Torn (13 page)

Tyler pulled her close to him, enveloping her in a hug that spoke of his warmth and friendship. He really did have a good heart, she thought. Relaxing into the embrace, she closed her eyes, blinking away the sudden moisture. It wasn’t his fault she wanted that good heart for her own.

Chapter Eight

T
he Soggy Bottom Boys’ version of “In the Jailhouse Now” blared appropriately and loudly when Tyler pulled the heavy, black iron and mahogany door of the bar open. Placing a possessive hand at the small of Chelsea’s back, he followed her in. After their talk, she’d showered and changed clothes, and now, a forty-minute drive later, they were at
The Jailhouse.

She walked cautiously into the bar, her brown eyes narrowing as she shifted almost imperceptively closer to his side. At first Tyler thought it was to adjust to the darkness of the bar, the smoky interior. She brushed against him, and he noticed the stiffness of her posture, the way she cast measured looks at the people around them. He looked around the room as well, and then it hit him.

They were standing in a biker bar in Montana, filled to the brim with not just white people, but white bikers. Even he had heard in the news of the black man who’d stopped with at a rest area around 100 miles north of Black Creek, who’d been murdered by supremacists in front of his white wife and their young son.

In Los Angeles or New York City, his and Chelsea’s mixed-racial presence wouldn’t even cause so much as a blink. From Chelsea’s tense bearing, Tyler surmised, that same racial equality must not have made it to Black Creek.

Tyler nudged her midsection and pointed with his chin. Jaw dropping as her gaze followed his, she shook her head and laughed at herself. Looked like there was no need to worry. Julie Bishop was “dirty dancing” –– or the closest version one could do to “old timey” music –– with at least five of the local chapter of Star Riders. And there were a number of guys and gals from the movie set sharing pitchers with Star Riders, Hells Angels, Road Hogs, Ramblers, and other assorted bikers and biker-babes.

Julie tossed her dread-locked head back and caught their eye. Beaming, she danced her way over to the newcomers. “About time you guys showed up!” She nodded towards some of the clearly unconcerned crew. “We were gonna send out a search party!”

“Jules, does that guy you’re dancing with know you’re gay?” Tyler asked in an undertone, his brow furrowing. Last thing he needed was for one of these guys to think Julie was being a tease. He’d been there, done that with her once before, and that once had been enough.

His friend laughed. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “No worries, Ty. I’ll be getting it on with his wife later… See that gorgeous chickee over there? Not the blonde –– though she’s hot, too –– the one with the short brown hair?”

Tyler craned his neck, his right brow arching high when he spotted the woman in question. “Does
hubby
know this?”

“As if
you
should talk!” Julie’s laugh was loud and bawdy, and caused several men and woman to look over in their direction, in spite of the louder music. “But oh, yeah! He
knows
.” Swaying a bit on her stiletto heels, Julie turned a tipsy hand palm-up for a low-five.

Laughing through his teeth –– he was so going to chew her ass over that comment later! –– Tyler fived her, and then she roughly turned him and Chelsea around, giving them a shove toward the bar. “These two, Sam?” she hollered out.

The beefy, roughhewn bartender looked up. “Yes, sugar?”

“These two have all their drinks on me! They worked
hard
today!”

Hoots, whistles, and catcalls followed her exclamation, and Tyler felt the tips of his ears turning hot. He glanced down at Chelsea, who stared fixedly in front of her, her jaw rigid. Crap.
Nice going, Jules
.
Totally
going to chew her ass.

Julie pushed them towards the bar once more, then went back to the dance floor, slim hips bouncing in time to the beat as she slipped into the crowd.

Tyler bent his head down to whisper in Chelsea’s ear. “You okay?”

Chelsea rolled her eyes and nodded, which apparently seemed to be the cue for Elvis Presley’s rendition of “Jailhouse Rock” to fill their ears.

“I need a drink,” Tyler muttered under his breath, and she laughed.

“You’re not kidding. Line me up.”

~ * ~

Lounging with deceptive indifference in the dark mahogany booth, Tyler watched Chelsea as she and Mike –– one of the camera crew –– toasted each other with tequila shots. Her tongue flashed pink as she licked more rough salt from the back of her right hand, downed the amber Jose Cuervo Black as smooth as silk with her left, and chewed on a wedge of fresh lime. Even in the smoky haze that permeated the bar, he could still make out the black, slashing lines of his signature ––
With Love
, no less –– on the faded blue denim that hugged the curve of her ass.

Fresh from her self-imposed guilt trip, Chelsea had balked when he’d initially asked her to wear them, if she still had them, but relented when he’d brought Julie’s name into it. When she emerged from the bedroom, chin raised and dressed as though she’d decided that if she was to burn in hell, she would do it with panache, Tyler about shit a brick.

Black fishnets? Check. Black suede platform sandals that did truly sinfully delicious things to her legs? Check. Tight burgundy shirt tucked beneath a black suede belt that made the soft skin of her breasts glow? Yeah, she had that too.

Hair a riot of black curls, her brown eyes –– still shadowed by guilt –– smiled as she watched him scruff his jaw on the cream carpet. The only things missing were the joint and the motorcycle jacket, but then she neatly stepped around his still gaping form to pull the latter from the hall closet.

“There. Told you I’d kept it. And look, all legal now,” she’d stated. “More or less.”

His jaw closed with an audible click.

Tyler stood and swallowed the last of his drink, his cobalt gaze hot as he watched her. His autograph stood out like a brand. He wondered if it’d be corny of him to go up to her and offer to sign the other side, keep those juicy ass cheeks a matching set.

He took a step in Chelsea’s direction, only to find himself waylaid by a petite blonde who –– if they’d been in Hollywood –– could have been lumped into the “starlet” category. He frowned and attempted to gracefully side step the young woman, but she touched his arm, and his mother’s upbringing made him stop and look at her.

“Ty Benson! I just adore your movies… May I have your autograph?”

His eyes closed briefly as the corners of his mouth turned up in ironic amusement. Then he opened them and smiled at the blonde with full Ty Benson charm. “Thank you. And sure. Gotta pen?”

~ * ~

A few Jell-O and tequila shots and shared pitchers of Moose Drool later, Chelsea felt no pain. The only thing nibbling her insides was jealousy over the way a number of the women in the place were throwing themselves at Tyler. Really, it was despicable. Pathetic, really. But then he’d look over at her and wink and she’d laugh. A bit too long. A bit too loud… but she was drunk –– smashed would be a more accurate assessment –– and she didn’t care.

At least she had the satisfaction of knowing that he was
her
protector. Tyler established himself in that role not long after they’d taken a seat in a booth. The first man to hit on her had received such a scowl from Tyler that he’d gone back to his buddies to tell them not to bother with the “hottie” in the back cause her “old man” was with her.

All in all, she was having a great time. Kicking back, drinking beer, listening to music, playing pool… It brought back memories of her teenage years in the Village. Still, she wasn’t drunk enough to jump up onto the bar like Julie and her “date”, and some of her “date’s” friends and dance. Besides… she
lived
here. While she’d never actually met any of the local people present in the bar before, there was always the chance they’d meet again at the mercantile or gas station, or some other typical small-town gathering.

Chelsea closed her eyes and just listened to the music, let it roll over her like a soft massage.
Statesboro Blues
. There was something extremely satisfying about being in a bar, drunk, and chilling out to The Allman Brothers Band.

“Would you like to dance?”

Blinking, she opened her eyes to find Tyler holding out his hand. Glancing just beyond his shoulder, Chelsea noticed a young woman he must have turned down glaring daggers at her. She smirked, as smug as if she really was free to be his, and stood, slipping her hand within his warm grasp.

He led her out onto the semi-full floor and slipped his arms around her waist. She leaned into his chest, more for balance than anything else, and was just starting to relax when the music stopped. She pulled back, a corner of her mouth lifting. “That was quick,” she laughed.

“Yeah,” he agreed, stepping back, but keeping her hand in his. “I’ll go put some money into the juke––“

The jukebox whirred even as Tyler started to walk towards it and another CD started playing.

“Right on! Fucking
Willie
! That’s
my
song!”

Chelsea looked up amazed. It was Julie yelling and the drunk film director was pointing at her and Tyler. “Go on, dance! I put this one in for you two!”

It was a slow, jamming tune with an almost a hip-hop beat. An odd combination, but it worked, because it was Willie Nelson. In fact, it was one of Chelsea’s favorite songs. But as Tyler took her back into his arms, she looked over at Julie now jumping down from the bar. What had possessed the madwoman to play it?

She could tell that Tyler was unfamiliar with the lyrics, but she could feel the fission of surprise that pulsed through him when he started listening to the song. Then he relaxed, and held her tighter. Chelsea tensed for a moment, then closed her eyes and took a breath, letting go of more than just tension. Tonight, she wouldn’t fight it. As the lyrics suggested, she would dance, and have a good time… And deal with the morning when it got there.

Sighing, her head fell onto Tyler’s chest, and she pressed her face against the soft cotton of his maroon T-shirt. The very softness of the material was a delicious contradiction to the warm, hard planes the muscles under her cheek. Her arms tightened around his waist, and when he shifted his legs so that she could fit in between them, she didn’t hesitate.

Her arms slid up to his shoulder blades, her fingers reflexively massaging the taut muscles, and Tyler closed his eyes. Sighing, he bent low over her, until he was practically wrapped around her. Still, they managed to dance, their bodies undulating in forbidden passion, expressing their feelings for each other through the motion, in a way their voices never could.
Soon your dreams will be dreaming you, indeed
, Chelsea thought.

The final notes of the song faded, and another slow country song took its place. Chelsea and Tyler stood motionless on the dance floor; arms still around each other, staring into each other’s eyes. With infinite tenderness, the fingers of Tyler’s left hand stroked her cheek, and she leaned into the caress, her eyes closing.

“Chelsea…” Tyler’s voice was rough as he whispered her name, his eyes suspiciously bright when she raised her gaze to meet his.

“I–I need some air.” She quickly turned around and hurried over to the door, leaving him standing alone, his eyes on her exit.

Julie looked up to see Chelsea’s voluptuous figure slip through the door as someone else walked inside. She craned her neck to find Ty, and frowned when she saw him, still standing solo in the center of the dance floor. As though he felt her eyes on him, he turned his head to meet her gaze and graced her with the saddest, most pained smile she’d ever seen on her friend’s face. She felt his anguish so keenly that she had to look away.

Damn,
she thought as she braced herself and looked back. She was just in time to see Ty exit through the same door.
I knew I should have picked Wyoming
.

~ * ~

“Mrs. Benson?”

Chelsea paced a small, tight circle on the sidewalk outside of the bar. What was she doing? What kind of spell was she under? Or was it obsession? Was she just clinically insane over this man? Certifiable?

“Mrs. Benson?”

She pressed her fingertips to her temples and rubbed. It must be infatuation, right? That had to be it. It was the whole “Ty Benson” enchantment, fascination and lust for a movie star. Nothing else she could come up with remotely made sense. He couldn’t possibly have feelings for her… And she –– she was in love with her husband. Her husband who was a wonderful, warm, loving,
amazing
man, an incredible, absolutely fabulous dad… and her best friend in the world. So what the fuck was she doing jeopardizing that love by… trying to live a fantasy of her misspent youth? That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it?

“
Mrs. Benson?
”

Startled, Chelsea jumped, placing a trembling hand against her heart. “Jesus
Christ
!”

“I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s the third time I’ve called you.”

Chelsea turned her head and saw the young woman who had been glaring a death wish at her earlier when Tyler asked her to dance. She groaned. Now what?

“I just wanted to apologize.”

Seeing Chelsea stare at her blankly, the other woman shifted on her platforms, and fidgeted with the chain belt around her hip-hugger jeans. “I didn’t realize things were like
that
with you and your man…”

Chelsea’s eyes widened, and her left brow lifted. What was this woman talking about?

“I mean,” the younger woman continued, “I saw you guys dancing. I didn’t realize you were like,
true
soul mates, you know?” She sucked on a red lollipop and stared guilelessly at Chelsea. “I thought it was just a typical Hollywood thing… Like what you read about in the rags.” She paused, biting her lip, and then grew braver. “It’s just obvious how much in love you two are, and I’m sorry for trying to butt in before.”