Honky Tonk Hearts Volume 1, page 1
Table of Contents
Honky Tonk Man
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Sing To Me, Cowboy
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Those Violet Eyes
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
The Morning After
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
A Song for Sophie
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Honky Tonk Man
by
Sylvie Kaye
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Honky Tonk Man
COPYRIGHT 2012 by Sylvie Kaye
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Debby Taylor
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Yellow Rose Edition, 2012
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-110-4
Published in the United States of America
Chapter One
The neon star on the front of the building beckoned him through the bug-splotched windshield of his pickup. Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk.
On the sign, a single flashing steer rode away from the brightly-lit star, and Jace Monroe determined he should do the same. He looked ahead into the waning twilight and tamped down on the gas pedal.
Half a block later, and with a heavy sigh, he yanked the steering wheel and pulled a U-ey.
All his troubles stemmed from honky tonks, and yet he couldn’t pass up the chance to see if things might turn out different this time.
He sat in the idling truck and eyed the nondescript door to the large, wood paneled structure. The door looked harmless enough. He scrubbed at his jaw; he needed a shave. Hell, he needed a bath. First, he needed a drink.
Abandoning the pickup, Jace fitted his scruffy Stetson onto his head and grabbed his beat up guitar case. He didn’t crank the window up or lock the door. If anyone was desperate enough to steal his rusty ole’ truck, well, have at it.
Once inside, he glanced around the dim-lit, open room and smiled. He hated wannabe saloons with faux cowhide bar seats and plastic molded wagon wheels. Nothing even close here. Real wood; the bar, the dance floor, the small stage. Old and authentic, like him, he’d like to think.
Not old in chronological years, but thirty, and one would think, old enough to stop making the same mistakes.
Sucking in the familiar smell of stale beer and sawdust, he moved toward the occupants at the far end of the bar, which ran the length of the wall. Seated on mismatched stools, the handful of men watched a bull ride on the sports channel and didn’t bother to look his way.
Jace needed a cold beer to wash away the memory of the sun on his windshield in a pickup with broken air-conditioning and twelve hours of mesmerizing white lines, macadam highway, and endless semi’s. He’d even begun to think a certain SUV had been tailing him. That was why he detoured onto Route 66 outside of Amarillo, to get away from the trucks and the monotony and paranoia. After he satisfied his thirst, he’d see how the rest of the night went down.
Then he spied her. Blonde and sexy, just his type.
Here We Go Again.
The song title ran through his head as the blonde-haired beauty sashayed out from the kitchen, a hamburger-and-fries basket in each hand. But despite her face and figure, there was nothing fancy or Saturday night line-dancing about this woman. From the tips of her weathered brown leather boots to her worn jeans and blue plaid cotton shirt, she appeared to be earthy and hardworking.
On a second thought, he changed the song to Maybe This Time.
She headed toward a couple he hadn’t noticed, who were seated at one of the round tables scattered along the edge of the dance floor. She had a sassy ass and a cute wiggle. The couple said something, and she laughed, the sound so light and sweet his gut tickled.
He sure hoped the sensation wasn’t a warning.
Ignoring it, he gave in to sudden hunger and detoured toward an empty table.
****
Sunny Brooks wiped her hands on the short, white apron tied at her waist. Kiera winked at her from the other side of the bar—she’d just delivered her first order without mishap.
Kiera’s father, Gus Rankin, owned The Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk where Sunny hung out the past two weeks, ever since landing back at the ranch after Ma called begging her to come home. Kiera had come up short-handed tonight when the new waitress hadn’t shown up so Sunny offered to fill in. Wednesday’s were usually slow nights anyway.
“Sure thing,” Sunny replied to the couple’s request for hot sauce and turned on her boot heels to fetch a bottle from the kitchen.
“Miss.”
The word danced on her skin like a slow, low-pitched note in a song.
She skidded to a stop on the saw-dusted dance floor. The lone cowpoke sat at a nearby table, a guitar case on the other chair. He looked road weary, in need of a shave, and by his rumpled shirt must’ve spent a recent night in his car or truck. Truck. Real cowboys owned pickups, and he looked too real to be true. Like a dream come to life.
As she got nearer, his blue eyes penetrated her soul, but probably it was somewhere lower. The spot where a woman trembled when she met a man with pure animal magnetism.
So far, he was the first one of those she’d met this close up, and fear mingled with her desire.
“May I help you?” If her question wasn’t open for innuendo she didn’t know what was. She virtually crossed her fingers while she waited.
“Yes, you may—” He stared at her chest.
Heat prickled between her breasts and crept up her neck at his direct approach. He wasn’t one for innuendo apparently.
“No name tag?” he asked.
“Oh. It’s Sunny.” Used to explaining her unusual name, she added, “And no, my father didn’t want a son. He liked sunshine.”
“I like Sunny, too.” His voice sounded whiskey smooth and warmed her on the inside with the same amount of heat.
Sigh.
“I didn’t catch your name?” she said.
“Jace.” He tipped his cowboy hat.
“You play guitar, Jace?” she asked, forgetting all about her waitressing duties.
He nodded. “Some.”
“Open mike night is Sunday. Booked bands Saturday. The Rattlesnakes will let you strum with them, if you’re around.” She shrugged, as if she wasn’t holding her breath.
“Friendly bunch, huh?”
“Everyone who comes in here is pretty friendly.” She smiled in hopes of encouraging him to show up.
“You too?”
He said it like a proposition and suddenly she felt tongue-tied. She swallowed and managed to say, coy as could be, “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
“It’s your job.”
Shoot. “I’ll be right back.” She gave the couple at the other table a high sign and ran off to the kitchen for the hot sauce.
****
Jace had a burger and a few beers, which he let the pretty waitress serve instead of plopping his butt on a barstool.
He liked watching her move. She was graceful in the assured way of a woman who was comfortable with her body. He wouldn’t mind touching her body, stroking it and making her purr. It had been awhile since he’d been with a woman that way. Since Dee Dee.
He tamped down the memory with a long pull from his beer bottle.
An hour passed, and more customers straggled in. Regulars from the sound of their bantering. They plugged some coins into the jukebox and did some two-stepping. One guy played along on an antique, upright piano. He wasn’t bad.
Jace tapped his foot and let the music calm his uneasy spirit. Help him forget.
Sunny stopped at his table on her way to serve a tray of drinks to the table of six in the corner. “Why don’t you join in?” she shouted above the music.
The people in the corner chorused her sentiment with a few hoots and yeahs.
“I’ll play if you dance afterward?” he drawled. The alcohol made the wanting hard to ignore. Dancing was a good reason to hold her body against his, move to the rhythm, maybe sweet talk her into something more.
“With you?”
Her eyes reminded him of a green meadow on a sunlit morning. He chuckled. “I’d prefer me to some other guy.”
She smiled and her face lit up, making her even prettier to look at. Her skin looked soft and her pink lips full. He hankered to taste both of them before the night was over.
Jace reached out and laid his hand on the top of hers, knowing she couldn’t pull away without spilling the serving tray. Her skin felt silky and warm beneath his rough palm. “Well, pretty lady?”
“Kitchen closes around ten.” She winked when he let go of her hand and scurried off.
With a little more coaxing from the loud folks at the corner table, he sat in with the pianist, Rex Statler, after friendly introductions. When they finished playing the number, a man shouted out a request. It was a well-known drinking tune and soon most everyone sang along. A gal and guy in the corner locked lips between verses.
This was familiar. Happy folks, singing, dancing, laughing, loving.
Jace was in his element.
Chapter Two
Before ten o’clock, Sunny tossed her apron and officially closed the kitchen. She looked forward to her dance with the guitar-playing cowboy. Jace not only played, sexy as that was, but he sang, his voice deep and mournful. His original songs spoke of love and loneliness. The lyrics sounded soulful, like he’d experienced the heartbreak he sang about.
While she stood outside the kitchen door and listened, she realized most country-western songs, heck, most songs period vocalized some form of love. Losing it, finding it, yearning for it. Everyone wanted love. Trouble was, some men wanted it from more than one woman.
With a loud bang, the main door opened, and heads turned. Taylor sauntered in. With the tails of his work shirt hanging over the waist of his jeans and one pant leg half-tucked inside his boot, he must’ve dressed in a hurry. Forgot his hat, too. His hair stuck up at an odd angle, like he’d been in bed for the night. Probably had. Work day on the ranch started at daybreak.
Taylor used to be her favorite cousin, until he became her father’s right hand man.
What now? She heaved a deep breath.
His coming here couldn’t be good. He wasn’t one for honky tonks. He was a homebody who liked staying in with his wife and kids. She hurried over to where he stood by the front door. “What brings you out?” And he did look put out.
“Your Pa wants to see you. Now.”
“Why?” And why tonight of all nights when there was something to stay for.
“Don’t know,” he all but growled. “Said he got a phone call. Must’ve been about you because his next call demanded I fetch you. He’s pissed.”
Shoot.
“Why didn’t he just call my cell?”
“He did. I did. Your mother and my wife did.” He shoved his fingers through his bed-rumpled hair, but it didn’t do much good. “You never answer.”
“I was busy waiting tables.” That got a raised eyebrow from him. She slung her hands onto her hips. “Don’t say anything. I know how to do more than my fingernails, you know.”
“Didn’t know.” His grin broke his somber mood.
“I did hold down a real job in Atlanta.” She wasn’t done making her point.
“But now you don’t, and your Pa wants you home right away.” He moved toward the door as if she’d fall in step with him. When she didn’t, he halted.
“Probably better if I wait until morning. After Pa’s had a good night’s sleep.” She chewed her lip. Though this had been coming, she’d hoped for more time.
“He’s already ballistic. No way is he going to sleep until he sees you.” Taylor back-stepped and took her by the arm. “I’ll drive you home.”
She tugged free. “Really, Taylor? Afraid I’ll run off.”
“Won’t be the first time.”
He grinned again, wider, which only aggravated her further.
“He locked me in the barn.”
“Just for a little while. Your Ma would’ve let you out soon as she heard where he stuck you. But no, you had to prove you could do it on your own.” He chuckled as if he were telling an amusing anecdote.
Her shoulders stiffened. “I’ll drive myself. My truck’s out back.” She refused to be brought in like some rustler caught red-handed or to become the butt of her cousin’s next story.
“See, that’s exactly what I mean. Lighten up, Sunny.”
He wrapped her in a bear-hug, picked her up and gave her a jiggle until she laughed and hugged him back. “Okay, okay. Put me down.” When he did, she said, “But I’m still driving.”
She walked away, only glancing back once she reached the kitchen.
Her cousin was gone. But waiting outside; his SUV idled next to her truck.
****
Jace saw Sunny hustle over to the cowpoke as soon as the guy entered the honky tonk. Their conversation looked intense. The man grabbed her arm at one point, and Jace just about hopped down from the stage to come to her aid. But she’d already tugged free, and they seemed to get along fine after that. Too fine, hugging and smiling.
When the man left, Sunny hotfooted into the kitchen. That had been over a half hour ago. She hadn’t come out yet. Must’ve scooted out the backdoor.
He shook off his disappointment. Wasn’t his business. A woman that beautiful had to be spoken for. Husband, boyfriend, whatever he was, she’d made her choice. And it hadn’t been Jace.
He played and sang until the bunch at the corner table called it a night. Probably working folks was his guess.
“Last song,” he said to Rex.
They did a rendition of Willie Nelson’s, The Party’s Over. When they finished, Rex stood and stretched, all six foot four of him. “That was the most fun I had without a woman in ages.” He laughed.
Jace packed his guitar away. “Always comes round to a woman, doesn’t it?”
“Friday’s another open mike if you want to play again. Tomorrow’s karaoke.” Rex tucked his hands into his back pockets and waited for Jace.
“I might if I find a room.”
“Widow’s Inn is about five miles down the road.”
“Cheap?” Jace asked.
“If you’re looking for cheap, why not stay out at my place? Big house, and I could use the company.”
“Heck, you don’t know anything about me.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing out there to steal. My wife took most everything of value when she left.”
At six foot, Jace had to look up at the guy. “You ever play basketball?”
“In the day. High school mostly. Now I’m a ranch hand at Brook’s Triple Bar Ranch and Cattle Company.”
“Damn lucky to have a job in this economy. Got let go from a two-year gig in a saloon and dance hall in Memphis several months back. Been working my way to a new booking in L.A., living off smaller honky tonks and singing wherever I can.”
“Then you’ll love my place. It’s free. Stay as long as you like. Most of the comforts of home.”
Jace figured him for a good ole’ boy, thanked him, and accepted. Rex stopped to say something to the bartenders on his way out, an older man with a handlebar mustache and another blonde gal with doe-like eyes, young, attractive, but not as pretty as Sunny to his way of thinking.
