  “I’d considered it. I want to leave town before the press gets wind that I’m here.” She looked at his naked chest, then raised resentful eyes to meet his gaze. “But I guess it can wait till morning.” Whispering a curse, she dragged her bag back into her room and slammed the door.

  Score one for his side. With a satisfied smile, Jared reset his line and returned to his room, as well.

  Now maybe they could both get a few hours’ sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  And on the music front, a little birdie just told me that singer Priscilla Jayne hired power agent Ben McGrath to replace the mother she fired.

  —“Dishing With Charley” columnist Charlene Baines, Nashville News Today

  WHEN THE ALARM WENT OFF at eight the next morning P.J. had no idea where she was for a few disoriented moments. Then the smell of cigarette smoke on her skin and in her hair registered—that all-too-familiar reek of bars and honky-tonks. The stench brought last night’s events rushing back and she crawled out of bed and stumbled over to the complimentary coffeemaker to assemble a pot. The minute it started burbling she stuck her cup in the coffeepot space. When it was full she exchanged it for the glass container and knocked the drink back in one long swallow.

  Finally feeling awake enough to quit stumbling over her own feet, she headed for the bathroom to take a quick shower. Then she dried
off, pulled on a short cotton two-flounce lime green skirt and a white tank top and threw her toiletries into her suitcase. Bundling last night’s smoke-saturated outfit into a plastic bag, she tucked it alongside her cosmetic pouch and zipped the suitcase closed.

  After piling her belongings next to the door, she called down to the front desk. “This is Priscilla Morgan in room 617,” she said in a tremulous voice when they picked up. “Would you send up the manager, please? Right away? And I need my bill prepared for checkout.”

  There was a knock on her door within five minutes. P.J. opened it the barest crack and peered out.

  “Miss Morgan? I’m Jed Turner, the manager. You requested to speak to me?” She saw him stare down at the fishing line tied to her door knob, watched as his gaze tracked it along the hallway. “What is this?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she whispered. “The man next door is stalking me.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Shh. Please.” She cast a nervous eye in the direction of room 619. “He’s been following me for days, and last night he somehow discovered which room I was in and managed to get accommodations in the one next door.” She let out a shuddery sigh. “He tied that line to my door. It leads to his room where it’s tied to something that forms a rudimentary alarm system. I know because he told me so last night when I tried to leave.” She looked up at the manager. “I’m scared, Mr. Turner. I think he’s…disturbed, and I can’t get out of my room without him knowing.”

  “Well, we’ll just see about that,” the manager said grimly. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”

  Oh, crap. She’d hoped to be out of here before he confronted Jared.

  But Turner didn’t go next door. He walked down the hallway in the opposite direction and, as promised, was back in less than five minutes. Producing a pocket knife, he sliced the line from the doorknob. “Will you come out here for a second and hold this?”

  P.J. stepped out into the corridor and took the severed filament from his grasp.