Rock-n-Roll Cowboy: Sons of Country, #1

By Autumn Piper

Never judge a rock band by its cover song.

A cowboy leading a rock band? Logan gets an earful from his dad every time he leaves the house to perform. His rock persona destroys his ranching cred with the old-timers, and sticking to the cowboy life instead of running off to Hollywood cost him his girlfriend. Yet, he dreams of success in both worlds, and he's determined to find a way.

Melody agrees to run a publicity campaign for a local rock band, fully immune to the sexy lead singer's magnetism—she had childhood experience with a rocker's absences. Still, Logan is charming, and vulnerable. And persistent…

Logan can tell Melody's PR plan is his passport to popularity. He has to keep his hands off her, though, or he just might blow his one shot at making it big.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Autumn Piper
• Release date: Feb 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781540136039

Autumn Piper

Born and raised in itty-bitty Rifle, Colorado, Autumn Piper studiously avoided trouble…but is now inclined toward it, particularly in her novels. She thinks the best things in life are funny, and the runners-up, romantic. An admitted carb addict, Autumn writes, edits, and cares for her two grown kids, a cat, a box turtle with a huge personality, one husband and many supersize houseplants, and does the cooking and cleaning when forced to.

Book preview

Never judge a rock band by its cover song.

A cowboy leading a rock band? Logan gets an earful from his dad every time he leaves the house to perform. His rock persona destroys his ranching cred with the old-timers, and sticking to the cowboy life instead of running off to Hollywood cost him his girlfriend. Yet, he dreams of success in both worlds, and he’s determined to find a way.

Melody agrees to run a publicity campaign for a local rock band, fully immune to the sexy lead singer’s magnetism—she had childhood experience with a rocker’s absences. Still, Logan is charming, and vulnerable. And persistent...

Logan can tell Melody’s PR plan is his passport to popularity. He has to keep his hands off her, though, or he just might blow his one shot at making it big.

Chapter One

Zombie apocalypse, if you’re coming, please do it now .

Beam me up, Scotty.

Melody Atwell didn’t care how she got away from the Year’s Worst Blind Date, just so it ended. Next time she saw her bestie’s boyfriend, she’d give him an earful.

Hunter—the Worst Date Ever—continued holding her leg captive between his under the table, while droning on about his ex.

She wracked her brain, trying to plan her quickest escape.

Neither zombie fever nor Scotty seemed to hear her telepathic pleas for help, so she was on her own.

She stood abruptly, jerking her leg free and probably scraping the suede from her favorite boot in the process. I’ve gotta go. To the ladies’ room. Without waiting for a reply or acknowledgement from him, she snatched up her purse and fled.

Unfortunately, the ladies’ room would be a dead end, and she’d have to come out eventually. At least it should be mostly empty right now. The band played onstage, a song from the Top 40 everybody else in the place was dancing to. Well, not everybody, but almost.

Did this joint have a back door? The table Hunter still sat at had a clear view of the front door, so he’d see her if she went out that way.

Instead of heading past the bar toward the restrooms, she wound her way toward a back corner, looking for an exit.

Probably she should feel bad for wanting to ditch him, but geez. A girl had her limits. She’d claimed a headache when they left the restaurant, hoping he’d take her home, but he’d insisted they go to this bar, while he kept telling his stories of women who’d loved him (he claimed) and left him (she believed). When she’d tried to shut him up by dancing, he’d been all hands. And other parts...he’d practically dry-humped her on the dance floor in front of God and everybody.

Yuck.

No feeling quite as creepy as being touched when you didn’t want to be.

Ahh, there. Salvation. An Exit sign on a plain white door.

Didn’t look like any alarms were attached, just the usual sign saying the door must remain unlocked during business hours. Emergency escape. And if a creepy, grabby stranger wasn’t an emergency, what was?

She turned the knob and, yes, the bar adhered to the law—the door was unlocked.

Freedom.

Outside, the air was cool and clean. Now...walk home, or call someone for a ride?

Hmm. This didn’t seem like a back alley so much as a sort of closed-in private parking lot. A couple of cars, one big ranch-y looking pickup truck...a closed gate behind.

Well, she could open a gate as well as the next person.

Except...crud. This one had a locking latch.

Great. In case of fire, the bar patrons could get out of the building, but they’d be trapped in this little corral of sorts. Well, she’d have to make her escape a different way, because that gate didn’t quite look climb-able, especially in her skinny jeans, and with that barbed wire across the top...nope. Not risking it.

Back to the club door, and as she grabbed the knob, she guessed it. Crap. Locked from the outside.

Now what? It was a little weird out here. Good thing Hunter wasn’t with her. She’d never escape his sweaty paws with nowhere to run. Maybe if she could remember the name of the bar, she could call with her cell and ask them to let her in.

You’ve got some splainin’ to do.

True, that. What if they accused her of trying to steal one of the vehicles, or something from inside? What if they called the police to sort it out?

Now she understood how the poor small animals used to feel when her uncle would catch them in the live trap—just sitting and waiting until her captor showed up to do who-knew-what with her.

Ugh. There had to be somebody she could call, who she could ask to come down to the bar and hold the back door open for her to get back in. What was Amy up to tonight?

The doorknob rattled from the inside and she scurried to the other side of the big pickup. Like a trapped rodent.

She shouldn’t hide—anybody could’ve made the innocent mistake of going out that door.

But she might not want to be alone out there with the person coming through that door. Depending on who came out.

So she crouched, hoping the big tire hid her from view. Maybe if she listened and timed things right, when that person went back in, she could get to the door before it locked.

Maybe that person would prop the door open while doing whatever out here. Hmm. What could they be doing? Going to the Dumpster in the corner with a load of garbage?

Someone whistled, scuffed around and the door squeaked, settled, but didn’t latch.

Man, what an idiot she was. If she’d looked around first instead of bulldozing her way out the door and letting it slam shut behind her...

Sounded like a jukebox or sound system playing inside now. Probably break time for the band.

With a pop and a squeal, the truck door opened. Crap! Could her luck get any worse?

Still whistling, the guy—sounded like a guy anyway—rummaged through stuff on the front seat. Should she try to make a break for it while he was distracted with his search?

She edged toward the front of the truck, and something popped under her boot. A beer cap. Crap.

The whistling stopped.

She froze, held her breath.

More rummaging, then, Aha. Plastic crinkled and he let out a relieved sigh.

So maybe he hadn’t heard her there.

She edged forward a little more. If the guy was almost done, she needed to be ready to rush the door when he left. A tug at her back and she almost lost her balance. With a quick step back, she turned to see who’d grabbed her, and found her super-cute fringed tunic caught where the truck bumper attached to the front panel. She worked at freeing her absolute favorite piece of clothing, careful not to tear it. God. If it got messed up on a date with that asshat inside, that would be such a massive waste. The suede was wedged in there so tight. She moved back more, and Bong! conked her head on the side of the truck. Hell! She reeled and struggled to be still, keep her balance, and not make any more noise.

All movement inside the truck ceased.

Who’s there? the guy demanded. He didn’t sound as happy as he had a minute ago when he found his aha.

Afraid to breathe, she crouched, every muscle working to keep her balance.

No whistling as his feet hit the pavement on the other side of the vehicle, and dear God, did that sound like a gun cocking? The feet stepped around the front of the truck. Heavy, certain steps. Of course this dude wasn’t afraid. He was armed.

And dangerous?

He’d see her soon.

Don’t... She covered her head with her hands, tried not to put more pressure on her beloved Indian-style brown suede fringy pal. ...shoot!

What the blue hell?

Probably not much point covering her head with her hands—a bullet would go right through her fingers anyway. So she raised her hands above her head and looked up at him.

Oh. The lead guy in the band. Chewing gum, with his head cocked to the side.

Um. Hi? She chewed her lip.

Dang. As band guys went, he wasn’t half