Hard as Rock (The Rock Star's Seduction 3)

Derek and Ryan both froze and looked over to the side.

A lone figure walked around the corner of the house, keeping to the shadows cast by the roof. He wore a soaked denim jacket, and raindrops splashed off his white Stetson hat. There was a rifle at his shoulder, leveled right at Derek.

Mr. MacCruder.

“Wouldn’t do that,” he said in that laconic drawl of his.

Now I was relieved for Ryan – and terrified for Derek.

Because he was drunk, and belligerent, and

Derek,

there was no telling what he might do.

But for now, though, he just reacted in shock.

He stood there, his arm still cocked back in the air, and then he looked at Ryan. “

Really?

You fucking piece of shit – you’re too much of a pussy to fight me, so you get some psycho with a gun to come out here instead?”

“Fuck you,” Ryan snarled, probably the first time ever I’d heard him really, truly angry. “Mr. MacCruder, put down the gun.”

“Can’t do that,” Mr. MacCruder said as he just stood there in the rain, never taking his sights off Derek.

Now it was Ryan’s turn to look over in shock. “What?”

“Be against the terms of my employment.”

Ryan was caught somewhere between amusement at the surreal nature of the moment, and annoyance at being told ‘no.’ “Mr. MacCruder, seriously – ”

Derek had lowered his arm and was now walking threateningly towards the rancher. “Put down the fucking gun, shithead.”

“

Don’t

do that,” Mr. MacCruder said, almost like he was sighing.

Derek flung out his arms like

Oh YEAH?

“What the fuck’re you gonna do, shoot me?”

It was the exact pose he’d struck when he was antagonizing Ryan in the grocery store four years ago.

Except Mr. MacCruder wasn’t Ryan.

The old ranch hand let the rifle dip a few inches and pulled the trigger.

BLAM!

Muddy water exploded at Derek’s feet as the boom of the gunshot rolled through the darkness.

My heart stopped in my chest, and my knees almost collapsed.

“HOLY SHIT!” Derek screamed, and staggered back through the mud. “You almost SHOT me!”

“Yup,” Mr. MacCruder agreed as he racked back the lever, ejected the shell, and leveled the rifle at Derek’s chest again.

The poor cab driver was obviously terrified at this point, and I heard the gears grinding as the car went into reverse.

Derek heard it, too, and his surprise and fear turned to fury as he spun around. “Do NOT fucking move, you fucking coward!” he roared, pointing at the driver. “I paid you five hundred goddamn dollars, you STAY there until I fucking tell you otherwise!”

The driver seemed caught between his terror of the gunman and this wild-eyed drunkard screaming at him.

You might think that in a situation like that, the fear of the gun would trump all else.

But Derek was pretty terrifying. Rage personified.

I know

I

was scared.

The driver apparently was, too, because he stayed put.

Derek wheeled back around towards Mr. MacCruder, and all the hatred and anger that the gunshot had wiped away was back. “Do you know who the

fuck

I am, old man?”

Oh God.

Despite my fear, I rolled my eyes.

It was the lamest refuge of a celebrity in crisis.

Do you know who I am?

Meaning,

I’m FAMOUS, and you’re NOT. Don’t fuck with me.

Mr. MacCruder wasn’t even remotely impressed, though.

“Nope,” he said, unconcerned as could be.

“I’m Derek Kane, lead singer of THAT asshole’s band,” he snarled as he pointed at Ryan. “I’m also probably the most famous person on the planet right now.”

“Well, Mr. Kane… this is Mr. Remington,” the rancher said, and edged his gun up a millimeter for emphasis. “I believe you two just met.”

Derek looked like he had just entered the Twilight Zone.

He stared at Ryan with an expression of bewilderment – like,

Where the hell did you GET this guy?!

Then he turned back to the rancher.

“You stupid FUCKHEAD, this is the United States of America! You don’t – you don’t just go around

shooting

people!”

Actually, I have some European friends who would have said that’s

exactly

what we do in the United States of America, but that’s a moot point, because Mr. MacCruder didn’t buy Derek’s argument, either.

“I don’t where you’re from, son, but this is South Dakota,” he said, using the most words I’d ever heard him utter at one time. “We do things a little different here.”

It would’ve been hilarious, except that I knew Derek was on the verge of losing it.

He had one of the worst anti-authoritarian streaks I’d ever seen. He loved to antagonize anybody who had power over him, or

thought

they should have power over him. Grocery store managers, Miles, snotty magazine editors.

But I’d never seen him run up against somebody who

actually

had power over him. Like a cop.