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  “Who the hell are you?”

  Before Rodney could speak, Rhonda interrupted. “He’s the lead singer for Breeze. He rescued Dee.”

  “I don’t care if you’re the president,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the door. “Get out of my daughter’s room.”

  “I need to see her,” Rodney insisted. “Make sure she’s all right.”

  “People like you are the reason she’s here in the first place,” the father said. “Waving your damn Confederate flag around like it’s the 1860s. We should’ve hired our own band.”

  “Stop it!”

  Everyone fell silent and stared at the figure in the bed.

  “Can’t everybody get along?” Dee cried, tears running down her bruised cheek.

  “Now, look what you’ve done,” the other man grumbled at him.

  Rodney kept his distance, hoping the guy would eventually calm down enough to let him spend some time with his daughter.

  “Jeremy, please.” Dee’s mother gripped his arm and rubbed it. “Everyone’s a little tense.”

  “I’m sorry, Adele. I just can’t stand seeing my baby this way.” Jeremy squeezed and kissed Dee’s hands. “We should have talked her out of going to the rally.”

  “It’ll be the last one, for all of us,” the woman replied.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Jeremy told his daughter.

  Rhonda approached the bed next. “Bitch, you were fierce! I was so damn proud.”

  Dee laughed then winced. “Don’t say anything funny for at least a month, okay?”

  Eventually, they let Rodney talk to her. He placed one of her hands in his and stroked it.

  “Feeling any better?” It was a dumb question, but he couldn’t think of anything else. For some reason, she made him feel more like an awkward schoolboy than a famous rock star.

  She blinked at him. “Rodney Walker? Is it really you? I thought I was dreaming earlier.”

  “It’s no dream. I had to make sure you’d be okay.”

  “Thanks. Um, could I get your autograph?”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I think that can be arranged, as long as I get your phone number in return.”

  Dee smiled and winced again. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I need to see you again.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Jeremy growled.

  Adele pulled him aside and whispered in his ear, but her words were loud enough for Rodney to hear. “Look at him. I bet they could make some pretty grandbabies together.”

  “Ma!” Dee protested.

  Jeremy eyed him up and down. “He’s probably loaded, too. I suppose she could do worse.”

  Rodney had stopped listening. He was too busy picturing the meaning missing from his life—a child playing on his lawn.

  But how would having a part-black wife fit the Dixie image of his band? It wouldn’t.

  Rhonda pulled paper and pen from one of her many pockets and handed it to him so he could write the autograph he’d promised.

  I wish we’d met under better circumstances.

  Rodney Walker

  When he gave it to Dee, she read it and thanked him with a smile so sweet he had half a mind to kiss her in front of everyone. Next, Rhonda scribbled down Dee’s phone number and address, and handed it to him. It seemed to burn his hand as he enfolded it in his grip.

  He should throw it away when he walked out of here. Rush home to Jack, his band, his life. She wouldn’t be the first woman he never bothered to call. Instead, he tucked the slip of paper into his wallet.

  Because he would call, no matter what it cost him.

  Chapter Three

  Wheeling, WV

  “Baby, stop checking that phone. He’s not going to call,” Ma said as she brought Dee her breakfast on a tray. “Now, move your laptop so I can feed you.”

  Dee moved it from her lap to the coffee table, letting it recharge off the generator running outside. Trying to work off the grid at her parents’ place while she recuperated hadn’t been easy.

  After the awful day at the rally, though, it was nice to be taken care of. Last winter, when she’d gotten really run down from work and the flu, coming here would have been better than languishing in her apartment.

  She should have known the rally would turn violent. Racial tension was as bad today as it had been in the 1960s. Maybe worse.

  Luckily, the knife hadn’t pierced any internal organs. She had frequent nightmares, reliving its hot stab all over again. What if she’d been permanently disabled and forced to quit working? Who would take care of her parents then? Or her, for that matter? Now that she’d indulged her wild streak, she could settle back down.

  It felt strange to wear sweatpants and a T-shirt all day. Best of all, no shoes! It reminded her of running around here barefoot through her entire childhood.

  “You know what?” Dee asked as she buttered a homemade blueberry muffin. “I’m glad he hasn’t called. My injury has put me so far behind at work I really won’t have time for a man.”

  Especially a white one who waved the Confederate flag around. She’d been trying to make junior partner for a couple of years. They sure wouldn’t give it to her if she dated someone like him. It would sabotage the reputation of the whole firm, sending the wrong message to potential clients with civil rights claims. They’d take their business elsewhere.

  So why had she fantasized about him? His long, golden hair tickling her bare breasts as it brushed across them. His broad shoulders, firm and muscular as she dug her nails into them. While he thrust into her, slow and…

  Okay, it helped take away the pain, but her injuries had mostly healed. Time to drop the fantasies and return to work. In fact, she planned on driving back to her apartment tomorrow.

  Every woman needed a fangirl moment in her life, and she’d had hers when he rescued her and gave her his autograph. She’d definitely never forget him. His sunny scent. The warm, solid feel of his body. His gentle touch.

  “Well, if you don’t make time for a man eventually, you’ll be mighty lonely when you retire.” Ma set her apple juice on the table. “But you’re probably right about him. Loving a rock star doesn’t sound easy, and that’s on top of dating outside your race.”

  “You did it,” Dee pointed out.

  As always, a smile played across her mother’s lips when talking about Jeremy. “Our skin may be different shades, but we’ve always been on the same side racially.”

  “Got more gas for the generator,” he declared as he swept into the front door and wiped his shoes on the small rug there. “I’m pulling the plug on that crap-top soon, though. Damn noise gives me a headache.”

  Dee giggled. “It’s called a laptop, Dad, and I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  Ma touched her shoulder. “You don’t have to leave so soon, do you?”

  “Thanks to you guys, I’ve mostly healed, but I’ve got to get back to my life.”

  So why wasn’t she looking forward to it?

  * * *

  “I hate flying,” Rodney complained as he stood beside the small charter plane in Tupelo, Mississippi, bound for Memphis.

  “Yeah, you say that every time,” Jack said as he tossed his overnight bag into the hold. “Now, get your ass onto the plane.”

  Jack wore his usual travel outfit—light-colored cotton shirt, stonewashed jeans, and beige hat. Next to Rodney’s dark—usually black—jeans, hat, and T-shirts, people could easily tell them apart.

  He climbed the stairs behind his brother. “Why don’t we use the bus more often? It’s a lot more comfortable and lets us enjoy the places we visit.”

  “We’ll have time to sightsee when we’re retired.” Jack glared at him over his shoulder. “On a bus, we’d only be able to hit half the tour stops.”

  Would playing in twice the cities really make them doubly famous, or twice as tired? Would he ever have time to fish again? He didn’t want to wait until retirement; he wanted to live now.
r />   Watching the blood seep out of that pretty protester had reminded him how precious life was. What if his ended today? He wanted a woman and children to come home to. Even though his brother often acted immature, he was not Rodney’s child.

  He tucked his hair behind his ear. “But think of all the musicians who perished in plane crashes. Buddy Holly, Patsy Cline… I don’t like the odds.”

  “Life is a gamble,” his brother said as they took their seats along with the rest of the band.

  The others laughed and carried on, filling the small space with voices. Soon, the cards would come out for some rounds of poker. So would the drugs. They probably had more stashed on board than a plane from South America.

  Fame was a drug itself, shooting them higher with each performance. So why did Rodney feel as if he was descending while they ascended? Was he the only one who missed playing the local gigs? Living only for the music instead of what it could buy?

  Jack always sat by the window because he loved the view up high. Rodney could never stand to look at the ground so far below. Especially when it tilted at crazy angles on ascent and descent.

  As soon as they took off, Linda twisted the cap off a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels and served drinks. She was backup singer, roadie, and flight attendant all rolled into one. Her hardest job was probably being Jack’s wife, but she never complained.

  “You don’t have to wait on us,” Rodney told her.

  “I don’t mind,” she said, smoothing a hand over her no-nonsense dark pageboy.

  Jack sipped his drink and picked up the newspaper lying on the console. “Now that we have a little free time, we can have a discussion.”

  “A discussion?”

  Why did his little brother have to act so controlling, making him feel like an errant child? He took a big swallow of Jack, so he could better deal with…Jack.

  The picture on the front page of the paper showed him at the rally carrying Dee, bloody and injured, in his arms. He had a streak of blood on his cheek, and he grimaced as if he felt her pain. Well, it was a damn good picture, really. Something you might find in one of those coffee table magazines that had been operating for a hundred years.

  It would have been great promotion for the band—if it hadn’t sent the wrong message. A thousand words couldn’t have made it clearer the sons of Dixie weren’t as Southern as they let on.

  “Save your breath,” he muttered. “I already know what you’re going to say.”

  “Good.” Jack slid a pen out of his shirt pocket. “Then help me write our statement.”

  “What statement? It’s history. We’ve already done our first tour stop, and nobody cares.”

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. The press had asked some questions, and social media had been rife with speculation. Did Rodney Walker have an African-American girlfriend? Was the Southern thing just an act to get fans? Were they going to become a rap group? Social media could be such a royal pain in the ass, but they had to take it seriously.

  Jack drained his plastic cup. “Look, you screwed up. Don’t expect me to fix it by myself.”

  “Didn’t I tell you we shouldn’t have done the rally in the first place?”

  Which reminded him, he needed to keep Jack more reined in, but he was a musician, not a fighter. And he’d been tired since the last concert. Bickering wouldn’t give his voice the rest it needed.

  Keeping the peace got harder each day because his brother took advantage of everything he could. The band’s success had turned him into a greedy monster.

  “It could have worked in our favor if you hadn’t messed up,” Jack snapped.

  Fine.” Rodney blew out a sigh. “We’ll upload some videos of us eating grits at a pig roast. Real Southern stuff.”

  “Have you forgotten Daddy’s dying wish?”

  As if he could ever forget that night by his bedside, when the cancer finally took him. He hadn’t asked them to be the best damn band out of Georgia and make lots of money. No, he’d made them promise to honor their Southern heritage above all else. No matter where fame led them.

  Another beside popped into his mind. Dee’s. Why hadn’t he called to see how she was doing? Okay, he was Southern. Part of that meant opening the door for ladies and helping them when they needed it. Ignoring her pain to protect his precious image dug into his gut like an angry crawfish.

  When this contraption landed—if it landed—the first thing he planned to do was call her. After all, she was a fan, too.

  * * *

  On Monday morning, Dee stepped into her firm’s office. She wiped her brow. Her hip still felt as if someone had stapled it, and carrying a purse and briefcase had been a little too taxing. At least she’d been smart enough not to wear high heels.

  “There she is!” Barry, one of the firm’s senior partners and her assigned boss, declared with a big smile on his face.

  As usual, he wore one of his custom-made suits on his tall frame with ease. With his full beard and old-school vibe, he could easily be an R&B artist from the seventies instead of a founder of a law firm.

  “Girl, you’re a hero around here,” the receptionist said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not a hundred percent yet,” Dee admitted, “but getting there.”

  “Come to my office, and we’ll catch up,” Barry said, carrying her briefcase for her.

  “It’s good to be back,” she said after easing herself into one of the guest chairs. “I can’t wait to dig in.”

  He grabbed a newspaper off the stack of files on his desk and plopped it down in front of her. “I assume you’ve seen this?”

  Her belly twitched at the big photo of Rodney carrying her injured body at the rally. She loved it. It looked so romantic. In fact, she’d cut it out and taped it to her bedroom wall.

  “Yes, I’ve…uh…seen it.”

  “You made quite a splash at the rally.”

  Dee’s belly twitched harder when the perennial smile dimmed on Barry’s face. “I-I didn’t realize events would take the turn they did.”

  “Rallies are dangerous,” he said, giving her a level stare. “If you’d asked me about it ahead of time, I would have advised you not to go.”

  “I’m sorry, Barry. I should have checked with you first, and don’t worry. One was more than enough for me.”

  “Glad to hear it. We want to keep you in one piece.” He picked up the paper. “Turns out your temporary fame has given us a little publicity.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “It appears as though you were ready to die for the cause and, somehow, inspired the Confederate ringleader to save you.”

  “It does look pretty dramatic,” she admitted. And sexy, but she wasn’t about to share that with her boss.

  “Hell, you’re a black Joan of Arc.”

  They both chuckled as Barry folded the paper. “You don’t have a personal relationship with that man, do you?”

  “What? No! I didn’t even know him.” She started to say she didn’t listen to his music, but she didn’t want to lie.

  “Good, because that would be a different matter altogether.” He tossed the paper to the table behind him, as if dismissing the issue. “Our firm thrives on PR. As par—employees, we have a certain image to uphold.”

  Had he been about to say partner? The idea practically made her salivate down the front of her beige silk business blouse. She’d be able to take care of her parents in their golden years. Get them some electricity and a car, for God’s sake.

  She got the message. The firm’s partners were married with families and lived perfect lives. They had the right friends and attended the right charity events. None of them dated racists.

  For the first time since the rally, she was glad Rodney hadn’t called. He probably had his image to uphold, too.

  So, why had they met at all? Ma said everything happened for a reason. For example, if her stepfather hadn’t made her life miserable, she never would have le
ft home and stumbled over Jeremy playing guitar on the sidewalk.

  “Let’s dig in,” Barry said, sliding the first folder off the stack.

  She pulled a pen and a legal pad from her briefcase. “Let’s.”

  Hopefully, being busy would let her forget a certain white man.

  They’d gotten through only two case files when her cell phone rang. Why now?

  “I have to take this,” she said, pulling the phone from her purse. “It might be the doctor’s office.”

  Barry waved a hand. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

  “Dee?”

  The Southern accent sent hot syrup coursing through her body. It didn’t sound like the doctor…

  “Hey, girl. It’s Rodney.”

  Her hands went numb. Had he known they’d been discussing him?

  “I-I’ll just be a minute,” she told Barry before slipping out of the room.

  “Rodney Walker of Breeze?”

  He laughed, the sound deep and heartfelt. “How many Rodneys do you know?”

  Her stomach did somersaults as she slipped into an empty meeting room. The last thing she needed was a well-wisher to welcome her back in the middle of the conversation. Or, worse, figure out who she was talking to and tell her boss.

  “Only you. I didn’t think you’d call.”

  She winced as soon as she said it. It made her sound like a desperate fan. Wind and motorized sounds filled the background.

  “Are you at an airport?” she guessed.

  “Yeah, just flew into Memphis.” The sound of his indrawn breath filled her ear, making her feel as if he stood right next to her. “Dee, I’m sorry it took me so long to call. I started to so many times. I barely have time to sleep with all the touring.”

  She had a feeling there was more to it than that but didn’t want to pry. Instead, she had to fight the sweet chills racing to her toes before she could speak.

  “After what you’ve already done for me, you don’t owe me anything.”

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Not fully healed but getting there. I returned to work today.”

  And Barry was waiting for her to end the call so they could go through the rest of her caseload. Keeping the busy man waiting would not help her make partner.