Maggie Box Set Read online

  Maggie frowns at Sheila’s hand. “I don’t understand. Online?”

  “Yeah. A big ‘Where are they now?’ type of thing. I texted it to my mom. She was totally excited, because she thought you were dead. The article talked about some big van crash that killed half your band.”

  “I wasn’t with them by then.” She hates it when reporters recycle old information about the accident and her past. Her nightmares about it will come back. It could have been her. Probably should have been. Not Brent, Davo, Celinda, Chris, and the groupie that had tagged along from Cheyenne. One of Hank’s exes. Bambi. No, Fawn. But Maggie was spared, because she’d run off with Hank and quit the tour.

  “And it said you’re in some big movie coming out.”

  “Not in it. It’s about me. Partly.”

  She socks Hank’s arm. “Jeez, Hank, you never told me you were friends with someone who used to be a star.”

  Ouch.

  At the far end of the bar, Maggie sees musicians tuning instruments. Over the sound system, a contemporary song starts up. One she heard over and over on the drive from Texas. It’s catchy, even if a little too Caribbean pop for her normal taste. “Pretty is as pretty does. Throwing punches, just because.”

  Sheila squeals. “Ava Butler is the bomb. Don’t you just love her? I mean, as a musician. And this song. Totes awesome.”

  Ava Butler. The name brings back a memory to Maggie. She’d known an Ava Butler during a period of her life she’d rather forget, although that didn’t narrow it down much. Pre-rehab, but not by long. After her agent, Larry, quit her and she lost her recording contract. In Waco. A low-rent musical theater. The murder of a young actress. Ava stepping in to fill the lead part in the musical that should have been Maggie’s. She’d been talented, Maggie recalls, but a slutty bitch who’d slept with Maggie’s man-of-the-moment. And now, all these years later, she has a hit single, while Maggie is schlepping junk and being humiliated by a woman who is with the one man she has ever loved.

  Maggie can’t find words, so she just makes a noncommittal “Mm-hmm” sound.

  “Hank bought me her new CD, dincha, baby? It’s even better than her first one.”

  Maggie stares at the hollow of Sheila’s neck, wanting to punch her, right there, just hard enough to stop her talking. She can’t believe Hank has a child-girlfriend who loves Ava’s second album and whose mother thought Maggie was dead.

  If it counts for anything, dead sounds better to her right now than another minute in Wyoming.

  Three

  Maggie turns back to the bar. Her cheeks burn as she keeps her eyes trained on the mirror. She hopes it looks like she’s deep in thought, deciding on a drink, when what she’s really doing is watching Hank and Sheila walk away. That was just a little awkward. Hank has his fingertips on the small of his date’s back, guiding her with pressure just above the teeny waist of her sparkly-assed Miss Me jeans. Awkward and devastating. They take a seat at a table with another couple. From the back, it appears the man might be Gene—compact, muscular, dark-haired. Great. Someone she knows to witness her utter humiliation. He’ll probably tell Michele, which means Maggie will get a call and have to talk about it. Something awesome to look forward to. She knows she should go say hello to him. It’s the mature, adult thing to do.

  But she just can’t adult right now. Just. Can’t. Adult.

  A waitress twirls to a stop beside Hank. He holds up two fingers and says something to her. Is his girlfriend even old enough to drink? The woman with Gene has her light head tight with Sheila’s even lighter one. Sheila points Maggie’s way.

  The bartender is pouring whiskey again.

  Maggie is glad for a distraction from the two women talking about her. “Got any Balcones?” In the last few years, the Waco-distilled whiskey is her drink of choice. Alcohol’s not great for her, but she’s never lost herself in it like she did in the juice.

  “Never heard of it. That a whiskey?”

  “Yes. What do you recommend?”

  He brandishes the bottle. “Koltiska. It’s a traditional Western liqueur. Fifth generation family’s secret recipes, distilled in Sheridan. You can try it with tea. They call that a TKO.”

  She gathers that the generation count matters a lot here. “I’m more of a whiskey drinker.”

  He pours a slug in a shot glass. “Try it.”

  She tips it back. It goes down hot, smooth, and tasty. “Pour me one. Just over ice.”

  As she waits, Maggie considers trying to find the article Sheila mentioned, the retrospective piece. They pop up occasionally, generate some interest in her and make money for the record company that traded her Flown the Coop, the land it stood on, and Bess for her albums, songs, and back royalties. Then the interest dies down. She decides her life is complete without reading the stilted prose of another hack rehashing her downward slide from the top of the music industry to drugs, mindless sex, rehab, and oblivion. The truth is far simpler, and far more complex than any of the journalists ever grasp.

  The bartender adds another glass to a row on the counter and pours without pause. He slides it to her. “Run a tab?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Maggie turns toward the bass voice. “No, that’s okay.” Pushy much? What is it with the men in Wyoming?

  The big voice belongs to a guy who’s even steven with her five-foot-six-plus-boot-heels. He plunks a twenty on the counter. “Maggie, right?”

  Had he overheard Hank introduce her to his teenybopper? “Um, yes.”

  He waits, holding eye contact. Maggie takes in his red flannel shirt and overalls. He’s nearly as wide as he is tall, but not fat. Stocky. Muscular. Boulder-like.

  She sips the Koltiska. It’s good. Different from Balcones, but she’s suddenly ready for things in her life to change. She imagines this is what it would taste like to drink out of a cold, clear mountain stream. “Thank you,” she says to the drink buyer.

  “I’d know you anywhere.” His eyes grow squinty. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Maggie shakes her head. “I’m sorry—should I?”

  “I met you in Minot. At the North Dakota State Fair. Back in 2002. My name is Rudy Simon.”

  “Hello, Rudy. Wow, a long time ago.”

  “You said you’d play a song for me. ‘Troublemaker.’ Then you didn’t.”

  His words don’t stir any recollections, but she doesn’t doubt him. She played a lot of shows in 2002. She also drank a lot of Jack and Coke. “I’m sorry.”

  A man in his sixties—or it could be his eighties, hard to say in dim lights and with his Santa Claus facial hair—is speaking into the mic. She can’t make out his words. When he finishes speaking, the musicians kick off a song. Maggie finds herself nodding to the upbeat tempo of old country. Really old—maybe the 1950s? She savors a sip of her drink, trying to place the tune, but she can’t.

  “You still owe me that song.” Her benefactor’s voice is hard and flat.

  Maggie pretends she doesn’t hear him. The musicians finish their number. Rudy doesn’t take his eyes off her. Before she can think of a reply for him, a large man bumps into Hank’s table. In the silence, four beer bottles clank, roll, and hit the floor. Everything in the bar seems to grind to a halt. Hank is on his feet so fast Maggie doesn’t see him move. One second he’s sitting. The same second he’s standing. He’s a head shorter and a feed sack lighter than the giant, but he’s up in the guy’s face, showing no fear, as if the guy is just another bull he knows he can beat.

  All eyes are on the man and Hank. The men lean in, and it’s clear harsh words are exchanged. Hank pokes him in the chest three times. Gene and the two women are up, too, and everyone is talking at once. The larger man shakes his head, laughs, and exits the saloon. The silence ends, instrument strings are plucked and strummed. Eyes swivel away from the spectacle and conversations resume.

  “A little excitement,” Maggie says, mostly to herself.

  “That’s nothing.” The bartender points at the ceilin
g. “Original bullet holes, turn of the century. That was a little excitement.”

  Maggie glances up. Sure enough. Bullet holes.

  “About that song.” Rudy’s voice is close to her ear. Too close.

  Maggie rises, her drink in her hand. It’s nearly empty. She drains it and puts the glass on the counter. The bartender raises a brow, and she nods. Her fingers are still around the glass as he refills it. She pulls a five from her jeans pocket and hands it to the bartender before Rudy can pay again.

  “Sorry about the song. It was a hectic time.”

  “That’s okay. You can sing it tonight.”

  Maggie steps away. “I don’t perform anymore.”

  Rudy glowers at her. The musicians strike up another tune. Individually, they’re fairly competent. Together, they’re a riot of joy. As much fun as it looks, it doesn’t tempt Maggie to join them, not one single bit. Writing and performing her music was her life. An obsession. Losing a career she loved so much, and along with it respect, cut deep. Like losing Hank had.

  Maggie’s not wired for losing. Her relationship with her guitar and her music is a private one now, one she controls. She puts nothing on the line anymore that she can’t afford to lose. And tonight is the perfect example of why. She’d put herself out there for Hank again tonight, and now she’s watching him with a woman young enough to be his daughter, if he’d started procreating in middle school. Gross, but possible. Just like the relationship. Maggie tosses back her Koltiska.

  Something makes her glance toward the doorway, past Hank’s cozy party of four. A male figure is silhouetted against the setting sun. He’s muscular, slim-hipped, taller and heavier than Hank. He takes off a Stetson, uncovering curly hair the color of sand. Sheila and her friend are eyeing him, too, again with the pointing. So rude. A flicker of anger courses through Maggie. Doesn’t that young twat know how lucky she is to be with Hank? As if Sheila reads her thoughts, she turns back to Hank. He shakes his head at her, then Sheila and her friend bust out laughing. Hank’s eyes flick to the doorway, then back to his date. He’s facing the guy, and he’s cataloguing his every move.

  As he steps farther into the bar, Maggie realizes she’s seen him before. From the parking lot of the taxidermy shop. Ah, those red lips and unusual eyes. Chet. He’s close to Sheila’s age, from what Maggie remembers. Right now, that makes him perfect for her.

  Maggie is buzzed. It’s time to decide. Take it slow, or slam the hammer down. Sober, she’s formidable, sexual. Across the line, she’s supercharged. Doesn’t care what she does—man, woman, inanimate object, her hand—as long as she gets there. All night long. She glances back at Hank and his child date. Back at Chet.

  She nods at the bartender. “Make it a double.”

  She has his full attention now and holds the glass toward him. He hits her again.

  Taking the drink, she says, “Nice to see you again, Ruben.”

  “Rudy.”

  She doesn’t look at him. “Rudy, yes.”

  She starts toward the entrance to the saloon. The swivel of her hips is a primal drumbeat. She watches Chet as the rhythm catches his attention. His broad smile is immediate, and Maggie knows he came here, alone, looking for her.

  She stops in front of him and licks a few drops from the rim of her liqueur glass.

  His eyes gleam. “I see you found the place.”

  “I see you found me.”

  “You’re hard to miss.”

  The skin on her neck tingles from watching eyes. The liqueur courses through her. She reaches for his arm, runs her hand up it, squeezes. “So are you.”

  “Oh, sugar, you don’t even know.”

  “But I’d like to.”

  “Drink up, and we can make sure you do.”

  She drinks. Shivers. Hands him her glass. She glances at Hank. He’s turned his back, almost like he’s done it so he won’t have to see Chet and her. Yeah, that’s how I feel, too, mister. She cozies up with Chet at the bar. He smells good, like someone she’d like to be naked with, and he’s funny. They order a round from the bartender.

  When he brings the drinks, Chet says, “Keep ’em coming, Frank.”

  She clinks her glass to his. “To new friends.”

  “God, your voice.”

  “What?”

  “It’s killing me. Feminine, but road rough. Like sex against a brick wall.”

  “Why, Chet, that’s the nicest compliment I’ve gotten all night.”

  He moves in close so their breath mingles. “And I know who you are.”

  “I’d be worried if you didn’t. We’ve met twice now.”

  “No, I mean I figured out that you’re Maggie Killian. The singer.”

  Maggie taps his breastbone with her forefinger. “Aren’t you the rocket scientist.”

  Rudy’s nursing a drink a few feet away. He’s been scooting down the bar, closer, closer, until he’s elbow to elbow with Maggie.

  Chet turns on him. “Give us some space, partner.”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “Which means I’m free to kick your ass if you get any closer to my girl.”

  “She’s not yours.”

  His shoulders bunch and an arm goes up. “That’s it, buddy—”

  Maggie puts a hand on his raised and flexed forearm. Nice guns. “He’s an old friend. S’okay.”

  Chet drops his arm.

  Rudy nods at her, but he doesn’t speak to her again.

  Two drinks later, Chet whispers to her. “I’ve had enough of hanging with my ex here. Wanna go somewhere private?”

  She puts her bag over her shoulder. “Lead the way.”

  He takes her by the hand and pulls her toward the door. She hooks the fingers of her other hand through his belt loops. She turns to get one more glimpse of Hank, hoping he’ll see what he’s missing. But he and his group are nowhere to be seen.

  Icy needles prick her heart. Chet hauls her to him by her ass on the sidewalk by his truck. The burly figure of her old fan from the bar lumbers in the opposite direction. Chet rubs his whiskers up her neck. The best way to forget that Hank has left with Sheila is to drown herself in some young, sexy cowboy before she gets the hell out of Wyoming, so she dives on in, lips first.

  Four

  Chet struts back from the Bison Inn lobby toward his pickup, grinning at Maggie. His red lips are delectable. She can’t wait to taste them again. He waves a keycard back toward the tan stucco building. Two rough looking men and a woman whose cheeks and body scream meth appear from between some parked cars and fall in behind him. She’s in black. A skin-tight black shirt under a puffy black vest. Or are those sleeve tattoos on her arms?

  Maggie points at them, but Chet misunderstands and blows her a kiss.

  The woman—with spiky blonde hair, a skeletal frame, and square shoulders—grabs him by the arm, spinning him. Maggie gasps. What is going on?

  Chet’s fists come up in a flash. He cocks an arm back, prepared to let it fly. As suddenly as he is poised to fight, he drops his arm. He wags his head side to side, no, no. Maggie watches, gaping, as the two men each take him by an arm, and he just lets them.

  An oddly dressed woman steps into Maggie’s line of vision, maybe drawn by the possibility of a fight. Is that a tan leather skirt? And a fringed shirt? Not that she has room to talk herself, in her fringed vest and tank. She’s wearing her hair in two long black braids. Maggie rocked that look one summer on the road. The woman is behaving strangely, too, standing in a wide stance with her arms out slightly, like she’s ready to fight. But whatever she’s here for, she’s in Maggie’s way. She slides across the seat so she can see what’s going on.

  The blonde slaps Chet hard across the face, so hard that Maggie hears it in the cab of the truck, even with the windows up. The blonde shakes her hand, bent over at the waist, holding her gut and stumbling around. She’s laughing.

  The men release Chet and one slaps the woman a high five. She lets loose a combo of air punches and a high kick, then skips ov
er to a group nearer the street huddled around a lifted Chevy one-ton with a home paint job in army green.

  The fashion-impaired woman slips away, too.

  Chet watches them for a moment. When he turns to Maggie, his head is down. By the time he’s in the truck, though, he’s grinning again, despite the bright red handprint on his face.

  He swoops in to pin her against the passenger side window by the lips. Maggie gives back as good as she gets. The kiss is rough, but it ends after a few seconds.

  Maggie nips his neck. “What was that about—offering yourself up for an ass-whupping?”

  “When I’m wrong, I man up. I didn’t do right by her, once upon a time. I get it. Worse for everybody if I fight back. Plus, I have a tire iron in my truck bed. I could put a stop to things real quick with her brothers if I needed to.”

  Maggie wonders if this is the ex-girlfriend they’d ditched in the Occidental. “So, you’re too young for me and you’re a man whore?” She slides her hand down his chest to the button on his jeans.

  He laughs. “Neither.” He grabs her wrist. “Let’s save some of that for upstairs.”

  “Party pooper.” Her hand retreats slowly.

  He slides back to the driver’s side, shifting to make his jeans more comfortable now that he’s filling them out and then some. He starts the truck. “We’re parking in back.”

  “Away from the woman you done wrong?”

  “Away from everyone, beautiful. Where I can be alone with you.”

  Five

  Maggie wakes to a spinning bed. Predawn light is peeping through a window with wide-open drapes. Above her, a warrior on a pinto pony has a bow and arrow trained on a US Calvary soldier. Beside her, a hulking form with the comforter over his head is snoring like a wood chipper. He rolls, taking the covers with him. Maggie grabs for them, but she’s too late. She’s naked and exposed.

  The window-unit air conditioner on her side of the bed is working double time. Without the sheet, she’s freezing. She wants clothes and the Excedrin in her bag. And a whole lot of water. Before she gets up, though, Maggie lifts the sheet. Last night is fuzzy, but she’s ninety-nine point nine percent sure she left the Occidental with the young cowboy she met in the parking lot of the taxidermy store. It never hurts to be sure. And if there’s even a chance it’s Hank, that changes everything.