Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume VIII. Kimberly Raye
he would probably follow that up with a six-pack and then pull a few Hooters’ girls out of the closet.
She shook her head and he turned his attention back to the pitcher. Without bothering with a glass, he downed half of the container before finally coming up for air.
“Don’t you think you should slow down a little?” she asked as they started to slow. “I need you sober to sign this.”
“Don’t worry, sugar. I can do just about anything under the influence. I’m sure I’ll be able to scribble my John Hancock.” He set the remainder of the pitcher on a nearby countertop as they rolled to a complete stop. He grabbed the T-shirt draped across the back of his chair and pulled it on just as the bus door powered open.
“If you could just do this really fast for me,” she said, blocking his path toward the door. “I’ll be out of here in a flash—”
“I knew you’d make it!” The excited voice came from the doorway.
Wendy turned and her elbow slammed into the pitcher, knocking it onto its side. Margarita oozed over the countertop and dripped onto the floor.
She snatched up a dishrag and wiped at the mess just as a tall, lanky young man bounded onto the bus. He had the same killer-blue eyes as his older brother and the same whiskey-blond hair, which brushed the collar of his red-and-blue plaid Western shirt.
“A promise is a promise.” Pete grabbed Wade Gunner in a quick bear hug while Wendy wiped at the spilled margarita and frantically scooped as much as she could back into the pitcher.
“You’re just in time, too,” the young man told Pete. His eyes flashed with excitement. “It’s happening.”
“Right now?”
The boy’s head bobbed. “She’s about to pop any friggin’ second.”
“Hot damn!” Pete exploded. “That’s my girl.” He headed for the door on the heels of his younger brother and panic bolted through Wendy.
She dumped the last of the iced drink into the sink before her gaze dropped to the pale green stain on the front of her shirt. Great. Now she was going to reek of tequila.
Except she didn’t.
She caught a whiff of the almost-empty pitcher and smelled only fresh-squeezed lime juice and the sharp, pungent scent of vitamins.
Wait a second—
Her speculation stalled as she realized the counter was clear. Pete had bolted, and taken her contract with him.
“You forgot the pen—” She started after him, but his long strides had him yards ahead of her by the time she lunged off the bus. He was a man on a mission.
That’s my girl?
His words echoed in her head and her throat tightened. In all their meetings on the topic of Pete Gunner, her boss had never mentioned anything about a significant other. Just a long list of temporary flings while he was on the road, including a week with a recent Country Music Association award winner and a few weekends here and there with a Victoria’s Secret pinup.
She thought of the margarita that wasn’t really a margarita and the Yorkie named Tinkerbell. Maybe Pete Gunner wasn’t half the badass he pretended to be.
Just as the notion struck, a grizzled voice echoed in her ears. “The name’s Eli,” said the old man who stepped up next to her. “Why don’t you follow me up to the house and I’ll help you get settled into a room?”
Settled? She shook her head. “No, thanks, Eli. I’ll be leaving shortly. I just need to get that contract back from Pete and then I’m on the next cab out of here.”
He belted out a laugh. “First off, darlin’, there ain’t no cabs around these parts. And second, if you’re thinking to disturb Pete, you’d better think again. When he’s with DeeDee, he don’t like to be bothered.”
“Which one is she? The singer? The lingerie model?”
“Hell’s bells, gal, DeeDee ain’t no singer and she sure-as-hell ain’t no dad-blasted underpants model.” The man laughed again, his belly shaking with the effort this time. “She’s his horse.”
“EASY, GIRL.” PETE SOOTHED the animal and gathered the slippery bundle in his arms for one more tug. The animal gave a loud snort and the foal slipped out in a tangle of arms and legs.
He handed over the animal to the vet who’d driven out for the occasion and turned his attention back to the black cutting horse stretched out in front of him.
DeeDee whinnied and lifted her head before settling it back down on a pile of straw.
“I know, girl.” Pete stroked her smooth flank. “You’re plum tuckered out.”
He knew the feeling. Six hours of sleep and he could still feel the exhaustion tugging at his muscles. Which made no sense whatsoever because Pete Gunner was the friggin’ Energizer bunny. He’d pulled all-nighters time and time again. Hell, he’d be pulling one tonight once the celebration for Wade’s birthday got under way. They had fireworks. Barbecue. Music. It was going to be one hell of a party and he was damned excited about it.
His heart sure wasn’t pumping overtime because of Wendy.
Sure, he liked the way she smelled and the way she wiggled her nose when she slept and he even liked her smart mouth. Despite the fact that she wanted something from him, she wasn’t the least bit anxious to impress him. A fact that stirred his curiosity.
But not his lust.
At least that’s what he tried to tell himself for the next few moments as he soothed his tired horse.
Seriously, she was a pain in the ass. Sneaking onto his bus. Cornering him in the shower. Bullying him while he ate his pancakes. Following him all the way home. Just who did she think she was? All she had to do was send him the damned papers and he’d sign them. He would sign them.
Not this set in particular, of course. His gaze went to the discarded paperwork lying next to DeeDee and the slimy substances blurring the words. He’d meant to be more careful, but then DeeDee had crowned and he’d forgotten everything except the foal. Western would just have to send out another one.
Then he would sign. Probably.
And then it was on to another PBR title, even if half the world expected him to give it up once he had the Western money in his pocket. That’s what battered veterans did. They gave in to their aches and pains, signed endorsements and stepped aside to give the newbies their shot. Not Pete. Bull riding was his thing. The one thing that had kept him going in the early days when having his own ranch had been just a pipe dream and he’d been living in a trailer in Lost Gun with his five-year-old brother and his alcoholic mother. She’d rammed her truck into a telephone pole on the way to the liquor store when he was barely sixteen. He and Wade had been on their own ever since.
But he’d made it. He’d started riding in local rodeos for whatever purse had been offered, and he’d kept riding all the way clear to his first championship. And he’d kept going after that, not just because of the money, but because when he was on the back of that bull, he felt as though he was in control of his life, a master of his own destiny, and that meant everything to a kid who’d watched his mother slip away night after night, powerless to stop her downward spiral. She’d taken him and his brother down with her, until Pete had managed to climb atop that first bull.
“Everybody’s comin’ tonight,” Wade said, effectively drawing his attention and distracting him from his thoughts. “Even Ginny.”
Ginny Hooker was the daughter of J. R. Hooker, the local sheriff and the meanest son of a bitch Pete had ever had the misfortune to run into. J.R. was strict, holier-than-thou and he hated the Gunners and the Lost Boys.
A feeling that had been born way back when Pete was thirteen and he’d “borrowed” old man Riddle’s horse and ridden