"T." Someone nudged him from his corner on the sofa. "T, there's a party in Tahoe, man."

Oh. Travis liked Tahoe. Liked it a lot. "We could all go to Mt. Rose, huh? Snowboard?"

It was early enough, there should still be snow.

Snow rocked.

Snowboarding. Skiing. Rolling around. Hot buttered rum. Hot tubs.

Dude.

There was nothing sexier than a naked guy with a Stetson in a hot tub.

"You know it, man. Me and Harry, we got a Blazer. Harry's following. We'll just jump in at the next pit stop." Man, not only did Jeff play a mean guitar, he had a cousin who would do anything for a laugh and a case of beer, not to mention a blowjob. Harry made a good looking groupie, too. Too bad the little bastard was getting grumpy in his old age.

"I'm in. Don't tell Saul or Donnie. They'll get all tense about making that show in LA."

He'd make the show. Maybe not the rehearsal, but the show? He'd make.

"Cool. You want a guitar? You got four days. You'll want to write."

Man, Jeff knew all about him, huh? Too bad the man was seriously addicted to boobies. "You know it."

The bus finally pulled in at the diesel stop--a Loves or something--and he and Jeff were just about ready to jump ship when the damned door hissed open, and not to let them out to buy souvenirs and go potty.

Nope, this was to let someone on. The guy was tall, broad, and dressed in jeans so old they were almost transparent, worn long over plain brown cowboy boots. A brown leather jacket and a winter Stetson completed the look.

Well, well.

Huh. Jeff's greasy head came in close. "Who's that?"

"Dunno. Doesn't matter, really, 'less he's a reporter." That would suck. Travis didn't like when the reporters got on the fucking bus. He had enough trouble with groupies.

Travis rolled up, headed right over. "Hey, there. I'm Travis. You are?"

Friend? Foe? Psychopathic killer? Lost cowboy? Reporter?

One big, square hand poked out to grab his, shaking firmly. "Wyatt Chastain. I'm your new personal security."

"Huh?" Wyatt? Like in Earp? "You probably need to talk to the management types. We're just flunkies back here. Guitar bunnies."

Nobody important. Just guys fixin' to hop into a truck and head to the slopes. La la la.

"Oh, I talked to the management. That's why I'm here." The guy tilted his head, eyes the color of black coffee narrowing. "I thought you'd be taller, man."

Oh. Oh, no he didn't.