Death, Taxes, and Silver Spurs Read online

  Brazos had clearly taken pains to ensure the general public had no idea that his real name was Winthrop. As an IRS employee, I was privy to this bit of secret information. The tax records showed that Brazos Rivers was an assumed name for a business operated by Winthrop Merriweather VII. He’d filed for an employer identification number to be assigned to his professional alias, Brazos Rivers, so that he wouldn’t have to use his real name and personal Social Security number for business purposes. Standard procedure for individuals running a business.

  Truth be told, it was titillating to know I had an inside scoop on the star that few others had. Brazos had also been quiet about his childhood and vocal training, evading reporters’ nosy questions, leaving his background a mystery. He’d popped onto the country music scene several years ago as if materializing out of nowhere.

  “Who cares what his real name is,” I replied to Nick. After all, a rose by any other name … right? “He’s incredibly talented.”

  The fact that Nick responded with only a draw on his beer told me he didn’t agree. I was nothing if not stubborn, though. I’d make Nick see the light.

  “People magazine called Brazos a modern-day poet.” They’d also named him the sexiest man alive last year. But no sense mentioning that, right? Besides, Nick was damn sexy himself. I mean, if I had to choose between the two … I’d take them both. Maybe even at the same time. Hee-hee!

  “Brazos Rivers a poet?” Nick raised a dark, skeptical brow. “‘Baby, if you’re willing, let’s do some horizontal drilling?’ You call that poetry?”

  “Not that particular song,” I said in my defense, fishing among the nachos for one with extra guacamole. “I was referring to the one that goes ‘you left without saying good-bye, your love was an illusion, your love was a lie, it’s enough to make a cowboy cry.’”

  “It’s enough to make a cowboy puke.” Nick removed his hat and pretended to urp into it before placing it back on his head.

  Nick was entitled to his opinion, but if he wanted this debate to end he should’ve kept his thoughts to himself. After all, I kept my mouth shut when he extolled the virtues of the Dallas Cowboys, several of whom had landed themselves in jail in recent years for one offense or another.

  “All three of Brazos Rivers’s albums have gone platinum,” I pointed out. Can’t argue with a fact like that, right? “He’s a huge crossover star. Like Taylor Swift.”

  “There’s nothing swift about Brazos Rivers. The guy’s an overrated, oversexed man-whore who can play a little guitar, that’s all.”

  I bristled at Nick’s comment. Okay, so Brazos Rivers was rumored to have a girl or two in every port, maybe even three or four. Who could blame him? He was young, hot, and single. He’d also been a centerfold in Stud Farm, a short-lived publication intended to compete with Playgirl. The spread showed the star floating in a river on an inner tube wearing nothing but his trademark leather boots and silver spurs, his straw cowboy hat covering his crotch, a naughty grin on his oh-so-kissable lips.

  While the other men featured in the magazine had been shown full frontal, Brazos offered only his waxed chest, his six-pack abs, and some upper thigh. When female stars posed for boudoir photos but didn’t want to do full nudity, they’d at least show their fans some side boob. Too bad Brazos hadn’t followed suit, done a profile pic, maybe reveal a little side ball.

  Despite the fact that the photo spread had left me wanting, I had a dog-eared copy of the magazine hidden in my purse right now. But who could blame me? Brazos had sex appeal out the wazoo.

  Besides, Nick saying that Brazos wasn’t swift was just plain wrong. The guy was a marketing genius. He and his music were featured in a commercial for a pickup truck. He endorsed everything from electric razors to toothpaste. He’d launched his own line of guitars and barbecue grills, even a men’s fragrance called Whitewater. The guy was drenched in the sweet smell of success.

  But no sense arguing with Nick. I knew I was right even if he didn’t. I sipped my margarita, said nothing, and pitied his ignorance.

  Nick seemed to realize he’d taken things too far and reached a hand across the table, chucking me gently and affectionately on the chin. “Sorry. I shouldn’t poke fun at the guy. After all, you never put down Carrie Underwood.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You have a crush on Carrie Underwood?”

  “Oops.” Nick offered an expression that was half grin, half cringe. (A gringe?) “Did I forget to tell you about that?”

  chapter three

  Red Lace and a Washtub

  Nick and I showed our tickets to the security guard at the entrance to the floor seats and made our way to the front row. Our little disagreement at the restaurant was forgotten now, all of it, even the part where Nick called Brazos overrated and admitted to being hopelessly in love with Carrie Underwood. I wondered if it was too late to phone in to American Idol and rescind the vote I’d cast for her.

  Okay, maybe the argument wasn’t entirely forgotten.

  The warm-up band was an up-and-coming local group who’d gotten their start playing Johnnie High’s Country Music Revue in the nearby city of Arlington. They weren’t bad, but they were no Brazos Rivers and the Boys of the Bayou.

  When they left the stage, it felt as if someone had sucked the bones and organs out of my body and replaced them with one hundred percent pure helium. In minutes—mere minutes!—Brazos Rivers would be standing on the stage right in front of me.

  The road crew brought out three guitars and positioned them in stands only a dozen feet away. The crowd, which was a least three-quarters women, began to murmur in anticipation as additional lights on tall stands were wheeled onto the stage. The Jumbo Tron screens were turned on, the image showing a dark floor. The lights dimmed, signaling the crowd that the show was ready to start.

  A high-pitched sound somewhere between a squeal and a roar (a squoar?) rose from the crowd as the Boys of the Bayou strutted out onto the stage, waving their cowboy hats over their heads. All four of the Boys were shirtless, with suede leather chaps and six-pack abs, which, if you did the math, adds up to one orgasm-inspiring view.

  My eardrums vibrated with a high-pitched shriek I didn’t realize was coming from my mouth until Nick looked my way and chuckled. He might not be a fan of Brazos and the Boys, but at least he was being a good sport about things now.

  When the crowd calmed a bit, an image popped up on the oversized screens, a black boot with silver spurs, the heel tapping out a slow rhythm, the spurs jangling with each tap. The crowd roared again, even louder this time if such a thing were possible.

  That boot belongs to Brazos.

  The tapping grew faster and harder, faster and harder, until it became an outright stomp. The boot suddenly disappeared and the camera panned up, showing a smiling Brazos running toward it. He emerged from between two towering amplifiers, his hat held high in his hand. He ran toward the front of the stage—toward me!—stopping just three feet back from the edge where I stood at my seat, trying not to self-combust from the heat of my lust.

  At twenty-two years old Brazos was my junior by half a decade, but that didn’t stop me from fantasizing about his young, fresh flesh. Besides, these young stars grow up fast, right? Men had no qualms about marrying women half their age. It was only fair for women to do the same. I’d happily rob any cradle containing Brazos Rivers.

  The blond-haired, blue-eyed superstar looked out at the audience, waved his cowboy hat, and hollered his signature greeting. “Hey howdy, y’all!”

  “Hey howdy, Brazos!” we all yelled back.

  Brazos wore an unbuttoned plaid shirt with the sleeves ripped off, revealing his waxed chest, perfect pecs, and the Lone Star flag tattooed on his firm bicep. Like the river he was named after, he had the arms of a god.

  My hands flew into the air as if by their own accord, and I found myself jumping up and down and screaming. Sheesh. What a fan girl, huh?

  Without further ado, Brazos jammed his hat onto his head, stepped back, and grabbed a
guitar. He and the Boys launched into their first song, which just happened to be “Horizontal Drilling.”

  Heck, yeah! I was willing!

  The crowd whooped it up, the excitement infectious. When I caught Nick singing along halfway through, I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow and pointed a finger at his face.

  Busted.

  He smiled and raised his palms in surrender.

  While the Boys of the Bayou sang backup and performed choreographed dance maneuvers behind him, Brazos went on to sing his hits “Roughnecks and Rednecks,” “Let’s Get Rowdy Now,” and a romantic ballad called “Riverbank Blues.” Nick draped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close during that one, rubbing a warm thumb over my shoulder. Eat your heart out, Carrie Underwood.

  When the song was over, Brazos put a hand over his eyes to shade them from the spotlights and called out to the audience, “Who wants to get down and dirty?”

  We knew our line and shouted it in response. “We do!”

  “All righty, then!” he called. “Time to bring out the washtub!”

  Two girls in tight blue jeans and skimpy halter tops sauntered onto the stage, carrying a large metal tub and an old-fashioned washboard. Brazos reached behind a speaker and pulled out a lasso, twirling the thing over his head for a moment before stretching the rope between the towers of amplifiers and tying it to handles on the sides, improvising a clothesline.

  Brazos and the band launched into song now, singing about wanting to get down and dirty, fast and filthy, lusty and dusty. Okay, maybe I could see where Nick got the oversexed man-whore thing. But that wasn’t going to stop me from worshipping the ground Brazos walked on.

  As Brazos sang, a blitzkrieg of bras and panties bombarded the stage, thrown from nearly every row in the place, some fluttering down from the balcony. The crowd tossed the undergarments forward until they landed on the stage, where the Boys rounded them up and filled the washtub.

  A purple bra landed on Nick’s head. Holy guacamole! The cups looked big enough to shelter two people in the event of a tornado. My 32As were no match for the mammoth mammary glands that bra had housed.

  Nick raised a brow. “That’s more woman than I can handle!” he called over the music. A lie, probably, but one intended to let me know I was all the woman he needed even though I had the tiny breasts of a chubby adolescent boy. Nick took the bra from my hand, balled it up, and threw it football style onto the stage where it sailed over Brazos’s head and was snatched out of the air by one of his backup singers.

  Brazos let his guitar hang from its strap and clapped his hands over his head. The audience followed suit. His fingers free now, he headed over to the full washtub, plucked a pair of silky black panties from the top, and held them up with a sexy grin. One of the girls on stage handed him a clothespin and he pinned the panties to the clothesline. In minutes, the clothesline filled with black bras, pink bras, white bras, and strapless bras, in every size from 32A to 44DD. Panties, too. Polka-dot panties, striped panties, thong panties, crotchless panties.

  All Brazos needed now was my panties.

  Caught up in the excitement, I wriggled my red lace panties down over my hips and pulled my feet out of my boots to get them off. I might not have much up front, but thanks to regular squats at the gym I had a tight little rear. I wadded up my panties, pulled my arm back, and threw as hard as I could. The undies flew through the air, unfurling in an arc as they sailed toward the magnificence that was Brazos Rivers. Was it my imagination, or had Brazos cut a glance my way? I couldn’t be certain.

  Nick looked my way, too, appearing annoyed at first, but when he glanced down and realized I now wore nothing under my dress he understood the situation had its advantages. He gave me his own sexy grin.

  Onstage, Brazos continued to hang the undergarments, laughing into his mic when he reached into the tub and discovered a pair of white men’s boxers printed with red hearts. He held the boxers up for all to see, then hung the undies on the line next to a pair of ruffled pink panties.

  When the tub was empty, he launched back into song, strutting up to the front of the stage with his guitar, his chest glistening with sweat now. What I wouldn’t give to work up a sweat with him …

  The concert continued until, after three encores and a standing ovation, the lights came up and the crowd began to stream out of the center. Nick and I stepped into the hallway and headed to the backstage area, sticking close to the wall since we were going against the flow. At first I felt a little naughty walking around in public without undies, but the titillating feeling waned when I realized half the women in the hallway were bare-assed or bare-breasted under their clothes, too.

  When Nick and I finally managed to reach the corridor leading to the dressing rooms, the crowd had thinned out. Five security guards with Brazos Rivers concert tees stretched tight over their massive chests stood shoulder to shoulder, a wall of muscle blocking the entryway. Three twentyish girls with long hair, tight jeans, and stilettos worked a guard with sleeve tattoos and a shaved head, begging him to let them backstage.

  “Come on!” one of the girls pleaded. “Be cool.”

  The guard shook his bald head.

  The girl leaned in, poking out her chest suggestively and putting a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “We’ll make it worth your while.” She winked and gave him a coy smile. “If you know what I mean.”

  Oh, we all knew what she meant, all right.

  He brushed her hand off him. “Not interested.”

  Gotta say, I might not think much of his skinhead look but I admired his personal ethics.

  Insulted but undaunted, the girl reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet, and retrieved a hundred-dollar bill. “Does this change your mind?”

  The guard’s lip twitched. “Not in the least.”

  The girl shoved the money back into her purse and glared at the man now. “Can I at least get my bra back? I paid fifty dollars for it at Victoria’s Secret.”

  “No,” baldie said. “Get lost.”

  Huffing in frustration, the girl turned and stormed away, her friends following behind her, their heels click-clacking on the tile floor.

  I almost felt sorry for the girl. Who wouldn’t want to meet Brazos Rivers face-to-face? As federal agents, Nick and I would have no trouble getting backstage. I couldn’t wait to meet my favorite star! The two of us whipped out our badges and showed them to the bearded bouncer in front of us.

  “We’re with the IRS,” I told him. “We need to see Mr. Rivers.”

  The guard crossed his ham-hock arms over his gorilla chest, glanced at my badge, and snorted. “Where’d you get that thing? A box of Cracker Jacks?”

  Nick and I exchanged glances. Neither of us had faced a situation like this before. Our badges normally worked like a key to the city, granting us entrance into virtually any venue. People tended to fear the IRS and would rather cooperate than risk our wrath.

  I reached into my purse and pulled out my driver’s license. “See?” I said. “The name on my license matches my badge.”

  I held my license out to the man but he didn’t even look at it. He merely lifted a shoulder. “That proves nothing.”

  I pulled out one of my business cards and held it up in front of his eyes. “How about this?”

  Again he lifted the shoulder. “You coulda ordered those cards online.”

  Nick and I exchanged another glance. I knew exactly what he was thinking, because I was thinking the same thing. We could take out our guns and force the men to let us back to the dressing room. But our weapons were intended to be used sparingly and defensively. Too many risks involved otherwise. No way could we justify the use of force in this situation.

  “Look,” Nick said, an edge to his voice as he took a step closer. “We’re members of federal law enforcement. You’re obstructing justice here.”

  “You want to see Rivers?” The guy narrowed his eyes at Nick, made a fist, and cracked his knuckles. “Come back with a real cop.”


  chapter four

  A Dam in the River

  Fuming, Nick stepped to the side, pulling his cell phone from his pocket to summon a uniformed U.S. Marshal to the scene. Meanwhile, I stared the guard down, fighting the urge to put my knee in his nuts. Real cop. Grrr. We were real cops, even if nobody else seemed to get that. Then again, Nick and I were dressed no different from the other concertgoers. Perhaps we would’ve been more convincing in our ballistic vests and raid jackets.

  A commotion down the hall behind the guards drew my attention past them. Three roadies came in a back entrance and headed to the main dressing room door. One raised a meaty fist and knocked. Six raps to the tune of “Baby, if you’re willin’.”

  The door swung open.

  “The bus is ready,” the roadie called into the room.

  A murmur of voices drifted into the hall. Did one of those voices belong to Brazos?

  “Beat it,” the bouncer said, stepping toward me. Though he didn’t touch me he came within inches. Obviously, he expected me to retreat. Just as obviously, he hadn’t met Special Agent Tara Holloway before. I grew up with two big brothers and didn’t scare easily.

  I stepped toward the man, closing the space to mere millimeters. I looked up into his flaring nostrils. “Go tell Brazos we’re here. He needs to talk to us. For his own good.”

  He snorted hot breath down at me. “Not gonna happen.”

  The phone call completed, Nick rejoined us. “A U.S. Marshal is on his way.”

  The guard snorted. “He better get here quick, ’cause we ain’t waiting.”

  Behind the guard, a stream of people began to exit the dressing room.

  The girls in the halter tops.

  The Boys of the Bayou.

  And last, but certainly not least, Brazos Rivers himself, in all his gorgeous glory.

  A zing electrified my nether regions and his name ejected from my mouth like a bullet from a gun. “Brazos!”

  Brazos turned his head my way. His eyes, as blue and sparkling as a Texas stream in summer, locked on mine.