Keegan
After that, we sit in silence for a while.
My eyes sweep Blue's room and come to rest on a couple of posters on the opposite wall.
One is an enlarged black-and-white photo of a young man with wavy, dark hair that falls to his shoulders. He's perched on a stool, holding a guitar, and he's dressed in classic seventies: bell bottoms and a tight, flowery button-down.
A couple of feet away is another poster. This one is in color; it shows an older man with thick white hair, also worn long. He is also holding a guitar, also sitting on a stool. But he's dressed in contemporary clothes.
I don't have to read the print on the bottom of each poster to know who it is: Frasier Bryson, of course. The same man I saw at tonight's party, watching Blue play.
Blue's hero.
Max rolls over on the bed, splaying his legs and exposing his belly to me. When I don't respond right away, the dog yelps to make his demands clear.
Blue and I both laugh.
"Obnoxious animal," he mutters in a fond tone. "I've clearly spoiled him rotten."
I obligingly begin to rub Max's belly, and Blue stretches out on the blanket, propping his head on his elbow. He's staring at me.
"Are you sure you're comfortable like that?" I ask, my skin prickling from the heat of his glance. "I feel bad making you sit on the floor in your own room."
"It's fine, Keegan. I really don't mind."
There it is again. That husky, caressing tone that enters my ears and then seems to travel right down to where it leaves me throbbing with desire.
Again, totally inappropriate, considering we've just been talking about our dead parents. But I can't help it.
I cross my legs and slide my palms over my thighs, feeling the breath catch in my throat.
A slow smile quirks up one side of Blue's face, and I notice that his eyes—those amazing, sky-blue eyes—are gleaming with amusement.
Does he know what I'm feeling? Is it written all over my face?
I start petting Max as if my life depends on it.
"So, Keegan," Blue quips after a moment, "how'd you convince the editor to hire you?"
"Um..." I'm thrown off by having to quickly shift to thinking about the Daily. "Well..."
I nibble my lower lip, wondering if I should tell him the truth. The whole truth.
Since we've been baring our souls to each other tonight, maybe I should. Maybe I'll feel better when I do.
"I used my family connections," I finally respond, taking a breath. "I told him who my grandmother is. I...she..."
I'm fumbling around; I sound like an idiot.
"I knew he would know who she is," I go on in a rush, "and I figured it would make him want me as a reporter, even though all the slots are already taken."
One of Blue's black eyebrows shoots up. "Okay," he says slowly. "So, who's your grandmother?"
"Virginia Cooke, President Pro Tempore of the Oklahoma State Senate. You know, Cooke Ranch and all that?"
"Oh." Blue nods, his face blank. Then a look of realization dawns. "Oh. Yeah, I've heard of the Cooke Ranch."
He pushes his fingers through his hair and then rests both hands on the dusty wood floor.
"One of the biggest ranches in the state," he goes on, "owned by a very powerful family." His head is tilted, and his eyes narrowed. He's studying me.
"Huh," he adds. "I did not expect that."
"Really? Why not?"
"Well, you don't act like some spoiled rich kid."
"Gee," I chortle, "thanks."
But then it occurs to me that Blue is wrong. A spoiled rich kid is exactly how I acted to get the reporter job.
My gaze shifts away from his.
"The truth is," I explain after a moment, "I used my family to pressure the editor into hiring me, even though he made it pretty clear on the phone he didn't want to. I did act like some privileged brat. I assumed all I had to do was drop my grandmother's name to get what I wanted."
Max, dreaming again, yelps and runs his legs across the bed like he's chasing something. We watch him for a few seconds without speaking.
Then Blue clears his throat.
"Sounds to me like you did what everybody does," he says. "Everybody who gets anywhere, anyway. You used what you had. You didn't break any laws or do anything immoral. You told him who you are. He made the choice to give you the job."
I stare up at the stained ceiling, uneasy with Blue's easy absolution, even if it does make me feel better to hear it.
Not everybody can do what I did, and I don't think everybody would even if they could.
But after suffering a few qualms, I went right ahead and did what I intended to do all along. Just like Virginia Cooke would have done. Just like she's done her whole life.
Oh, get the fuck over yourself, KeeKee. I'm hearing Megz in my head, but it's like she is standing right next to me, shaking a mocking finger in my face. Stop overthinking this, you brat, and get on the floor with that hot AF man. Right. Fucking. Now.
Blue sits up straight, interrupting Megz' mental ass-kicking. "I'm pretty sure my dad knew your grandma," he says with a yawn, stretching his arms over his head.
That gets my attention. "Wait, what?"
He smirks. "They had a lot of battles over the years. He used to complain about her all the time."
I probably look puzzled because I am.
"My dad," Blue goes on, "he is. . .he was the founder and CEO of Bootstrap Enterprises. Have you heard of it?"
"Uh, yeah." Everybody in the state knows about Bootstrap and the larger-than-life character who founded it.
Holy shit. Bill Daniels is Blue's father. Of course. I run my hands down my face and then push them through my hair. It's what I always do when I'm processing mind-blowing information.
"So...your dad. . .," I go on, slowly, "Yeah, I remember reading about his plane crash. It was all over the news."
I'm finally putting the pieces together.
According to my grandma, Bill Daniels was corrupt, had quite a few politicians in his pocket. She spent years trying to prove he belonged in jail.
Until his sudden death put an end to her quest.
I'd read in the news how Bootstrap was broken up after Daniels' death and sold off in pieces. There was some kind of financial scandal that made headlines for days. But I can't remember the details.
"Wow." It's all I can think to say. But after a moment, I can't help teasing Blue a little.
"So...about this spoiled rich kid thing...right back at ya, son of a gazillionaire."
Blue chuckles. But then he shakes his head decisively.
"None of that money is mine," he insists. "My dad cut me off when I enlisted. And I'm glad he did. I didn't want anything to do with Bootstrap."
He glances toward the picture on the desk. "Most of the money is gone anyway," he adds with a scowl. My dad..." He shakes his head again more vehemently as his face darkens."Never mind. Another long, stupid story."
I nod, sighing. One thing's for sure: Blue and I both come from a bunch of family dysfunction.
Max rolls to the other side of the bed, and I slide my hands back on Blue's bedspread, bringing my legs up to sit cross-legged. I can't help yawning. It must be so late. For me, anyway. I've always been an early riser.
Then I notice Blue is looking at me. His bottom lip is slightly open, and the raw desire on his face almost has me leaping off the bed and throwing myself at him.
But I'm not quite that bold. I'm not like Megz.
Maybe, though, I should try to be.
My eyes slide over to Blue's guitar, placed in the red chair.
"Hey, Blue," I ask with a seductive smile, "would you sing to me?"
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