Free Coming Undone by Susan Andersen Page B

starting.
    Because it was bound to be a whole lot easier getting back on professional footing with a mess of people around to dilute the effect of one-on-one time spent with P.J.

CHAPTER SIX
    Hyperlinked headline, NightTrainToNashville.net:
Priscilla Jayne Kicks Off Steal the Thunder Tour
    “W ELL , LOOK WHO’S HERE ,” said a familiar voice as P.J. strode onto the stage in the Portland venue later that afternoon. “Hey, little girl. Early as usual, I see.”
    She grinned at Hank Hartley, who stood a short distance away tuning his banjo, his fiddle carefully nestled in its open case at his feet. He gazed at her with warm hazel eyes from beneath the brim of his ever-present leather bush hat, a small return grin playing around his lips. “Sound check’s not for another twenty minutes, babe,” he informed her.
    “What can I say, H.H.? Promptness is a hard habit to break.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “But I don’t have to tell you that. You got here even earlier than me.”
    Laughing, he crossed the short distance still separating them and hauled her into his wiry arms. Strong as a bear at forty, he gave her a big hug that left her feet dangling off the floor and the neck of his banjo digging into her spine. She drew in his familiar scent of tobacco, aged leather headgear and wrist straps, and Drakkar Noir cologne. The top of her head bumped the underside of his hat and, reaching up to hold it in place with one hand, he set her gently back on her feet.
    “I’m sorry about your mom and all the shit with the press,” he said gently.
    “Aw, thanks, Hank.” She touched the little sandy-brown soul patch beneath his bottom lip, the single silky surface in a hundred-miles-of-bad-highway craggy face. “It’s been a…challenging few weeks.”
    “I bet.” Gently he hooked one of her curls behind her ear. But several strands snagged on fingertips callused from years of playing stringed instruments and pulled free again. With a whispered curse, he smoothed it back to join the rest. Then, looking beyond her, his eyes narrowed. “Who’s this?”
    She knew who she’d see before she turned. But she glanced over her shoulder anyway. Jared stood several feet away, hands in his pockets and his posture relaxed, observing them.
    Sighing, she turned back to Hank. “My watchdog,” she admitted and briefly explained Wild Wind’s burning desire to insure their investment.
    “The hell you say!” Easygoing eyes gone hard, he stepped around her and, pausing only long enough to lay down his banjo, strode toward Jared. “Listen, pal—”
    Alarmed, she sprinted after him. While Jared might be a full head taller and didn’t appear particularly worried, she’d once seen Hank flatten a man a good deal beefier than Mister Oh-so-nonchalant Hamilton would be even if he supersized his meals for the next ten years.
    Idiot that he was, Jared looked completely unruffled as he faced the irate musician—his only concession to the approaching threat to pull his hands free of his pockets. “You’re taking issue with the wrong man,” he said evenly as Hank rocked to a halt in front of him. “Take it up with Wild Wind. I’m just doing the job they hired me to do.”
    “Good for you.” Hank gave Jared a flat stare. “But she’s right where she’s supposed to be, isn’t she? So you can take a hike.”
    For a second Jared’s posture lost its easy slouch and a dangerous expression flared in his eyes. Then he shrugged and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the left wing.
    P.J. watched him go, telling herself she didn’t feel disappointed. Hell, no—that would be just plain ridiculous. She saluted Hank for routing him—she should have thought of that whole I’m-here-so-now-you-can-go-away deal herself. As for the big hollow space in her stomach, she just wished she’d grabbed something to eat was all. The sound check could take quite a while depending on how good the acoustics were and how well the new backup band