Page 12 of Cowboy's Melody
Teddi
Brooks and I make out like two horny teenagers. It’s been a long time since someone just kissed me without wanting to get in between my legs. And boy oh boy, can Brooks kiss. He’s gentle but demanding, and whatever he takes, he gives back.
Taking off my t-shirt is bold, but I didn’t want him to leave. The moment his rough, calloused hands touch my skin, I gasp. It feels like heaven. He takes his time, running his hands up and down my back and over my chest. I give into his touch, to the warmth of his mouth against my nipple. For the next hour, all we do is kiss and touch and it’s nothing short of perfect.
“I really should go,” he says, his face still buried in my neck. “I’ve got an early morning.”
I press my hand against the sizable bulge straining against his jeans. “Are you sure about that?”
He covers my hand. “You don’t know how badly I want to let go and lose myself, to forget about my responsibilities for a little while, to pretend I live another life but nothing about how I feel is fake. If all I have is one week with you then I want it to be the real fucking thing and in the real world, baby, I’ve got six a.m. chores.”
I relent, not because I want to, but because what I like most about Brooks is his normality. He’s not a part of the music industry, and he’s not a celebrity; he’s real life.
“Will I see you tomorrow night?” I ask before he leaves.
“Only if you want to.”
I shake my head. “I definitely want to.”
He bends to place a light kiss on my lips before he leaves the cabin.
The next morning, there is no early morning wake up call. Instead, I sleep late and wake up well past sunrise. As much as I enjoy whatever is happening between me and Brooks, this is meant to be a little break. I’ve been touring non-stop and putting out a new album almost every year and I’m exhausted mentally and physically.
Margot had the cabin stocked for me so there’s really no need for me to venture outside. I resist the urge to throw open the door when I hear Logan’s voice screaming with joy. Instead, I peek through the curtain. Brooks has his hands hooked under her arms and is swinging her around in a circle.
He looks like a real cowboy today in a plaid shirt, worn jeans and brown leather boots. He and Logan wear matching smiles as they play and when Margot steps outside to call Logan inside, she casts a glance toward the cabin before heading toward the main house.
The two of them remind me of me and my dad. We were as thick as thieves when I was little. He was the best guy ever and I idolized him. When he died after suffering a major heart attack, I thought my world was over. Instead, I threw myself into my work, producing and creating music as a means to distract myself.
Distraction is exactly what I need now. My manager sent over a bunch of demos from songwriters for me to listen to as we prepare to record the next album. I open my laptop and que up each song and take notes on the ones I like and don’t like. When I’m finished, the “like” column is practically empty. There are only three songs; all of the other songs are duds. The same old country clichés. This time around, I want to say something different.
So, I do something I don’t normally do – sit down to write a song.
I scratch out verses and choruses on a notepad, stomp and clap rhythms but nothing seems right. I need a guitar, but all of my gear is on a semi-truck headed this way. My only option is to use Brooks’s guitar.
No one seems to be around when I finally gather enough courage to leave the cabin. I head to the main house, but the back doors are locked. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of movement in one of the barns. I start walking and almost run right into Brooks.
“Oh!” I stumble back and rub my nose. “Jesus, you have a hard chest!”
“That’s not the only hard thing about me,” he says with a laugh. “Do you need something?”
“Your guitar,” I say pointedly. “Against my better judgement, I’m trying to write songs and having a guitar helps.”
“Follow me.”
We walk into the quiet house and up the stairs to his bedroom, which is pretty bare, nothing like the cabin where I’m staying. The king bed is a golden oak monstrosity and the dressers are mismatched.
“It’s not much,” he says when he notices me standing in the doorway. “But it’s just me and Logan.”
He walks to the corner of the room and picks up the guitar from the stand. For some reason, he seems nervous and once we stepped inside the house, an awkward energy crackles to life between us.
“Is something wrong?” I ask because he seems stuck in the corner, holding onto the guitar.
“For the first time in I don’t know how long, there’s a woman in my bedroom and the house is empty. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s perfect. I just want to know one thing, Teddi.”
I’m breathless. “What’s that?”
“How fast can you take your clothes off?”
