Loe raamatut: «Blame It On The Cowboy»

CHAPTER TWO

LIARS AND CLOWNS. Logan had seen both tonight. The liar was a woman he thought loved him. Helene. And the clown, well, Logan wasn’t sure he could process that image just yet.

Maybe after lots of booze, though.

He hadn’t been drunk since his twenty-first birthday nearly thirteen years ago. But he was about to remedy that now. He motioned for the bartender to set him up with another pair of Glenlivet shots.

His phone buzzed again, indicating another call had just gone to voice mail. One of his siblings no doubt wanting to make sure he was all right. He wasn’t. But talking to them about it wouldn’t help, and Logan didn’t want anyone he knew to see or hear him like this.

It was possible there’d be some slurring involved. Puking, too.

He’d never been sure what to call Helene. His longtime girlfriend? Girlfriend seemed too high school. So, he’d toyed with thinking of her as his future fiancée. Or in social situations—she was his business associate who often ran his marketing campaigns. But tonight Logan wasn’t calling her any of those things. As far as he was concerned, he never wanted to think of her, her name or what to call her again.

Too bad that image of her was stuck in his head, but that’s where he was hoping generous amounts of single malt Scotch would help.

Even though Riley, Claire, Lucky and Cassie wouldn’t breathe a word about this, it would still get around town. Logan wasn’t sure how, but gossip seemed to defy the time-space continuum in Spring Hill. People would soon know, if they didn’t already, and those same people would never look at him the same way again. It would hurt business.

Hell. It hurt him.

That’s why he was here in this hotel bar in San Antonio. It was only thirty miles from Spring Hill, but tonight he hoped it’d be far enough away that no one he knew would see him get drunk. Then he could stagger to his room and puke in peace. Not that he was looking forward to the puking part, but it would give him something else to think about other than her.

It was his first time in this hotel, though he stayed in San Antonio often on business. Logan hadn’t wanted to risk running into anyone he knew, and he certainly wouldn’t at this trendy “boutique” place. Not with a name like the Purple Cactus and its vegan restaurant.

If the staff found out he was a cattle broker, he might be booted out. Or forced to eat tofu. That’s the reason Logan had used cash when he checked in. No sense risking someone recognizing his name from his credit card.

The clerk had seemed skeptical when Logan had told him that his ID and credit cards had been stolen and that’s why he couldn’t produce anything with his name on it. Of course, when Logan had slipped the guy an extra hundred dollar bill, it had caused that doubt to disappear.

“Drinking your troubles away?” a woman asked.

“Trying.”

Though he wasn’t drunk enough that he couldn’t see what was waiting for him at the end of this. A hangover, a missed 8:00 a.m. meeting, his family worried about him—the puking—and it wouldn’t fix anything other than to give him a couple hours of mind-numbing solace.

At the moment, though, mind-numbing solace even if it was temporary seemed like a good trade-off.

“Me, too,” she said. “Drinking my troubles away.”

Judging from the sultry tone in her voice, Logan first thought she might be a prostitute, but then he got a look at her.

Nope. Not a pro.

Or if she was, she’d done nothing to market herself as such. No low-cut dress to show her cleavage. She had on a T-shirt with cartoon turtles on the front, a baggy white skirt and flip-flops. It looked as if she’d grabbed the first items of clothing she could find off a very cluttered floor of her very cluttered apartment.

Logan wasn’t into clutter.

And he’d thought Helene wasn’t, either. He’d been wrong about that, too. That antique desk of hers had been plenty cluttered with a clown’s bare ass.

“Mind if I join you?” Miss Turtle-shirt said. “I’m having sort of a going-away party.”

She waited until Logan mumbled, “Suit yourself,” and she slid onto the purple bar stool next to him.

She smelled like limes.

Her hair was varying shades of pink and looked as if it’d been cut with a weed whacker. It was already messy, but apparently it wasn’t messy enough for her because she dragged her hand through it, pushing it away from her face.

“Tequila, top shelf. Four shots and a bowl of lime slices,” she told the bartender.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only person in San Antonio with plans to get shit-faced tonight. And it explained the lime scent. These clearly weren’t her first shots of the night.

“Do me a favor, though,” she said to Logan after he downed his next drink. “Don’t ask my name, or anything personal about me, and I’ll do the same for you.”

Logan had probably never agreed to anything so fast in all his life. For one thing he really didn’t want to spend time talking with this woman, and he especially didn’t want to talk about what’d happened.

“If you feel the need to call me something, go with Julia,” she added.

The name definitely wasn’t a fit. He was expecting something more like Apple or Sunshine. Still, he didn’t care what she called herself. Didn’t care what her real name was, either, and he cared even less after his next shot of Glenlivet.

“So, you’re a cowboy, huh?” she asked.

The mind-numbing hadn’t kicked in yet, but the orneriness had. “That’s personal.”

She shrugged. “Not really. You’re wearing a cowboy hat, cowboy boots and jeans. It was more of an observation than a question.”

“The clothes could be fashion statements,” he pointed out.

“Julia” shook her head, downed the first shot of tequila, sucked on a lime slice. Made a face and shuddered. “You’re not the kind of man to make fashion statements.”

If he hadn’t had a little buzz going on, he might have been insulted by that. “Unlike you?”

She glanced down at her clothes as if seeing them for the first time. Or maybe she was just trying to focus because the tequila had already gone to her head. “This was the first thing I grabbed off my floor.”

Bingo. If that was her first grab, there was no telling how bad the outfits were beneath it.

Julia tossed back her second shot. “Have you ever found out something that changed your whole life?” she asked.

“Yeah.” About four hours ago.

“Me, too. Without giving specifics, because that would be personal, did it make you feel as if fate were taking a leak on your head?”

“Four leaks,” he grumbled. Logan finished off his next shot.

Julia made a sound of agreement. “I would compare yours with mine, and I’d win, but I don’t want to go there. Instead, let’s play a drinking game.”

“Let’s not,” he argued. “And in a fate-pissing comparison, I don’t think you’d win.”

Julia made a sound of disagreement. Had another shot. Grimaced and shuddered again. “So, the game is a word association,” she continued as if he’d agreed. “I say a word, you say the first thing that comes to mind. We take turns until we’re too drunk to understand what the other one is saying.”

Until she’d added that last part, Logan had been about to get up and move to a different spot. But hell, he was getting drunk, anyway, and at least this way he’d have some company. Company he’d never see again. Company he might not even be able to speak to if the slurring went up a notch.

“Dream?” she threw out there.

“Family.” That earned him a sound of approval from her, and she motioned for him to take his turn. “Surprise?”

“Shitty,” Julia said without hesitation.

Now it was Logan who made a grunt of approval. Surprises could indeed be shit-related. The one he’d gotten tonight certainly had been.

Her: “Tattoos?”

Him: “None.” Then, “You?”

Her: “Two.” Then, “Bucket list?”

Him: “That’s two words.” The orneriness was still there despite the buzz.

Her: “Just bucket, then?”

Too late. Logan’s fuzzy mind was already fixed on the bucket list. He had one all right. Or rather, he’d had one. A life with Helene that included all the trimmings, and this stupid game was a reminder that the Glenlivet wasn’t working nearly fast enough. So, he had another shot.

Julia had one, as well. “Sex?” she said.

Logan shook his head. “I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

When she didn’t respond, Logan looked at her. Their eyes met. Eyes that were already slightly unfocused.

Julia took the paper sleeve with her room key from her pocket. Except there were two keys, and she slid one Logan’s way.

“It’s not the game,” she explained. “I’m offering you sex with me. No names. No strings attached. Just one night, and we’ll never tell another soul about it.”

She finished off her last tequila shot, shuddered and stood. “Are you game?”

No way, and Logan would have probably said that if she hadn’t leaned in and kissed him.

Maybe it was the weird combination of her tequila and his Scotch, or maybe it was because he was already drunker than he thought, but Logan felt himself moving right into that kiss.

* * *

LOGAN DREAMED, AND it wasn’t about the great sex he’d just had. It was another dream that wasn’t so pleasant. The night of his parents’ car accident. Some dreams were a mishmash of reality and stuff that didn’t make sense. But this dream always got it right.

Not a good thing.

It was like being trapped on a well-oiled hamster wheel, seeing the same thing come up over and over again and not being able to do a thing to stop it.

The dream rain felt and sounded so real. Just like that night. It was coming down so hard that the moment his truck wipers swished it away, the drops covered the windshield again. That’s why it’d taken him so long to see the lights, and Logan was practically right on the scene of the wreck before he could fully brake. He went into a skid, costing him precious seconds. If he’d had those seconds, he could have called the ambulance sooner.

He could have saved them.

But he hadn’t then. And he didn’t now in the dream.

Logan chased away the images, and with his head still groggy, he did what he always did after the nightmare. He rewrote it. He got to his parents and stopped them from dying.

Every time except when it had really mattered, Logan saved them.

* * *

LOGAN WISHED HE could shoot out the sun. It was creating lines of light on each side of the curtains, and those lines were somehow managing to stab through his closed eyelids. That was probably because every nerve in his head and especially his eyelids were screaming at him, and anything—including the earth’s rotation—added to his pain.

He wanted to ask himself: What the hell have you done?

But he knew. He’d had sex with a woman he didn’t know. A woman who wore turtle T-shirts and had tattoos. He’d learned one of the tattoos, a rose, was on Julia’s right breast. The other was on her lower stomach. Those were the things Logan could actually remember.

That, and the sex.

Not mind-numbing but rather more mind-blowing. Julia clearly didn’t have any trouble being wild and spontaneous in bed. It was as if she’d just studied a sex manual and wanted to try every position. Thankfully, despite the Scotch, Logan had been able to keep up—literally.

Not so much now, though.

If the fire alarm had gone off and the flames had been burning his ass, he wasn’t sure he would be able to move. Julia didn’t have that problem, though. He felt the mattress shift when she got up. Since it was possible she was about to rob him, Logan figured he should at least see if she was going after his wallet, wherever the heck it was. But if she robbed him, he deserved it. His life was on the fast track to hell, and he’d been the one to put it in the handbasket.

At least he hadn’t been so drunk that he’d forgotten to use condoms. Condoms that Julia had provided, so obviously she’d been ready for this sort of thing.

Julia made a soft sound of discomfort. He hoped it wasn’t from the rough sex because he got a sudden flash of himself tying her hands to the bedposts with the sheets. It’d been Julia’s idea.

And it’d been a darn good one.

Ditto for her idea of tying him up, too. He wasn’t one to add some kink to sex, but for a little while it had gotten his mind off Helene and what he’d seen in her office.

Clearly, he hadn’t known Helene at all.

Logan heard some more stirring around, and this time the movement was very close to him. Just in case Julia turned out to be a serial killer, he decided to risk opening one eye. And he nearly jolted at the big green eyeball staring back at him. Except it wasn’t a human eye. It was on her turtle shirt.

If Julia felt the jolt or saw his one-eyed opening, she didn’t say anything about it. She gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, moved away, turning her back to him, and Logan watched as she stooped down and picked up his jacket. So, not a serial killer but rather just a thief, after all. But she didn’t take anything out.

She put something in the pocket.

Logan couldn’t tell what it was exactly. Maybe her number. Which he would toss first chance he got. But if so, he couldn’t figure out why she just hadn’t left it on the bed.

Julia picked up her purse, hooking it over her shoulder, and without even glancing back at him, she walked out the door. Strange, since this was her room. Maybe she was headed out to get them some coffee. If so, that was his cue to dress and get the devil out of there before she came back.

Easier said than done.

His hair hurt.

He could feel every strand of it on his head. His eyelashes, too. Still, Logan forced himself from the bed, only to realize the soles of his feet hurt, as well. It was hard not to identify something on him that didn’t hurt so he quit naming parts and put on his boxers and jeans. Then he had a look at what Julia had put in his pocket next to the box with the engagement ring.

A gold watch.

Not a modern one. It was old with a snap-up top that had a crest design on it. The initials BWS had been engraved in the center of the crest.

The inside looked just as expensive as the gold case except for the fact that the watch face crystal inside was shattered. Even though he knew little about antiques, Logan figured it was worth at least a couple hundred dollars.

So why had Julia put it in his pocket?

Since he was a skeptic, his first thought was that she might be trying to set him up, to make it look as if he’d robbed her. But Logan couldn’t imagine why anyone would do that unless she was planning to try to blackmail him with it.

He dropped the watch on the bed and finished dressing, all the while staring at it. He cleared out some of the cotton in his brain and grabbed the hotel phone to call the front desk. Someone answered on the first ring.

“I’m in room...” Logan had to check the phone. “Two-sixteen, and I need to know...” He had to stop again and think. “I need to know if Julia is there in the lobby. She left something in the room.”

“No, sir. I’m afraid you just missed her. But checkout isn’t until noon, and she said her guest might be staying past then so she paid for an extra day.”

“Uh, could you tell me how to spell Julia’s last name? I need to leave her a note in case she comes back.”

“Oh, she said she wouldn’t be coming back, that this was her goodbye party. And as for how to spell her name, well, it’s Child, just like it sounds.”

Julia Child?

Right. Obviously, the clerk wasn’t old enough or enough of a foodie to recognize the name of the famous chef.

“I don’t suppose she paid with a credit card?” Logan asked.

“No. She paid in cash and then left a prepaid credit card for the second night.”

Of course. “What about an address?” Logan kept trying.

“I’m really not supposed to give that out—”

“She left something very expensive in the room, and I know she’ll want it back.”

The guy hemmed and hawed a little, but he finally rattled off, “221B Baker Street, London, England.”

That was Sherlock Holmes’s address.

Logan groaned, cursed. He didn’t bother asking for a phone number because the one she left was probably for Hogwarts. He hung up and hurried to the window, hoping he could catch a glimpse of her getting into a car. Not that he intended to follow her or anything, but if she was going to blackmail him, he wanted to know as much about her as possible.

No sign of her, but Logan got a flash of something else. A memory.

Shit.

They’d taken pictures.

Or at least Julia had with the camera on her phone. He remembered nude selfies of them from the waist up. At least he hoped it was from the waist up.

Yeah, that trip to hell in a handbasket was moving even faster right now.

Logan threw on the rest of his clothes, already trying to figure out how to do damage control. He was the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company. He was the face that people put with the family business, and before last night he’d never done a thing to tarnish the image of McCord Cattle Brokers.

He couldn’t say that any longer.

He was in such a hurry to rush out the door that he nearly missed the note on the desk. Maybe it was the start of the blackmail. He snatched it up, steeling himself for the worst. But if this was blackmail, then Julia sure had a funny sense of humor.

“Goodbye, hot cowboy,” she’d written. “Thanks for the sweet send-off. Don’t worry. What happens in San Antonio stays in San Antonio. I’ll take this to the grave.”