Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

That seems ridiculously unlikely, though.

He’s a star, having held the entire room in his hand as he created a world of his own, inviting us into it in incremental bits with each song.

I’ve never heard anything like him before, that deep and sultry voice making every emotion ring through my whole body, especially down low in my belly.

I’ve never seen anything like him before, either, like he was supposed to be a pretty Hollywood boy but was born too rough and dark for anything prissy like that. He’s walking, talking, singing . . . sin.

Currently, he’s also the last fifteen pictures on the camera gallery in my phone, not that I’ll show them to anyone or post them anywhere. Nope, those Bobby Tannen stage shots are all for me.

As much as I hate to admit it, I can’t help but look at him too, though I try to keep it to quick side glances. He’s broad-shouldered in the denim shirt he’s wearing with the sleeves rolled up to show his ropey forearms. I can honestly say I have never noticed a guy’s forearms until right this moment, but apparently, forearm porn is a very real thing. Who knew? Not me, for sure. He’s taken his cowboy hat off, setting it on the bar beside him, and his dark hair flips up at the ends in the back. His full lips are surrounded by a five o’clock shadow, and every once in a while, his fingers dance on the bar as though he’s playing a song. I wonder if it’s a habit and what song he’s hearing in his mind right now.

He stays there for over an hour, watching and waiting like a hunter, which must make me his prey. Somewhere around the beginning of the second hour, I decide this isn’t a prank and eventually stop feeling like I’m going to trip over my own feet or drop a glass and make a fool of myself. Instead, his intense silence turns into some weird form of foreplay. He nurses the single glass of whiskey, shoots me a cocky half-smirk that promises filthy things when he catches me looking back at him, and basically manages to make it seem like we’re the only two people in the room.

I swear I can feel his gaze along my skin, drinking me in and driving me wild. And that’s from several seats away as I do my best to keep up with the incoming orders since Unc disappeared to the back. He swore he was fine, just needed to catch up with some liquor orders, and promised to return for closing duties. I didn’t believe him, but I let him take the break he was unwilling to confess he needed.

As things start to slow down and customers go home, some alone and some partnered off, I finally make my way back toward Bobby feeling like an out-of-her-league moth drawn not just to a single flame but to a huge bonfire.

He’ll burn me. I know it as surely as I know the sun’s going to rise in a few hours. Hell, he’d probably destroy me, leaving ash in his wake as he sauntered on to the next groupie.

So it’s a good thing I’m not here for him. I’m here for Unc, and I don’t need any distractions.

Not even Bobby Tannen.

“Couldn’t avoid me anymore?” His voice is gravel and grit, like he gargled sand for breakfast, followed it with a diet of black coffee and whiskey, and then screamed his throat raw. It sounds more animal than man, but I know that when he sings, honey coats that gruffness, making his words melt into your heart.

“I wasn’t . . .” The words taper off at the sharp rise of his brow. I’m busted. I know it. He knows it too, so there’s no point in pretending. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” He blinks and it’s like it never happened. “You think about my offer?”

My mind whirls, not sure what he’s asking because his eyes have been offering me all sorts of things. As if he knows exactly the thoughts going through my head, he leans closer and whispers, “For me to show you around town. I can take you to all the best spots for pictures.”

How does he make ‘pictures’ sound like ‘sex’? Or is that just my mind dipping deep down into the gutter?

I push my bangs to the side, slipping them behind my ear so that I can focus and see him better. Seeing inside people, past their fronts and defenses, is what makes me good at what I do . . . both behind the bar and behind the lens.

On stage, he somehow seemed softer. Or vulnerable, maybe?

But now, at the bar, it’s like he’s closed off part of himself, going hard, dark, and aggressively flirtatious. I can’t decide if I like it or if it scares the shit out of me.