Page 62 of A Cowboy in the Streets

“They’re performers,” Adam defended.

Ben peered over my arm. “They look weird.”

“There’s no easy way to tell you this, kiddo,” Ted said somberly as he ripped open a box of macaroni and cheese, removed the packet of cheese powder, and dumped the rest of the contents into the pot of boiling water. “Your dad had a phase—”

“Dad!” Adam protested.

Ted grinned. “Picture this. Adam was sixteen and had just discovered a Mötley Crüe record and fell down the rabbit hole of eighties hair bands. But it wasn’t enough to listen to the music—always on vinyl because he was a snob—he had to have the whole look, too. Leather pants, grew his hair long, begged us until we finally let him get a perm—”

My gaze shot to Adam. “Oh, I’m picturing it, all right.”

He buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“Dad, no!” Ben laughed, his face flushed pink like he was suffering from second-hand embarrassment. Which he probably was. I, on the other hand, was enjoying first-hand glee.

“Yes, your dad was a huge dork,” Ted said. “Probably would have gotten his ass kicked daily if he weren’t the best tight end Aspen Springs High had ever seen.”

I didn’t know what a tight end was, but I was certainly a fan of Adam’s tight end. My gaze lingered on him. “I don’t suppose there’s any photographic evidence of this phase?”

“I’ll dig some up,” Ted promised.

“Dad,” Adam said. “You cannot show James those photos.”

Ted was apparently too engrossed in chopping jalapeños to hear him. I smothered a smile.

“Can we listen to something, Dad?” Ben asked hopefully.

Adam shrugged. “Sure, why not? Pick something.” He plugged in the record player, then took the album Ben held out and glanced at the cover. “Van Halen. This is a good one.”

He dropped the record in place, fiddled with something, and a second later, pulsing guitar and drumbeats filled the room.

“Show us how you danced to this, Adam.” Ted didn’t look up from his task, but a sly smile hovered on his lips.

From the way Adam’s eyes narrowed on his father, I fully expected him to say no. But Ben piped up, “Yeah, show us, Dad!” and Adam grabbed a dish towel and held the short edge to his head.

“Pretend this is hair,” he said.

I was still trying to process that very weird command when the singer screamed “Panamaaaa!” and Adam leaned forward, whipping his dish towel hair in perfect time to the music. Ted put down the knife and stared slack jawed at his son like he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. Ben doubled over with laughter, clutching my shoulder for support.

I couldn’t laugh. I couldn’t do anything but sit there with a cheek-splitting grin on my face as I soaked in the sight of my grumpy cowboy, who carried the weight of the world on his broad shoulders, cutting loose like a complete goofball.

“And that’s how it’s done.” Adam tossed the dish towel aside, his face completely neutral like the whole performance was totally normal. But his eyes glimmered at me as he grabbed a clean dish towel and resumed drying the dishes. “It’s called headbanging.”

Ben slid to the floor in a heap of giggles. “Headbanging. Do another one!”

“My turn to pick.” Ted rinsed his hands and dried them on his jeans.

He flipped through the stack, made his selection, and placed it on the record player. I caught a glimpse of the cover. A band named Sheriff. I smirked. Tough name. Permed hair.

This song was different. Softer. Slower. Instead of driving drums, it began with a sweet melody tapped out on the piano. And then came the lyrics. I never needed love like I need you.

“You can’t headbang to this,” Ben complained.

“It’s a power ballad,” Adam said. “Every hair band needed a good power ballad. Guns N Roses had November Rain. Poison had Every Rose Has Its Thorn. And Sheriff had this. When I’m with You.”

“It’s a kissing song.” Ben made a disgusted face. “You can’t dance to it.”

Maybe it’s the way you touch me with the warmth of the sun.

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