Free Love, Me by Tiffany White Page A

patterns.”
    â€œSo which do you get first, the lyrics or the melody?”
    â€œWhy are you so curious about the way I write songs? No one else has ever asked me all these questions. I just show them the song once I’ve written it.”
    â€œI told you. I want a special song. I want to have ‘input’.”
    â€œI don’t cowrite.” He knew his words were cold, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t like allowing anyone access to his thoughts, his feelings.
    â€œI don’t want to cowrite the song with you. I’m not a writer.”
    â€œThen I don’t get it,” he said, sounding puzzled as they turned off the highway into the parking lot of the Whiskey River honky-tonk. “What are you talking about when you say you want input?” He stopped the car, parked and turned to her, waiting for her answer.
    â€œBy input I mean I want you to get to know me, to know how I feel, who I am.”
    â€œThen let’s do it.” He opened the car door. The music from the honky-tonk spilled into the car. “Do you know how to do the reggae cowboy?”
    She shook her head no.
    â€œThe tush push?”
    â€œWhat!”
    â€œThe country two-step?” he finally said.
    â€œThat sounds like something I can handle.”
    â€œAnd here I was sure you’d go for the tush push. See, I’m getting to know you better already,” he said, with a wink, as they got out of the car.
    â€œWait a minute,” Chelsea said.
    â€œWhy? What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing. I just want you to show me the two-step before we go inside. I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of … Well, you know, in case anyone recognizes me.”
    â€œOkay,” he agreed, seeing that she really was nervous. He reached inside the car, hunted up a CD disc that had a song with eighty-five to ninety-five beats a minute, and inserted it in the player.
    â€œYou don’t really have to know the steps,” he explained, taking her into his arms. “Lots of people just improvise.” And then he proceeded to do just that because he hadn’t the faintest idea how to do the two-step.
    Before long, she caught on to that fact.
    When he stepped on her boot for about the sixth time, Chelsea socked him in the arm. “Dakota Law, you’re nothing but a fraud. Why, you don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout dancin’ no two-step. Admit it.”
    â€œI never said I did. I asked you if you did,” he said, unrepentant. “All I wanted to do was show you a good time on your birthday.”
    The CD player stopped, and they heard the band inside the honky-tonk rev up their version of “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.”
    â€œWe can leave if you want to,” Dakota offered.
    â€œNo, I want to go inside and watch the dancers,” Chelsea insisted.
    â€œThen let’s do it.” He reached into the back seat for his white Stetson and jammed it on his head.
    â€œI wish I had one of those to hide under,” Chelsea said wistfully as they entered the club and found themselves awash in a sea of denim, fringe, neon, and flashing lights.
    She turned toward the dance floor where a crowd of spectators swarmed around the wooden railing.
    â€œjust a sec,” Dakota said, steering her toward a small store set up inside the dance club.
    She looked puzzled until he instructed the clerk to hand over a black cowboy hat for her. “Now maybe we can be incognito,” he said, paying the clerk.
    When Dakota had finally elbowed them through the crowd to a good spot at the railing by the dance floor, he asked what she wanted to drink.
    â€œWell, since I’m in your backyard, I guess I’ll try a mint julep.” At the look of surprise on his face, Chelsea quipped, “Unless you’d rather I order my regular drink.”
    â€œYour regular drink…?”
    Not wanting to disappoint him, she played to her bad-girl image. “Yeah,