Bounty (Colorado Mountain 7)

But she was keeping her distance. For me, because at first I needed that to see to Deke. Then I’d shared it’d be best simply in regards to Deke.

Not to mention, because Joss had eventually phoned her, chewed her ass out about what happened to me and said she didn’t want to see her face again until she was ready (this, I figured, would last another week or so before they sorted it out and all was good).

And Lacey wasn’t speaking to her at all.

She’d get over it too.

Time.

Time healed.

I looked back to Deke, my eyes skimming his chest covered in a chocolate-brown, button-up shirt that looked hot on him.

Yeah.

Time healed.

“We should have bought her flowers,” Faye whispered to her husband.

“Next time, sweetheart. This time, looks like she’s covered,” he whispered back.

A knock came at the door and Twyla moved to open it.

The gal with a mouthpiece wrapped around her cheek looked at Twyla, swung in, found me and said, “Ten minutes to go time, Justice.”

I nodded. “I’m ready.”

“Grab some brews, we should get to our seats,” Jim-Billy ordered Tate, who now had his own beer and was standing by the mini-fridge. “I don’t wanna miss anything.”

“You need anything, Jussy?” Lexie asked.

I shook my head. “All good.”

“Right.” She jumped from the chair, grabbing Ty’s hand. “Up, Mr. Humongo. I don’t want to miss anything either.”

I slid off my seat, gave out hugs, cheek kisses, and when Krystal came to me, I said, “Love the hair.”

“Had to go rock ‘n’ roll,” she replied and looked in my eyes. “For you.” A pause as the attitude she held up as a shield to hold others back melted clean away and the love she had for me swept in in its place before she finished, “And for Johnny.”

I felt a lump hit my throat, bent into her and touched foreheads.

“Straight up, he’d love it,” I shared.

He would. She’d gone full-on 80’s video vamp, all blonde frosted flips and curls, teased so far out, it was ratted in some places.

She rocked it.

Dad would have loved her hair, but he would have loved her better.

She was his kind of woman.

She shoved her forehead in mine. Breanne beat my chest, Krys pulled back and I shot Breanne a wide-mouth-and-big-eyes goofy face.

She giggled again.

By the time they were all gone, the makeup girl was back and she slid on the headband which was a patterned scarf with a hint of braiding that had long ends that mingled with the back of my hair. The front of that hair was plaited in a fat braid from one temple across my front hairline to disappear behind my opposite ear.

The rest hung long.

While she did this, I didn’t pay attention to what she was doing.

I was alternating between watching Deke grin at me in the mirror and looking at the photo I’d stuck into the side of it, one of the photos from that night months ago at Bubba’s.

The first photo of me and Deke.

The first photo of me with my new family.

The stylist finished up by hitting my cheeks with some dewy peach and doing another swipe of lip gloss before she pulled back, scrutinized me from crown to shoulders and declared, “You’re good.” She straightened and bid, “Kick ass out there.”

“I will,” I assured.

She took off.

I twisted my seat to Deke who was still in the couch.

“So?” I swept up a hand to indicate me.

My outfit consisted of rust-colored short shorts that had a subtle gold glitter to them, but that subtlety would be lost when the lights hit them onstage. Also a lacy cream bra. None of this was seen very well because I was wearing a huge smock that hung down below my shorts with a scalloped hem that was made of a netting of delicate lace. It had a gathered, scooped neckline and scalloped, full sleeves that hit at my elbows. There were cut outs at my shoulders.

I’d accompanied this with lots of dangling necklaces, long hoops in my ears, as well as the studs up the shells, lots of bracelets on my non-strumming wrist, a thick band of Native American beading at that wrist and my beat-up, fawn suede cowboy boots.

“You wanna wear that top anytime, gypsy, without the shorts and bra, feel free,” Deke replied.

Approval.

I felt my mouth curl up, slid off the seat and went to him.

I put one knee in the couch at one of his hips, the other on the other side and settled down, straddling him, my hands to either side of his neck.

“You decide if you’re gonna stay backstage or go to VIP?” I asked quietly.

“VIP, Jussy,” he answered, his eyes lighting. “Don’t wanna miss anything.”

He wanted to watch me perform, be out there where the beauty happened.

I got that.

“Then you best go,” I told him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“You can’t mess anything up,” I warned at the look in his eye. “There’s twenty thousand people out there and my lip gloss has to be just right.”

This was less about Deke messing up my hair and makeup and more about him having that look in his eye, me wanting to give into it, which meant the start of a huge, multi-act concert in tribute to my father would be indefinitely delayed.

He shook his head, his eyes still lit, and then ducked it, going in to kiss my throat.

He pulled back, rested his head on the back of the couch and whispered, “Love you, Justice.”

I knew he did. I knew it before he’d nearly died for me.

Now, I knew he did.

“I love you too, Deke.”