Lyric and Lingerie (The Fort Worth Wranglers Book 1) (7 page)

Heath looked down at her hand, which was gripping the armrest so tightly it was amazing the thing didn’t break off. “You don’t have to worry about driving in the storm. I’ll take you there myself.”

She studied him, surprise banishing her pee-related agony—for a moment at least. He was thoughtful. She hadn’t remembered him being thoughtful and wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Before she could analyze it, however, a bladder spasm akin to the first rumblings of Mount St. Helens before it blew its top rocked through her.

Shit. If Tre didn’t let her off this plane in the next two minutes she was going to spring a leak. A big one.

Tightening her muscles even further, she focused on one of her favorite songs, Beyoncé’s “Put a Ring on It.” Except her inner Beyoncé kept substituting the lyrics,
When ya gotta go … really, really go … clamp your legs together
for the real words. When she got to the chorus, it was
If ya gotta go now … put a hold on it … If ya gotta go now … put a hold on it.

Her inner Beyoncé faded with the end of the chorus, and she struggled to focus on the bigger problem. Heath would drive her. She nodded. Yes. Finding logical, workable solutions to problems was her area of expertise. It was what she’d built her whole professional reputation on—staying calm in a crisis, working the problem, coming up with the solution. The fact that she’d lost it so completely over something as simple as a delayed plane worried her a little. Almost as much as the fact that Heath—a man who threw footballs and signed women’s breasts for a living—was the one who had figured things out for her.

It was her turn to take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. “I can drive myself,” she said, though it came out sounding more like a question. That damn Beyoncé was breaking through.
If ya gotta go now … put a hold on it … If ya gotta go now … put a hold on it
. Lyric tried to cross her legs, but her left leg did little more than smack against her right, making the pressure worse.

“No, I’ll rent a car.” He massaged his injured knee. “We’ll go together.”

“You don’t have to do that—”

“Yes, I do.” His firm tone brooked no argument as the plane slid neatly into its slot at the gate. “I’ve been meaning to go out to my father’s ranch and make sure the house and barns are still standing anyway.”

She inched this way and then that, trying to find a position to lessen nature’s call. Nothing worked. And Beyoncé kept at it.

“Stop fidgeting. I’ll take care of everything.” Heath’s voice was so reassuring, she wanted to tell him the truth—that at the moment, Beyoncé Bladder outweighed paternal concern, but there was no delicate way to spill the beans.

She twisted again.
If ya gotta go now …

Focus on Heath. To her knowledge, he hadn’t been back to San Angelo since he’d left for college. Not that she’d spent much time there either, but then, Fort Worth was a hell of a lot closer than Honolulu.

“Why would you do that?” Not that she didn’t like the chivalrous Heath, but she’d spent lots of years hating him. It was hard to justify that level of loathing in the face of this nice guy.

“Because you would do it for me.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Lyric locked her knees together and prayed the deplaning process was swift. She took another deep breath and tuned back into Heath. She couldn’t help going over how rude she’d been to him since she’d found him sitting next to her, and all the terrible thoughts she’d had about him through the years.

The fasten seat belt sign blinked off, and in one motion she unbuckled and shot out of the seat. Her dress protested the abrupt movement, and another chorus of the Beyoncé Bladder song hit so hard Lyric’s knees almost buckled. Determined to stay upright, and dry, she pressed her knees together and stood very still.

Heath stood up and nudged her gently into the aisle. “I am,” he said as he grabbed his overnight bag from the overhead compartment.

He placed a soft hand on the small of her back and began guiding her up the aisle. She was shocked at how comforting it felt. And even more at how he didn’t lift that hand once, even after they’d made it off the airplane and down the gangplank into the terminal. If she didn’t have to pee so badly, she wouldn’t mind staying just like that for as long as he was willing.

# # #

The second they stepped into Austin Bergstrom Airport, Lyric took off in a knees-together, Gangnam-style trot. He didn’t know where in the hell she was going, but she sure was in a hurry.

“Lyric?” Heath ran after her, his bad knee turning his own run into a shuffling gallop.

“I gotta pee now …” she sing-songed and picked up the pace. “And I can’t put a hold on it.”

“But how are you going to—” He watched her disappear into the women’s bathroom. “—get out of that dress?”

It didn’t take long for him to figure out that she was going to be right back out. She might not have been thinking about the mechanics of stripping off that damn dress, but he’d spent entirely too much of his adult life getting women out of their clothes to know that it was going to be a problem. A serious problem.

He glanced around, saw a small station of plastic flatware a few feet away near the restaurants. He wasn’t sure what good a plastic knife was going to do against tightly wrapped duct tape, but he was willing to give it the old Wrangler try. But when he got up to the institutional silverware holder, the only things left were a bunch of sporks and one sorry looking plastic knife.

He grabbed them all, along with a couple of straws and a handful of mayonnaise packets for lubrication. He decided to leave the mustard where it was.

He made it back to the bathroom just as Lyric limped out, a look of crestfallen agony on her beautiful face. With a smile, he held up his plundered booty. “I’ve got you covered.”

She stared at the mismatched selection he’d picked up, then rolled her eyes. “I’m not a cheeseburger, Heath.”

“Yeah, well, the selection was limited. I did the best I could.” He crouched down next her. “Let’s get you out of this dress.”

She glanced around wildly. “Not here.”

“Why not here? I thought you had to go to the bathroom.”

“I’m not wearing anything under this duct tape.”

He froze, even as his heartbeat went wild. “Nothing?” She’d said so earlier, but he’d thought she was kidding. He swallowed. All that lovely white skin, and the only thing between it and him was a thin veneer of tape. There wasn’t a man alive who hadn’t had that dream a time or two.

“My dress ripped, remember?” She shuffled from foot to foot.

Lyric hummed the chorus of Beyonce’s “Put a Ring on It.” Huh?

“Yeah, but what about your underwear?”

“The dress was too tight. I didn’t want a panty line.” She sucked in air like it was going out of style.

“Lyric Wright, are you telling me you weren’t lying when you told me you were traveling halfway across the Pacific in nothing but duct tape?” He might have a heart attack himself, especially now that he was picturing all the bare skin just beneath his hands.

“Well, it wasn’t by choice. Believe me.”

Standing up, he propelled her back through the bathroom entrance. They were already attracting a fair amount of attention, and there was no way in hell he was stripping Lyric down in front of half the men in the Austin airport.

“Heath. This is the ladies’ room.” She sounded scandalized.

“Would you rather go into the men’s room and do this?” Over his dead body, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Well, no. But you’ll get in trouble.” She looked around like she was waiting for some sort of bathroom bouncer to appear and toss him out.

“By who? The bathroom police?” He laughed. “Sweetheart, we’re in the Lone Star State now. Short of losing the Super Bowl or wearing 49ers colors, there’s not much I can do in this state that will get me into trouble.”

“Seriously?” She eyed him with disgust.

“This is the great state of Texas. When people talk about the Holy Trinity, they’re talking about Jesus, the NRA, and the Fort Worth Wranglers. So yeah, you and I could drop down right here on this surprisingly clean tile and go for it, and the only comments people would make would be to offer suggestions … to you. And they’d still want me to sign their tits.”

“You know this from experience?” She glanced at the floor, and he could just see that huge brain of hers filing away the facts. Despite the potty dance she was doing, it was really an example of Lyric at her finest. Never judgmental, simply interested in gathering information. At least, until she said, “Well, just so you know. If it gets to that, I’m taking the top. And if you hurry and get this dress off, I just might be willing to give it a shot.”

It was the wrong thing for her to say. Now his mind was filled with all kinds of inappropriate images, namely of Lyric and her double Ds above him as she followed the advice of T-shirts everywhere: Save a horse. Ride a Cowboy.

But he could tell things were getting critical, and he really didn’t want her to have an accident, so he ushered her to the large handicap stall at the back of the restroom. As he locked the door behind them, one of the women who’d been primping at the mirror called, “When’s my turn, Deuce?”

“One at a time, ma’am. The line forms to the right,” he called over the stall door.

He turned to Lyric. “All right,” he said, laying out his improvised tools on the ledge created by the toilet paper holder like a nurse preparing a tray of sterile implements. “Let’s get to work.”

Examining the duct tape like it was a medium-rare New York strip, Heath grabbed the spork in his left hand and took the knife in his right. Then he stepped back and spent a moment taking stock. Did he start at the top and work down or at the bottom and work up? Both had appeal.

Lyric danced from side to side, humming Beyoncé louder. “Do. Something.”

He hadn’t remembered her ever humming before.

He knelt in front of her—genuflecting to Mistress Duct Tape—and pain shot through his bad knee at the awkward position. Gritting his teeth, he ignored it and sawed lightly at the dress’s hem. The pathetic plastic knife bent and twisted under his hand with each slice, but he didn’t want to hurt her so he kept the pressure light.

“Hurry.” She clamped her thighs together.

Christ, the way she said that word—like he was inside her and she couldn’t come fast enough—turned him on. Great, now he had a bum knee and a hard-on from hell to deal with. Instead of focusing on the pain, he concentrated on freeing her bare bottom. Her round, lush, sexy-as-hell bare bottom. Sweat broke out on his upper lip, and he shifted, determined to concentrate on the problem at hand.

“Open your legs.” It came out a little short, but seriously, if he had a nickel for every time he’d said that, he’d have a shitload of nickels. “Sit on the toilet.”

Now that was a new one.

Lyric looked at him in horror, then leaned over and pulled several handfuls of toilet paper from the holder before she began arranging them as a seat cushion.

Heath scooted closer to her. “Jesus, I thought you were in a hurry.”

“I am, but there are rules. A lady squats but never sits on a public toilet. Did you know the average public toilet has two million bacteria per square inch?” She piled more toilet paper into what could only be called a wreath arrangement on the seat. Was it a centerpiece or a toilet? He was getting confused. Especially when his old pal Lyric referred to herself as a lady. He’d never thought of her like that before. Then again, now that he’d been this close to her luscious thighs, he’d probably never be able to think of her as anything but.

He rubbed his knee. “I’ll file that little tidbit under Lyric’s Fun Facts. Right up there with the one in twenty shot of a meteorite striking a plane.”

“Okay.” She half sat, half dropped onto the seat. “I’m ready.

Heath didn’t have the heart to tell her that most of her fluffy seat cushion had landed on the floor.

“Here,” she inched her legs apart, “whatever you’ve got planned—GO FASTER.”

“Usually when I’m going at a woman from this angle I like to take my time. But in your case, I’ll make an exception.” With all the force he could allow, he stabbed at the tape. The knife broke in half. “Damn.”

Lyric’s legs started to vibrate. “What’s taking so long? Prisoners with the intelligence of spider monkeys are able to dig out of Alcatraz with nothing but a spoon, but you can’t break me out of this dress?”

He shook his head. “There’s never a convict with a shiv around when you need one.” He had two Super Bowl rings, a Heisman Trophy, and more wins than he could count. There was no way in hell a few strips of duct tape were going to break his winning streak. With all the murderous intent of Norman Bates’s mother with a butcher knife, Heath rammed the spork at the tape.

The spork cracked down the middle and bit into his palm.

He stared at it for a second, then decided fuck it. It was past time to go old school. “Hold on honey, I’m going in.”

Licking his lips, he stuck his head between her thighs and clamped his teeth down on the tape. But the second his jaw scraped against her inner thighs, Lyric shrieked. Her surprisingly strong thighs—who knew an astrophysicist could be so toned—clamped down on his ears and she giggled.

“What are you doing? That tickles.” Lyric wiggled against him.

“My dad always taught me to use the tools at hand, and right now these are all I’ve got left.” Heath bit through the bottom edge of the dress, then spit out a chunk of tape and went for the next layer. It wasn’t the first dress he’d chewed through, but it was the first one that had stuck to his teeth.

When he finally felt like he’d made enough headway—no pun intended; well okay, maybe a little—he leaned back on his heels, grabbed the two ragged edges of the dress, and pulled for all he was worth. The dress ripped down the center. With the first rung of the dress conquered, he spit out a chunk of tape and went for the next layer.

Now he knew how a beaver felt and would have made a joke, but his mother had taught him not to talk with his mouth full. Not to mention the fact that Lyric would kill him—and if she was going to put her hands on him, he preferred it to be for a whole different reason.