Page 40 of Wingwoman
I watched as her throat bobbed with a swallow. “I don’t just mean for dinner. For everything. For getting me to the hospital, for taking me in tonight—”
I snorted. “I’m the one who put you in the hospital in the first place.”
She shook her head. “No you didn’t. It was my choice to ride Gypsy with you. I could have said no when you asked me to come.”
“Bullshit,” I sneered. “You tried to decline and I basically forced your hand.”
She pressed her lips together so tightly the pale pink color blanched. “Well, it was my choice to follow Daisy’s stupid instructions.” With my spoon midway to my mouth I paused, looking up at her. That was true enough, I guess. “Like a bratty teenager refusing to listen to daddy,” she added, the low lighting of the dining room gleaming in her eyes.
I chuckled at that, unable to stop myself. I felt my blood soften and the room grew suddenly warmer. “Daddy, huh?” It was my turn to swallow. Hard. I felt a swell behind the zipper of my jeans. “Is that what you’re into?” I asked, mostly joking.
“Don’t change the subject. The bottom line is, bringing me back to your house, cooking me dinner, taking care of me… it’s really kind of you. And it goes above and beyond what a client should do for his wingwoman.”
“But it doesn’t go above and beyond what a man should do for his muse.”
“Luckily for both of us, I’m not your muse.”
“Yet.”
She rolled her eyes, but I wasn’t letting her get off that easily.
Next to her on the console table, there was a stack of flyers Matt had left for me. Colorful, vibrant, they needed to be strewn about the city to spread the word about the rescue’s yearly fundraiser.
She leaned over, grabbing one and flipping it over in her hands. “Anita’s Hope Rodeo,” she said. The sound of my mother’s name on her lips made my chest ache like someone took a mallet to my ribcage.
I nodded. “Yep. We do it every year.” It always raised a modest amount of money. Even though it was cheesy to say, every little bit helped. But upkeep for the horses, veterinary bills, stable costs? That takes a ton of money. Money the ranch didn’t have. Hell, moneyIbarely had anymore. Each year I had to funnel more and more of my personal funds into the rescue just to keep it afloat. If this muse angle didn’t work in getting my next album into Top 40 territory, I might have to close the ranch.
A lump lodged in my throat at the thought. My mother’s only legacy. The one we had dreamt up as a family before Dad went and fucked it all up.
It couldn’t go belly up. I wouldn’t let it. I’d sell my sperm before I’d let that happen. What did Grammy-award winning sperm go for these days, anyway?
She waved the flier, fanning her face and I could see it in her eyes. An idea was hatching. “We should unveil your new girlfriend at this event,” she said, pushing the flier towards me. As if I didn’t know what it looked like; what it said.
“No,” I said, shaking my head and taking another bite of chili. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not? It’s perfect. Press will be there, your friends, your family—”
“Hope, I said no.” My voice wasn’t loud. I wasn’t anywhere near yelling, but I could feel the tension in my throat as I spoke, low and dangerous.
She jerked her neck back, soaking in my tone. My definitive note. And something in her shifted. Like the bridge to a song, she revealed a sliver more of herself.
And then it was gone. The curtain dropped across her expression, shielding her.
Fuck. She was pulling away from me, emotionally. I was screwing this up already. I wasn’t supposed to push her away. Not yet, at least.
I took a deep breath. Time to slice open a vein. Bleed all over her to show my vulnerable side. It was the only way.
“The horse rescue was my mother’s dream,” I said quietly. “And the yearly rodeo fundraiser was her first idea with it. She loved horses. Next to me, she loved them more than anything. I—” My voice caught and I swallowed down the emotion rising up my throat.
Save it for the sheet music, Josh, I told myself. After a quick second, I managed to pull myself together. “I can’t use her one event—her legacy—in this semi-fake unveiling publicity stunt.”
Hope nodded in understanding, her eyes dipping with the frown. “How long has she been gone?”
“Six years.”
Though it still hurts like it was yesterday. They say time heals all wounds, but I call bullshit on that.
Time didn’t heal anything. It only made the wounds fester, get swollen and infected.
