From the moment their conversation had ended, Becky was a nervously happy wreck. Jumping in the shower she had washed her hair, though she’d just done so the day before, then spent an hour trying to style it with a blow dryer, finally giving up and letting it fall as it usually did, long and flowing past her shoulders.
Her father came in from his work shed for lunch, discovering Becky had set the table and prepared a salad, though she was nowhere to be seen. It was odd, but he didn’t think much about it until she appeared looking sheepish but very happy, her hair freshly washed, and a huge smile on her face.
“Dad, I have a friend coming this afternoon. I invited him to park his bus under the oaks on the far field. I hope that’s okay.”
Dave Turner felt it again, the bittersweet, sick feeling. The special someone she had met was a musician; a musician on tour no less.
“That’s fine, honey,” he smiled, attempting to keep his voice even and calm. “Who is this, uh, friend?”
“How did you know?” Becky asked cheekily, sitting across from him.
“I look forward to meeting him. When’s he arriving?”
“In about two hours or so. The bus is coming separate though. He’s having it dropped off. A place to rest his head, he said.”
“Why doesn’t he just stay at the motel down the street?” her father asked, thinking something wasn’t quite right.
“He said he needs the bus. I didn’t want to ask too many questions,” she admitted, adding hastily, “but you’ll like him, dad, I know you will.”
The afternoon passed slowly for Dave Turner, as he worried about his daughter having met a wandering minstrel, not exactly what he’d had in mind for her.
Becky kept herself busy cleaning the house, then trying to decide what to wear. After going through everything in her closet she came to the conclusion that she had absolutely nothing.
Mid-afternoon she saw the tour bus heading up the far field and ran out to meet it, then trotted alongside to guide it into place. It was half the size of the one she’d seen at Jeb’s, but it was white and sleek with dark windows, and was towing a late model sedan.
The driver rolled to a stop under the trees, but before he turned off the engine and stepped out, she heard a whirring sound, and realized the car was being disengaged from its towing mechanism. The whole process was fascinating, and she stood by as he finally opened the wide doors and jumped down.
“Are you Becky Turner?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, shocked that he knew who she was.
“Here are the keys. I was told to give them to you or leave them in the bus, so here you go,” he declared.
“Oh. Thanks. Is Cody Cox a well-known musician?” she asked, taking them from his hand.
“Don’t know who that is,” the young man replied, moving to the back of the bus. “I don’t know any details. I just deliver and pickup,” he announced, and proceeded to expertly unhook the vehicle. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
Jumping into the car he drove away, leaving Becky standing in the field, staring up at the sleek, modern bus parked under the trees.
“Gee, Cody, you would have to be really successful to afford something like this,” she mumbled to herself.
“I’d agree with that statement.”
She turned around. Her father had walked up behind her, and she’d been so engrossed in the delivery of the impressive bus, she’d not realized he’d been watching just as she had.
“It’s a beauty,” he continued. “Let’s look inside.”
“Do you think we should?” she asked, not wanting to invade Cody’s privacy.
“Honey, it’s a rental. There’ll be nothing personal in there.”
“Oh, right,” she replied. “Of course.”
The driver had left the doors open, and cautiously Becky walked in ahead of her father, then stopped and stared in disbelief.
“Oh - my - gosh! Dad, this is incredible,” she exclaimed, shocked by the luxury surrounding her.
Dave Turner shook his head.
“Yes, it is,” he nodded. “Incredible,” silently adding, maybe this wandering minstrel isn’t so bad after all.
The bus oozed expense; the entire area was trimmed in burled walnut, and sported a cream leather couch, large matching chairs, a mahogany dining table, a fully stocked bar, and a flat screen TV. Walking through the stunning cabin to the rear of the bus, Becky opened a door and discovered a bedroom that could have been in a fine hotel. Standing behind her, David Turner whistled.
“No wonder he didn’t want to stay in the motel.”
“The bus that broke down, the one at Jebs the other day, was twice, maybe three times this size,” she remarked. “I wonder what that was like inside.”
“I remember you telling me how massive it was,” he remarked.
“Jeb told me last night it belonged to Cash Colt. Do you know who I mean?”
“I’m not that old,” he chuckled. “Of course I know Cash Colt. Love his stuff.”
“You do?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes, I do. Don’t you listen to what I play in the diner?”
“Not really,” Becky admitted. “Not unless it’s Faith Hill, or Shania Twain or Carrie Underwood.”
“Are you serious?” he asked, discovering something about his daughter he’d not known. “You don’t like rock at all?”
“Um, no, not really. Maybe some. I think there are some songs you play that are decent, but I couldn’t tell you who the artists are.”
“This thing is ridiculous,” he continued, returning the conversation to the high-end appointments. “Your young man is either trying hard to impress you, or has done very well for himself.”
“All I know is that he’s a musician and his name is Cody Cox.”
“Never heard of him,” her father replied.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about the stuff, I just really like him,” she said wistfully.
“You’re a good girl,” he said softly, and wrapped her in a hug. “You just keep thinking that way and you’ll be all right.”
Becky felt an odd lump in her throat, and knew her father was getting emotional too, so pushed him away.
“Don’t go getting all mushy on me. I have to start getting ready.”
“You’ve been in that room getting ready all afternoon,” he exclaimed. “I know, and I have nothing to wear,” she wailed.
“Then you’d better get back and find something,” he suggested.
“Yes, right now,” she agreed, and followed him out.
Standing in the grass, holding the keys, she frowned.
“How do I close the doors,” she asked.
“Here,” he said, taking the keys and punching the small, red button on the remote.
“Now I just feel stupid,” she moaned.
“Come on,” he chuckled, “let’s get back to the house. You have to get ready for this Cody character, whoever he is.”
The small jet in which Cash was traveling was just touching down. It had taken 45 minutes for the limousines to reach the airfield when they’d whisked him and his band away from the broken down bus, so he figured it would take him about half an hour. Limousines always drove under the speed limit, which was something he’d grown used to, but still found slightly annoying. As the plane taxied to a stop, he saw a young man standing next to a convertible Ford Mustang.
Perfect, he thought. The absolute perfect car. Andrew, I could kiss you right now.
Donning aviator sunglasses and a baseball cap, he disembarked and walked quickly across the tarmac.
“Bruce Milburn?” the young man asked.
“That’s me,” Cash replied.
It was the name Andrew used whenever Cash needed a cover.
“Keys are in it. Could you just sign here please?”
Cash took the pen from the young man’s hand and splashed it across the paper.
“Do I know you? Are you famous?” the young man inquired, sure he recognized the face behind the sunglasses.
“No. Just generous employers,” Cash replied. “Thanks.”
Throwing his bag in the back of the car, he jumped in and sped away. Once out of view of the airfield, he pulled to the side of the road and retrieved his personal phone, touching Becky’s name on the slick screen.
“Hi. Are you almost here?” she asked eagerly, the moment she answered. Cody smiled. There was no pretense about her.
“Yes, on the highway. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Did the bus arrive?”
“Uh-huh. It’s really nice, Cody. I mean, really.”
“Great. Maybe we can have dinner in there. Is there a good place for take-out when Becky’s diner is closed?”
“Yes,” Becky giggled. “My kitchen.”
“Good answer,” he chuckled. “I’m going to hang up now. I pulled over to call you. Don’t like holding a phone while I’m driving a car.”
“Do you know where you’re going?”
“I’ll just plug your address into the navigator. See you shortly,” he promised.
“Yes, you will,” she replied, feeling her toes curl.
Touching the screen he ended the call, entered her address into the navigator, and listened to the soft, lilting female voice as it directed him back on to the highway.
Soon, Miss Becky Turner, very soon you will feel what it’s like to be treated with warmth and consideration, and maybe a just a little taste of some other spicy pleasantries.
Things weren’t quite so agreeable for Marilyn. When she‘d finally woken up she’d found a note on her nightstand.
Order whatever you need for lunch, then call me at the number on the attached card. Sam Reed.
Not understanding why there would be a message from Sam and not Cash, she had stumbled into the living room and noticed the doors to Cash’s bedroom were wide open. Moving inside she’d discovered all his belongings were gone. Dismayed and disappointed, she’d slumped down on the bed and cursed herself for having behaved so badly, then cursed him for bailing, then cursed her whole, damn, rotten life.
Staggering back into her own bedroom, she had flopped down on her bed and felt tears welling up, but angrily pushed them away, refusing to shed them over Cash Colt.
Damn him and his stupid manager, she’d thought, and fishing around in her bag, found some aspirin and headed into the shower. As the hot water splashed across her head, it washed away the rough, edgy feeling, and she began to recall some of the previous night’s events. Sam Reed had been interesting to say the least, and she was attracted to his confidence and style.
You thought you were in love with Cash yesterday, her angel jibed.
That was yesterday, her devil replied, and today is today and you’re bored, and maybe you will write that book after all.
She was sure some food would help her head and general malaise, and after devouring some insanely delicious cinnamon french toast, coated in real maple syrup, and downing several cups of coffee, her head was clearer and her stomach much happier. Feeling back in control, she sat on the side of her bed studying the note.
“Okay, Mr. Sam Reed. I guess I’d better find out how long I have to stay in this lovely suite, and I wonder if you have anything else in mind.”
Carrying his business card, she returned to the living room, and sitting on the comfortable couch, pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number.
“Reed Management,” a pert female voice answered.
The office? He gave me the office number?
“Sam Reed, please,” she said politely.
“Who may I say is calling?”
Why didn’t you leave me your cell phone?
“Marilyn Sanders,” she sighed, already feeling impatient.
“Hold on, please,” the pert voice requested.
Classical music began playing through the phone, which Marilyn found completely annoying. She waited, tapping her foot, and staring at the ceiling.
“Mr. Reed said he’ll have to return your call. May I please take your number?”
“Fine, whatever,” she moaned, and gave the girl her number. “When will he be calling me back?”
“I don’t know,” the pert voice replied.
“Can you find out? I don’t want to sit around here all day,” she complained.
“Do you have a cell phone where he can reach you?”
Shit.
“This is my cell phone. Never mind,” she snapped, and clicked off the line.
Out of sorts and not having the energy to go shopping, she settled back on the couch, found the television remote control, and began flipping impatiently through the channels. The room service waiter arrived to gather up the lunch things, and after he left, she grabbed her phone and called Sam a second time. It had been half an hour and that was long enough.
“Reed Management,”
It was the same annoyingly cheery voice.
“This is Marilyn Sanders again. Is Mr. Reed available yet?”
“One moment, please.”
Marilyn stood up and began pacing.
“If you’ll wait he’ll be with you in a few minutes, or he can call you back.”
“I’ll wait, no, yes. I’ll wait, but not for long,” she said tersely.
“Very well.”
The irritating classical music came back on, and Marilyn couldn’t stand to listen to it a minute longer, so impatiently hung up the phone. On an impulse she decided to go down to the lobby store and have a quick look around. Moving to her bathroom, she splashed some water on her face, toweled off, and was picking up her bag when the hotel phone rang.
“Yes?” she asked impatiently, thinking it was the front desk.
“Marilyn, it’s Sam Reed.”
Shit
“Oh, hi. I thought it was the front desk,” she remarked, softening her tone.
“Nope, it’s me. Are you always so angry with the front desk?”
“I’m just irritated,” she replied.
“I see. A bit hung over, are we?” he chided.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, adding, “why is your office open on a Sunday?”
“There’s some mopping up to do.”
“Cash has left,” she announced, “but of course you know that. What’s going on?”
My goodness, you are a brat, aren’t you, Marilyn?
“Yes, Cash was called away. You can stay in the suite tonight, but then you’ll have to vacate. I’m happy to arrange transport back to wherever you’d like to go.”
“Um, no, that’s okay. I think I’ll stay in New York for a few days. Tomorrow I’ll just get a smaller room. I like this hotel. I like the service.”
“Up to you,” he said patiently, then added, “I’d like to take you to dinner tonight, if you don’t have any plans.”
Marilyn smiled. She wasn’t surprised and she was surprised. Dinner with Sam Reed, one of the most powerful managers in the business. Sounded like a plan.
“Thanks. I think that would be a good distraction from my bolting rock star.”
“He didn’t bolt. The entire band is here in my office getting ready to leave for the airport,” he informed her. It was a half-truth. Everyone was there except Cash. “You had a lot to drink last night and you were still completely knocked out when he left. He didn’t want to wake you. Right now he’s in the middle of an interview with the rest of the band, and wanted me to tell you he’ll call you when he can.”
“It’s fine, whatever,” she said flippantly. “So, yes, let’s have dinner.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up around 7:30.”
“See you then,” she answered.
This is an interesting turn of events, she thought. Could be fun to hang out with a big-time manager for a little while.
Sam Reed stood up from his desk and walked to his window. His office overlooked Central Park, and he took great delight in spanking a girl while taking in the view, though his miscreants were usually blindfolded and didn’t have the same opportunity to enjoy the sight.
Marilyn was interesting. Initially he’d thought she was typical, and Sam didn’t take on typical, but she wasn’t. She was complicated and difficult, but not typical.
Sam was patient. He let things develop, watched how they crinkled out. The first order of business with Marilyn was making it clear to her that The Spanking Rockstar was not an option, and after that he’d see where things went. One thing he knew for sure, if he did end up getting involved with her, she’d be spending a great deal of time pressing the palms of her hands against the very cool glass, through which he was now admiring his very expensive view.