Heartsong. Sara Walter Ellwood
just don’t party too hard tonight. We have to be in Omaha at seven AM to do that radio interview.”
“We’ll behave.” Gabe flashed another grin.
Hard to believe that only seven years ago his day job was punching cattle on a ranch in central Texas and he was spending his weekend nights singing in honky-tonks.
Back then Michaela Finn had been the most important thing in his life.
Would he ever forget the way her blue eyes darkened to sapphire when they made love?
Gary cuffed him on the shoulder, dislodging her memory and the ache thinking about her always brought. They headed into the green room to meet his fans.
This was what he lived for now, had dreamed about doing since he first saw a Garth Brooks concert as a kid, and he wouldn’t ever want another life.
Then why did he look for her in every crowd, hoping she’d be there?
* * * *
Micki Finn hated crowds almost as much as she despised Gabriel McKenna. She looked at the woman next to her, obviously a groupie, as were the rest of the frenzied females. All waiting outside the backdoor of the sports center along a cordoned-off path to Gabe’s tour buses.
The redhead beside her was trying for that naturally tussled look with her hair, but the spray glue holding it in place ruined the effect. Compared to some of the other women and girls gathered, Red was overdressed in her skintight, barely there tank dress. Micki’s faded jeans and T-shirt made her regular nun material.
Security held the throng back and the crowd became louder when the doors of the arena opened. Red bounced, her extremely large breasts nearly dislodged from the flimsy constraints of the tank top. She pushed past a pair of women old enough to be Gabe’s mother. The yellow ribbon appeared ahead of the redhead, and Micki followed her, shoving her way around Red to get to the line. Women yelled obscenities and scowled, but Micki ignored them and focused on the man heading toward the waiting bus.
She hated the way her heart skipped a beat before it galloped off like a horse out of the pen after a pistol shot. He was surrounded by men, but he outshined them all. His smile was cowboy handsome as he winked and tipped his hat at the groping women.
Gabe stopped along the line and signed autographs, but when some of the groupies became too daring and grabbed at his black T-shirt or lower, he withdrew to the center of the security guards.
A tan Stetson sat over a shock of raven hair that brushed his collar. Micki wasn’t ready for the sudden desire to run her fingers through the black silk. She fisted her hands until her nails bit into her palms.
The entourage drew closer under the harsh lights, which brightened the area to almost daylight intensity. Micki ducked under the yellow ribbon.
“Hey!” called the security guards and the women behind her at the same time.
She ignored both and got the response she wanted. Gabe stopped and pushed the Stetson back over his high forehead. He peered at her for a beat before dark brows rose over golden-brown eyes, set in a broad, angular face suggesting some Native American genetics. His full lips twisted into a smirk. “I’ll be damned. Never figured you’d become one of my groupies.” When a security guard grabbed her upper arm, Gabe said, “It’s okay, Chuck. I don’t think Miz Finn means me any harm.”
Micki shook off the big man’s grasp then adjusted her own hat. Gabe’s blatant gaze traveled over her scuffed cowboy boots all the way to the Stetson on her head. When he met her gaze again, the heat flowing over her had nothing to do with the temperature of the early September night, her hatred of him, or her anger. She shouldn’t have been affected at all, considering the reasons she’d driven half the night and all day to confront him.
Taking a deep breath to steady the nest of hornets in her stomach, she squared her shoulders. “We need to talk.”
A minute later, Gabe and a lanky man holding an incensed conversation on a Bluetooth ushered her onto the first bus. They left the security folks to deal with the crowd of jealous women jeering behind them. When they entered the common area of the bus, the seven members of Gabe’s band looked up from the couch and restaurant-like booth. They all held longneck bottles of beer and two of them held cigarettes, the smoke of which clung to the cool, conditioned air and made her throat burn.
A burly man she recognized as Gabe’s lead guitarist stood and smiled at her. He went to the refrigerator, pulled out a beer, and raised a brow at Gabe. “Not your usual type. I like.”
After he returned to the couch, Gabe reached into the fridge then pulled out two Budweisers. He handed her one of the longnecks. “This is Michaela Finn.” Using his unopened bottle, he pointed to the men and the lone woman, going clockwise. The lead guitarist was first. “Brian, Chris, Jessica, her husband Caleb, Joel, Robby, Kenny. My band. And the man on the phone is my manager, Gary Russell.”
Gary nodded his head once and grunted, then turned away and sat beside Robby at the table. He booted up a laptop as he lit a cigarette. Gabe got another beer out and set it on the table beside Gary. No word of thanks, no acknowledgment came from the man now tapping on keys and talking on the phone at the same time. No doubt, Gary would be dead from a coronary by the time he was seventy.
At least he was here and not that woman. Before Micki could let Gabe’s betrayal bog her down any farther, she tipped her hat at the motley men and the woman of the band.
“Hello. Most people call me Micki. Gabe’s the only one who’s ever really called me Michaela.” Her smile was stiff as she grasped the beer bottle with a death grip and tried to not stare at the man taking up more than his share of space beside her. She shouldn’t drink, she had a long drive back to Bluebonnet Creek, Texas, but she needed it more now than ever.
Joel, Gabe's bassist, pushed his long black hair from his face and looked her up and down from where he lounged on the couch. “You’re not a groupie. You’re the ex.”
Taken aback, Micki glanced at Gabe, who took a big swig of his beer. They hadn’t been together since Gabe decided he was tired of cowboying and singing in honky-tonks and then hightailed it to Nashville only two days before their wedding seven years ago.
With another woman.
“You were married? How’d you keep that secret?” The bright light over the table turned Robby’s spiked bleached blond hair white. A cigarette dangled between the fingers of the drummer’s left hand. “I’m surprised Andrea didn’t let the world know you were married before her when you broke up.”
“Never quite made it to the altar.” Gabe took another pull on the bottle before he sat it on the counter of what passed for a kitchen of sorts. He peered at Micki with narrowed eyes. “What did you want to talk about?”
Micki downed a quarter of the beer, trying to get her bearings. It was impossible. She’d already had the eleven-hour drive to Kansas City to figure out how she was going to tell Gabe the news. She sat her bottle beside his. “Can we...”--she glanced at the men and woman watching her with amusement and curiosity--“go somewhere...”
Gabe nodded and led her though a door at the end of a narrow passage. A burst of panic zinged through her at the sight of the bed taking up most of the space. How many women had he had sex with in this room? Had Andrea been one of them? Of course she’d been. When the door clicked closed, she jumped and turned to him. She didn’t care about his private life. Couldn’t care.
“What’s going on, Michaela?”
She wrung her hands together. “I’ve come to--to tell you Sam and... and Frankie...”
“If this is about Dad and your sister, I don’t care.”
She sniffed back the sudden burn of fresh tears. “Oh, Gabe...”
When she wobbled on her feet, he was there in a heartbeat and guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. He quickly withdrew his arm, but sat next to her. Their thighs touched. Her heart leapt and her breath caught.