Chapter 33 - Chase Me, Cowboy

Oh God.

I flip to my back, blinking.

Fuck.

I slept with him again.

My phone sits on the nightstand, halfway plugged in. I tap the screen. It’s dead—I was made of rubber last night, and my hands weren’t steady after he finally dragged himself off my body, leaving me tingling and spent. I pop the cord in and push myself up. The room is bathed in pale morning light. Everything smells faintly of fancy hotel scent—a musky bergamot that will cling to my hair and skin when I leave. An unwelcome reminder. Our clothes lay in heaps on the floor.

I don’t want to look over. That makes it so real.

His presence is overwhelmingly loud, despite him not making a sound. The heaviness of his broad body weighs on the mattress. His breathing is a steady rhythm.

I swallow, throat prickling.

This is a ridiculous, pathetic siation. If I’d known he was going to affect me like this, I wouldn’t have hooked up with him in the first place. Rolling to my side, I study him. The expanse of tanned skin, the spattering of hairs on his chest. The faded-out tattoos here and there on his torso. I wonder how he makes it in this industry. He’s not like them; he’s not willing to play the game. Maybe that’s one of the privileges of being incredibly good at what he does. He never has to suck up to anyone.

I push myself upright and reach for his shirt, rumpled on the floor. It smells like him. I bring it to my face and inhale. Fuck, he has me in a bad way. I pull the shirt on and go push back the curtains to reveal a lightly steamy window and the crisp outdoors.

“You good?”

His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat, and the bed creaks. I don’t turn around. The hotel grounds are empty save a few people walking their fluffy little dogs. The weather is starting to turn cool for autumn. It makes me want to stay in the city for a while, buy a bunch of sweaters, disappear into a bookshop. Not think about the man beside me for a while.

That seems to be impossible.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says softly.

My stomach dips like I went over a sharp hill and dropped. God, he knows how to put the knife between my ribs and twist, doesn’t he?

“I’d like some coffee,” I say finally.

He doesn’t answer me, but I hear him pick up the hotel phone. He orders breakfast. Click, the phone is down, and it’s just us again. He gets up, and I hear him pull his pants on, belt clinking. His warmth settles against my back, his forearm sliding around me and settling over my chest below my collarbones. I sink into him, letting my head droop to the side.

“You are ruining my life,” I say finally.

Silence. I don’t know what made me say that out loud. Plainly, no holds barred. But now that it’s out, I’m so relieved. It’s true, he’s fucking everything up, and I can’t go a day without thinking about him.

I wait, wondering if I said too much.

“You’re ruining mine,” he says finally. “But I’m doing something worse to you: I get it.”

“What are you doing to me?” I whisper.

I want to hear it from his mouth.

“I’m fucking up your chances,” he says. “Or, I’m giving you a chance. I don’t know which is worse.”

Down below, the gate opens, and a shiny black car slips through. The valet comes out and starts unpacking luggage while a fashionable couple gets out and disappears into the hotel. They seem happy, like they belong, and I wonder what that feels like. After being hung up on him for so long, I’m craving something simple. Like not worrying about whether he could make or break my future. Not worrying about if I could cause a scandal that could fuck up his career.

“Can you tell me about what happened with Coen?” I ask.

He releases a sigh from deep inside. “Let’s get our breakfast here, then we can talk.”

I turn in his arms to look up at him. “But promise you won’t ice me out?”

His eyes are soft. His walls are weakened.

“Promise, sweetheart.”

He kisses my forehead. Oh God, my knees are weak. At that moment, a knock sounds on the door, and he lets me go to answer it. I climb into bed and curl up. He comes around the corner with the tray, kicking the door shut, and sets it on the table.

“Coffee with cream and sugar?”

“Three spoonfuls, stirred.”

He does as I ask, bringing it to me. My head is thinking serious thoughts, but my eyes are unfortunately traitors and can’t conceptualize that I’m trying to keep it in my pants right now. There’s something about a big, broad, shirtless man bringing me coffee that dumps my mind in the gutter. It’s not helping that I can see the faint outline of his dick through his unfastened pants.

“What?” he asks.

I take the coffee. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I like it when you run around after me,” I say. “It would do you good to do a little chasing. I doubt you do that much.”

“What does that mean?”

I shrug, having a sip. “I’m sure you have women chasing you, that’s all.”

His brows furrow and he studies me for a long moment. “Have you ever considered not snarking at me?”

My own brow knots. But I don’t lash out, because he has a point. I’m just so used to the way we banter and fight, where I’m on edge and he’s pushing my buttons. Today, something is different. His energy is quiet.

“Fine,” I say primly. “But you’re not getting away with not talking about Coen.”

“I never said I was.”

“Good. Get your coffee and sit down.”

He’s smiling slightly as he does as I ask. The bed sinks, and he stretches his long legs out. I’m unsure if I should start, but he clears his throat, and I wait.

“There isn’t all that much to say,” he says finally. “Coen had the ‘it factor.’ I got him where I wanted to get him, but it destroyed his mental health and made him miserable.”

I think back to how Coen was when he first appeared on our ranch. Quiet in a grim, slow way that comes from being worn down. I shift sideways, curling against the pillow. He’s in profile, his jaw lightly flexed. A weight sits on his shoulders, bearing down.

“You feel responsible for it,” I say.

His lids flicker.

“I am responsible. As I am for all my clients.”

I could argue with him that he’s just doing his job, but he lets his head lean back, and his eyes flick to the ceiling. The quietness in his energy is sadness, I think. There’s a lot he’s struggling with that I don’t understand. Gently, I reach out and touch his knee. He looks down, then takes my hand. His thumb runs over my knuckles.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks finally.

“Of course.”

Deep down, I’m not sure. Is this going to be awful?

He clears his throat. “About six years ago, I signed Emily-Mae.”

My jaw drops. “The country-pop singer?”

He nods, mouth grim. “Do you remember her speaking about being sexually assaulted a few years ago?”

My stomach jerks, and I think back hard, then shake my head. “No, I don’t.”

“I brought her to a new studio in California, so she could work on her third album with a new producer. Coen was co-producer on that one, but he worked remotely because he had a gig in Nashville. It was TJ, the producer, Emily-Mae, and her two bandmates in the house adjoining the studio for a couple months in the winter.”

My stomach is a brick of ice.

He clears his throat, still looking straight ahead. “I walked into the kitchen after being out one evening and heard something in the hallway. Went down, turned on the light, and he had his hands on her. Anyway, I caught an assault charge.”

I inhale sharply. “What?”

He shrugs. “I took him by the back of the neck and hit him in the face. Close range, full strength. His face was fucked up.”

“You punched him.”

“I slammed his face into the wall.”

My jaw drops. Out of everything I thought he was going to say, this wasn’t even on the list. It starts to sink in, and some of his hesitancy about me pursuing this career path makes more sense.

“You went to jail?” I ask .

“No, it’s complicated. I was arrested, charged, but released on bail. I had to do the whole court thing, but the judge wasn’t a fan of TJ and let me off with community service.”

“So you’re a felon?”

“It was a misdemeanor. I guess my hand and the wall didn’t count as deadly weapons.” He turns his head, glancing at me. “Would you be turned off if I was?”

“No,” I say firmly. “It sounds like what you did was justified.”

I run my hand gently up his thigh, shifting closer and resting it on his chest. He releases a heavy sigh.

“Emily didn’t press charges. She was afraid of blowback,” he says. “That’s how these men do it. It’s not always safe to accuse them, so they do whatever the fuck they want. It’s not just men, some women contribute to it. That was a hard pill for Emily to swallow, seeing her friends keep working with him.”

“What happened to TJ?”

“Nothing. A broken nose and bruised pride.”

My chest feels hot and angry. “I hate that.”

“Maybe I’ll bide my time, beat his ass one more time if I run into him again,” he says casually.

I can’t tell whether that’s a joke or not, but I don’t really care. The total injustice makes me a little ill.

“Is that why you don’t want to sign me?” I ask, voice breaking.

He finishes his coffee and reaches over, taking me by the waist and lifting me into his lap to face him. His lids are heavy, eyes guarded. It’s the first instance he’s held me like this in a non-sexual context. It’s more intimate than I expected. His body is warm and broad, I have to push my knees together a little so I’m not having to do a split to sit on his thighs. His chest is hard and big beneath my hands.

It’s safe.

He would keep me safe.

“Yes, and no,” he says. “There are other reasons. Becoming successful in the arts and entertainment industry, it’ll fuck your life up. Yeah, you’ll make money. People will see you. You’ll get to make your art. But you won’t get to live normally.”

“Is that what happened to Coen?”

He nods, eyes dropping.

“I should have seen it early on that Coen didn’t have the temperament to be famous,” he says. “He hated the limelight, just wanted to write. But he never complained; he’s always been a workaholic. And he’s talented, goddamn, he is talented. I was too close to him to see everything until I noticed he was…fading out.”

“Coen is a grown man,” I say. “He could have stopped.”

He shrugs. “Yes, but no. He carried the early days of the agency. It would have put a damper on my career, too.”

“Maybe it’s nobody’s fault.”

He sighs again and looks up. “I don’t know. I carry a lot of shame over it.”

“Neither of you knew what it was like being that famous.”

He runs his fingers over my waist, slipping one hand under the shirt to rest on my hip. “I didn’t, that’s true. But when I realized, I started being real careful about who I signed. I’ve always been upfront about it when I have an inquiry, but most people will do anything for their big break.”

“Do you hate that I want mine?”

“No. There’s something beautiful about someone doing what they were born to do. I think the new generation is going in with their eyes open more often. It used to hit you like a freight train. And once people know your face, you can’t go back.”

I touch his face, his short beard prickling my fingers.

“Do you wish you’d made a different choice?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, but I’m not on stage. I get the benefit of making money without having to be torn apart online daily for every choice I make.”

I’m quiet, thinking hard. Everything he’s telling me is scary, but it’s not anything I didn’t know after living with Coen for a year. I know how terrifying going into such an exposed industry can be, at least, secondhand. But there’s still this spark in me, this hunger to feel what I feel when it comes to my music, but on a large scale.

On a stage, where the world is silent.

Where I can speak and be heard.

I lean in and kiss him. “Thank you for talking to me.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “You’re easy to talk to.”

Sinking in, I let my head rest on his chest. His heart thumps slowly. His chin rests on my forehead. My racing thoughts and the nerves that always sit in my chest slowly slip away, like I’m borrowing his steel nervous system for a second.

The sun is high now, but I don’t want to leave the hotel.

Maybe we should stay together, just for another day.