Page 24 of Tate
“Keeping youalive.I’m a fan.”
“And possiblydying. No thank you. I still have nightmares of David driving over that IED, or whatever happened—believe me, my imagination has conjured up plenty of scenarios. No…I was right when I said once is enough. You’re right, grief does make you do crazy things…and I…I’m tired of losing people I love.”
Cher reached across the table to touch her arm. Squeezed. “Right. First Joy, then David.”
Glo shook her head. “And seeing Tate in that hospital bed. No—seeing him losing his life right before my eyes…I can’t sleep. And I certainly can’t live with it.”
Cher’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “I get it, despite the muscles and the hotness and the fact that the man would throw his body in front of a bullet for you.”
“I don’t want anyone to throw their body in front of me for a bullet, but especially not someone I…could…”
“Love?”
Glo raised a shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again.”
Cher let a beat pass, then, “Okay. We need to get you back on the horse. Forget about Tate. Move on.”
Glo held up her hand. “Thanks, but no. The last thing I need is a fresh horse.”
“Then what are you going to do? Hold campaign signs? Give speeches?”
“Please, no. I sing, and frankly, I hate doing solos. I’m not going to give a speech. I’d rather go onstage naked with a harmonica.”
Cher grinned. “That would certainly trend.”
Glo shook her head, and her glance fell on a couple who sat down next to the brick fireplace. Young, so much of their lives ahead.
The last month had left her wrung out and exhausted. “Mother has a fundraising event this weekend and she wants me to attend.”
“Oh, canapes and men in tuxes. Are you sure you’re not interested in trading up, cowgirl?”
“Yes. And to prove it, how about you come with me, as my plus-one.”
“And meet rich, eligible men IRL? Who, me?” Cher’s gaze drifted past Glo a moment and she nodded a greeting.
“Who—”
“Don’t turn around, but Sloan Anderson just walked in.”
Glo ducked her head. “I thought he worked in DC—isn’t he a lobbyist?”
“I don’t know, but he’s getting coffee, so you can stop turtling. But what’s the deal? Didn’t you two date?”
“No! He…we were just childhood friends. We played together as kids, and then in college, he sort of became a groupie.”
“Back when you were playing open mics…yes, I remember now. He would sit in the front row.”
“He mouthed my songs as I sang them. It was creepy.”
“Or dedicated. But hey—that’s what you should do. Write some songs and go solo.”
“What?” She glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, Sloan stood at the counter. He wore a messenger bag over his shoulders and seemed to have filled out in the past couple years. Dark hair, lean body, wide, ropy shoulders as if he worked out. He wore a pair of dark gray jeans and a light gray long-sleeved shirt pushed up to the elbows.
She turned back to Cher. “I’m not a solo act.”
“You used to be.”
“I hated the limelight. I just wanted to sing my songs. Kelsey is our lead singer, and I’m perfectly happy with that.”
