Shameless (12 page)

“Let me go, Phillip.”

With his other hand he pulled an envelope out of the inside of his jacket and read the Nashville address out loud. “There's a tape inside. You're sending stuff to a producer, Greg Furman, aren't you? Why couldn't you tell me?”

“Where did you get that?”

“You still want to be a star, don't you?”

“Oh? I—I left that in the truck, didn't I?” Her hands closed around the envelope, and she stared at him with those big, luminous eyes that undid him. “I love you, Phillip. You have to believe me.”

“Then why can't we have a simple conversation? Why can't you confide in me?”

“I didn't think you'd understand.”

“You don't give me a chance to.”

“You're so big and tough. A Marine.”

“A retired Marine, Celeste.” He paused. “I'm a human being.”

“Your life is precise and… Me, I—I feel…so torn. My life was a mess when I came here. Sending the tapes…”

“So there were more of them?”

“I write him letters, beg him to let me audition. I send him songs, too.”

“I see. You can't wait to get out of here.”

“No. My musical ability drives me. It's not totally rational. Sending those tapes was something I had to do. I didn't think you'd want me to.”

“Life isn't always ‘either or' you know.”

“It has been for me.”

“For me, too, then…because you think it is. When were you going to tell me about the tapes?”

“Oh…oh… I—I don't know. Oh, why does everything have to get so complicated? Why are you asking all these questions?”

“Were you just going to walk out on me again?”

“Phillip, I…”

“Don't say any more.” He slid the ring and the little velvet box into his pocket. “You've said way more than enough.”

“But—”

“Let's just go home and put this evening behind us.”

“But we haven't settled anything—”

“That's up to you—”

He waited. Oh, God, how he hoped she'd say more.
When she didn't, he let go of her wrist, and she stood. He slid his hand to the back of her waist and escorted her out of the elegant blue-and-white room and then through the grand lobby lit with ornate chandeliers. Only when they were outside in the dark beneath a full moon and a starless sky and there was no one to see their livid pain, could they relax a little.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered later when he was driving them home in the truck.

“This is your game. We're playing by your rules. You tell me.”

“But I can't. I don't know.”

“Then neither the hell do I.”

She asked him if he wanted her to leave the next morning and he said no.

Over the next few days Wainwright and Yardley made zero progress on their investigation. The two sleazes from Vegas didn't turn up, either. So, Phillip and Celeste drifted, and drifting was hard for Phillip who was a natural leader who wanted to command not only battles but his life, as well. All he wanted was for her to talk to him and to answer a few simple questions.

But she wasn't used to sharing confidences. Maybe she didn't believe that doing so could bring two people closer. Phillip didn't know, and he didn't ask her. They slept together, but his proposal and his questions had erected an invisible barrier, so sex wasn't as spontaneous or as hot as it had been before.

Now it was sweet and sad and desperate, and yet if it was all he could have of her, he'd settle for the crumbs he could get. He was that pathetic. They were drifting apart, and it was killing him. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it but hope that if he waited, somehow, some way, he'd get a break.

And then he did.

Only it wasn't the lucky break, he'd prayed for. It was a disaster that sent their lives spinning out of control in a horrible new direction.

L
ater that particular Saturday night after she'd driven off from the Saddlebag in his truck, and left him alone at the bar and he was drowning his sorrows in a bottle, in lots of bottles, all different kinds of bottles, Phillip would relearn one of life's dirtier little tricks. No matter how sudden the catastrophic blow falls, the aftermath is slow and deadly, the better to prolong the victim's agony.

Not that he had the slightest premonition of what was to come as he led Celeste up the steps of the plain-looking, wooden building that was the local bar. He simply felt edgy and unable to face another evening in the house alone watching television while she avoided him, content to read by herself in the kitchen while so many issues in their relationship were unresolved.

Didn't she care about him at all? Maybe she could float through life like a leaf going down a stream, but
he needed roots. He needed answers, and he was nearly out of patience.

Feeling close to some dangerous, fatal edge, he shoved the door to the open bar and said in a grim, low tone, “Welcome to The Saddlebag.”

As usual she was wearing lots of makeup and that flashy red number that didn't leave a lot to the imagination.

“You come here often?” she whispered, her voice a little shaky even though she was still trying to pretend that everything was all right between them.

“Before you came home I used to hang out here a lot. I shot pool, drank…dated…. And not nice church girls.”

Celeste swallowed and wouldn't meet his eyes.

The inside of the bar was dark and cozy. A large bar ran along the far wall and there were about fifteen tables scattered in the middle of the room. In the rear, men were playing pool and shooting darts while their dates watched. A redhead in a tight black mini was yanking at the knob of the lone pinball machine and then pounding the machine and shouting when her balls didn't go where she wanted them to.

The walls were packed with Texas memorabilia. Maybe to avoid his gaze, Celeste was studying the old photographs of early ranchers, cow skulls, antlers, wagon wheels and branding irons with way more interest than they warranted. Somebody had filled a shelf with old beer bottles. She busied herself reading the labels.

Jake Hornung, a local cowboy, set down his pool cue and came over to them, studying her, too. “Long time, no see, Westin.”

Westin tipped his Stetson. Nodding, he took Celeste by the elbow and kept walking.

“Nice dress. Real nice…. Hey, I know you.” Hornung was practically drooling as he spoke to Celeste. “If you ain't Stella Lamour I ain't Jake Robert Hornung. A buddy said you sang at the Lone Star Country Club the other night, but I didn't believe him. Hey, I bought your album.”

“You're the only man in America who did.”

“How come you didn't do any more albums? I made copies for all my buddies. Hey,” he shouted to his friends at the pool table. “Guys, Karla, this here is Stella Lamour, the country-western star.”

A girl in a pink T-shirt that showed too much belly and tight jeans walked up to them and put her arm around Jake. “Stella… You're good, really good.”

“I never met a star before,” Hornung said. “Will you autograph—”

Celeste took a deep breath. She looked a little uncertain, but her admirers kept smiling at her and fawning over her every remark. Soon she became a little giddy and in the end when she had to sign about ten napkins, she couldn't seem to stop smiling.

A childhood memory came back to Phillip. One night his mother had put him to bed early and told him not to come out of his room because she was having a big party. Famous people were coming. She'd babbled off a few names.

When she'd turned off the light, he'd had a nightmare that he was falling out of an airplane and had awakened right before he'd hit the ground. Screaming for her, he'd run through the house.

She'd been out in the garden laughing with friends near thick banks of azaleas. As thin as a rail, she was exquisite in red, with a low neck that showed off too many glittering jewels. He'd yelled, “Mommy.” Her
smile had frozen. She'd nodded to his stepfather, who'd clamped a hand on his shoulder and ushered him back to his scary bedroom. His stepfather had been huge, and Phillip had been more terrified of him than of the demons hiding in his dark room.

“If you leave your room again, you know what will happen.”

“I want Mommy.”

“She's with important people.”

“When will she ever want me?”

The next week they'd sent him to military school.

“Let's find a table, Celeste…or should I say Stella,” Phillip muttered a little grumpily.

“Sorry about that,” she murmured.

He led her away from the excited group, selecting a table as far from the pool tables and her fans as possible. A waitress came and he ordered them drinks and made up his mind to forget about the little incident.

“Sorry about that,” Celeste repeated awkwardly.

Phillip was ashamed of his feelings and didn't know what to say. “Let's just get on with our evening.”

“I know you don't like thinking about my music or my…career.”

“Damn it. Is that what you call it—a career?”

Celeste looked startled. She was about to say something, and then choked back her words when the waitress brought their beers and placed them on tiny white napkins. He shoved a few bills on the table and ordered himself a second beer before he even started the first. “Long day,” he said to the waitress.

“Cheers.” He lifted his frosty bottle to Celeste and was aware of Hornung and his bunch at the pool tables watching Celeste and talking about her more excitedly than ever. He felt left out, so he drank deeply.

She didn't touch her drink.

“Are you ever going to tell me why you left Vegas?”

“Not now,” she whispered.

“When, then?”

“Maybe when you tell me who's killing your livestock. Okay?”

“Not okay. My livestock has nothing to do with you and me. Your secrets do. Okay?”

They sat at the table, not knowing what to say to each other. Hell, maybe she was listening to the band. Her fingers began to tap the table in time to the beat. Maybe she didn't need him at all. Maybe she just wanted her music. When he finished his second beer, he ordered two more. She frowned when he finished those.

“Don't worry,” he muttered, tossing her the truck keys. “You can be the designated driver—
Stella.
”

“Stella? Why…why you're still sulking because I got a little attention.”

“The hell I am.”

“You hate my music, but it's part of me.”

“I don't hate your music, but it led you into a dangerous life. You landed on my doorstep scared and broke, and you won't tell me why.”

“Can't we discuss this when we get home?” she asked.

“Ha! You won't talk…except in bed. How long will we last if sex is the only thing holding us together?”

“Sex? You think that's all—” The devastation in her face cut him to the quick, but he wasn't about to let it show.

The band took a break.

“Stella. Stella. We want Stella.”

Phillip turned just as Hornung got on the stage and told everybody that his favorite country-western star,
Stella Lamour, was here tonight, and if they were nice and clapped for her, maybe she would sing.

“Hell,” Phillip whispered as everybody else began to clap and yell her name.

“Oh, God—” His brown hand curled into a fist.

“Take me home, Phillip.”

“Hey, your music's everything to you. Who am I to stop the great star, Stella Lamour? Sing, Celeste, sing your heart out. You know that's what you really want to do.”

“I want you, too.”

“In bed maybe. But I wonder how much…and for how long? There's something you're keeping—”

She paled. “You keep things from me, too.”

“To protect you, damn it.”

“I don't want to quarrel like this…. Not with you.”

Hornung got down on his knees and said please, pretty, pretty please into the mike.

“Maybe I will sing. It's better than quarreling.”

“You're right,” he whispered, ashamed suddenly. He didn't hate her music. He hated that she wouldn't level with him. Phillip stood and forced a smile as he helped Celeste out of her chair. “Break a leg—”

She took a deep breath and then, cocking her head to one side, Stella Lamour strutted up to the stage like the star he knew she wanted to be more than anything, more than she wanted him. She took the mike and paced nervously a moment or two.

“I wrote the song I'm about to sing for a very special guy.”

Oh, God.

She turned toward Phillip, her gaze locking on his face. Did she have to be so exquisite in that red dress that was almost a carbon copy of the one his mother had
worn the night she'd decided to send her little boy to military school?

Celeste shook her blond hair so that it caught the light and sparkled as it tumbled over her slim shoulders. She smiled at Hornung, at the rest of audience, at all the important people in the room. She was a born star. Suddenly Phillip realized that was one of the things that made her so special to him.

Only when she had the attention of every man in the room, did Stella turn back to him and begin to sing. Soon she was belting out her one and only country music hit, which, of course, Phillip knew by heart.

In the middle of her number, a man walked into the bar. Two more let themselves in a minute after he did. Not that anybody noticed them. Stella had everybody spellbound, especially Phillip.

Her blue eyes stared straight into Phillip's and he stared straight back. When she looked at him like that, with her heart in her eyes, he could barely breathe. She held him motionless in his chair until she was done.

“Nobody but you/Only you/And yet I had to say goodbye…”

Why, damn it? Tell me who you are and what you're so afraid of.

Only when she finished singing was he able to look away. Her music truly was a part of her. How strange, he thought that when she'd sung to him, he'd felt as connected to her as he did when they made love.

The other customers must have received a thrill or two themselves because they started clapping and stomping their boots and yelling for more. Hell, one song and she had the place in an uproar. The bar was charged with some new sensual power. Phillip remembered the first night he'd met her. She'd sung more than one song that
night, and the place had gotten way too crazy. He'd fallen in love with her voice before he'd even known her.

Stella put the mike down and ran back to Phillip, her slim body carving its way through the excited throng as silently and gracefully as an elegant cat.

“Sorry about that,” she whispered.

“No. You were great. Really great,” he said.

“You really thought so?” Her big blue eyes seemed to burn his face.

Did his opinion matter so terribly? “Yes. I love to hear you sing. I always feel I'm the only one you're singing to. You were great!”

For an instant he thought he saw the spark of tears in her eyes, and he ached for the lonely little girl who'd grown up in foster homes. Gently he threaded his fingers through hers. Her smile was so radiant, his own heart nearly burst with happiness.

“Yes, you were great,” said a hard voice behind them.

“Oh,” Celeste gasped, caught off guard. “I didn't see you.”

The stranger in the gray flannel suit was one of the newcomers. Phillip didn't know him, so he wasn't a local. The man tossed a business card onto the table. “Mind if I join you?”

Celeste picked up his card and flipped it nervously while she read. “Oh, dear! Greg… Greg Furman?”

The short bald man beamed, his teeth white, when he caught the shock of recognition in her voice. “The one and only.”

“But you never once answered my letters—How'd you find me—”

“You put your address on every single envelope. I'm
closing a deal in Texas. So, I went out to your ranch, and this guy on a tractor said you were here. The last song you sent me was pretty good. Oh, it needs some work—”

“Pretty good? Oh, dear.” She flicked a rapid glance up at him. “Pretty good? You really think so—”

“Good enough for an audition in Nashville, Miss Lamour.”

“I—I can't believe…” She turned to Philip. “Oh, Phillip, this is wonderful. Just when I was about to give up forever…and settle….”

Settle? The word jarred Phillip's soul.

She looked past Phillip, but her dazzling smile faded when she focused on something or somebody behind him.

“Oh, dear….” Her dying words were low-pitched and nearly inaudible. Phillip felt an icy prickle of danger. Something cold and deadly suddenly charged the air. Celeste went paper-white.

Furman was too full of himself to notice. “Sorry, this has to be a short meeting, doll. So, look me up if you're ever in Nashville.”

When Furman got to his feet, he had to dodge a dark man and his paler companion, who were rapidly approaching their table.

The men sidestepped out of Furman's way and stared at Celeste with cold, flat eyes. Her lips quivered and she seemed to forget Furman and his exciting offer.

The two men were obviously some sort of threat. Her eyes grew huge when the dark man and his pale companion yanked chairs out and sat beside her without an invitation.

Phillip placed his hand over hers and pulled her closer.
He didn't need a formal introduction to know these were the two sleazes Mabel had warned him about.

“Please don't hate me forever,” she pleaded under her breath to Phillip. The sadness in her eyes brought a bleak feeling of inevitability over him, too.

“Don't be ridiculous—” He broke off. “I couldn't ever—”

The band was still on break. The bar grew ominously quiet. Phillip's heart slammed against his chest.