“My natural habitat is on my bike, riding the wind.”
She closes her eyes and tips her head back. “Hmm. Yeah, I can picture that.”
After a few seconds, she opens her eyes, the full weight of her gaze bearing down on me.
“All right.” I start up the truck. “If you’re sure that’s how you want to spend your day. You’re on the road so much, thought you’d want to be still for a little bit.”
The sadness in her expression doesn’t lift. “I just want to soak up as much time with you as possible.”
As if I needed the reminder that tomorrow she’ll be gone.Chapter Twenty-TwoShelby
The sadness that always follows me after a Dream Makers visit still lingers but it doesn’t threaten to crush me into a million pieces the way it did when we first left the hospital. Talking to Rooster helped. Sharing a little bit about Hayley lifted me up, even though a dull ache still throbs through my chest whenever I think about her.
I reach forward, studying the radio. “Am I allowed to play with the music or are you a ‘driver rules the tunes’ kinda fella?”
Rooster chuckles and glances over. “Fiddle away. I’m sure Murphy’s got all the country stations in the area dialed in.”
“I listen to more than just country, you know.” I flick the knobs and punch a few buttons, finally landing on a hard rock station on satellite radio. “Never know where inspiration will strike, so I listen to a lil’ bit of everything.”
My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket and thumb the screen on.
Greg: This isn’t the publicity you need right now.
“Shoot,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure.” I click on the link Greg added. It leads me to an article on the Sippin’ on Secrets blog—the bane of entertainers everywhere, especially country musicians.
The ridiculous headline in bold, hot-pink letters reads, Sweet and Sassy Country Singer Shelby Morgan Getting Cozy With Biker Backstage.
Seriously?
There are a few fuzzy pictures of Rooster picking me up and us kissing. I squint and try to blow up the photos. While his black leather vest is visible—and how I assume they knew he was a biker—thankfully, only a portion of his vice president patch is legible. Nothing specifically identifies him as a Lost King, thank heavens. I can’t imagine his club would appreciate the exposure.
A quick scan of the accompanying “article” shows it’s just as silly as the dumb headline.
Shelby Morgan, country music’s newest sensational sweetheart, was caught in a compromising position backstage at the Back Road Dreams tour in upstate New York. An eagle-eyed fan snapped several steamy pics of the couple engaged in a heavy make-out sesh after Shelby’s thirty-five-minute set.
The buxom blonde songbird is best known for appearing on the reality television show Redneck Roadhouse, where her red-hot show-mance with co-star Austin Mates famously blew up her friendship with co-star Ruby Nolan.
Morgan’s team had no comment but it’s easy to see Shelby and her new mystery man have the look of love brewing in their eyes.
Morgan is currently the opening act on the Back Road Dreams tour headlined by the newly single country super stud Dawson Roads. Concertgoers report later in the night, Morgan and Roads performed a romantic duet hot enough to light a thousand fires.
Hopefully, sassy Miss Shelby learned her lesson from the Redneck Roadhouse disaster and isn’t entering another love triangle.
Wow. Way to bring up one of the most humiliating moments of my life while insinuating I’m slutty. I’m never going to live down Redneck Roadhouse, am I? Worse, I’ll forever be mentioned in relation to my connection to some man. Never be taken seriously as an artist. Always reduced to my tit size and hair color.
I grumble a few curses under my breath and fire off a text to Greg.
Can we do anything about it?
Better to ignore.
“Then why’d you send it to me?” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?” Rooster asks.
I sigh. Should I even tell him about the article? While this particular blog’s a big deal in my world, I doubt it’s something Rooster is even aware exists. Then again, some of these so-called reporters are relentless and I should probably warn him that people might try to track down his identity.
His attention’s focused on the road, so I don’t bother showing him my screen. “Just a stupid entertainment and gossip site. Someone snapped a few pictures of us last night and sent them in.”
“Who’s us? You and me, us?”
“Yeah.” I read him the dumb headline, and he roars with laughter.
“Getting cozy, huh? What’s the picture?”
I reach over and shift my screen in front of him, and he flicks it a quick glance. “Nice.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“What if they had named your club?”
“That wouldn’t be ideal.” He shrugs. “I’m more worried about you, though.”
“They might try to track you down, Rooster. You can almost make out the vice president patch.” I squint at the screen again. “How many motorcycle clubs are in the area?”