“What’s your point, Thrasher?”

“No point. Just offering a word of wisdom. My woman has me wrapped up pretty neat too, but I don’t let her know it.”

“I thought you told me I’d better treat her right or you’d be on me?” I vaguely recall his warning from the first day we met, three long days ago.

He cracks the knuckles of his tattooed hand inside the other. “Fuckin’ right I will. But that don’t mean you gotta be showin’ all your cards, man. This is a strategy game, after all.”

I laugh, because I feel like I’m the one who should be giving this guy advice. “You ever been married before?”

His chuckle booms out, but the sounds of the bass guitar and drums ensure only I can hear it.

“Nope. That’s why I’m giving you advice, Richie Rich. You’ve already failed at this shit, from what I hear. I’m doing the marriage thing once, and that’s it. Thought maybe you’d been all lapdog and pussy whipped before, and that’s how you fucked it up. Ladies want to know their man is theirs, but they don’t want someone trailin’ after ’em like a schoolboy.”

“Thanks for the advice, but I think I’m good. You worry about yourself getting pussy-whipped, and I’ll worry about Holly.”

Thrasher shrugs, but doesn’t drop it. “You don’t know girls like her, Karas. She’s not your high-society type. She’s never gonna be easy around your money or your people. Even if she’s sipping champagne out of platinum cowboy boots, she’ll never lose that backwoods girl. You sure you’re okay with that? Because if you’re not, it’d be kinder to let her go now before she falls for you.”

There are so many responses I can give to what he just said, but I don’t reply because I’m stuck on his last words. “Before she falls for you.” Because she hasn’t yet.

It’s a sobering reality check. I’ve decided what we have is the real thing, and Holly . . . I have no frigging clue what she thinks. The only place she’ll let her guard down is in the bedroom—or wherever we happen to be when I’m giving her every bit of pleasure she can handle. I know how to seduce my wife, but how the hell do I break down her walls? How do I get her to trust me?

“Oh shit!” Thrasher yells as a fan throws himself onstage only a few feet from where Holly stands. I lunge forward, but Thrasher grabs my arm. “No, man, not your fight this time.”

Security is on the guy before he can reach his fingertips out to touch the toe of her boots, and he’s dragged away.

Holly barely misses a beat, finishing the last chorus of the song while the band plays on. When the music finally quiets, she speaks into her microphone. “Well, I guess he really liked that one, didn’t he, ya’ll?” The crowd cheers even louder, and she flashes a wide smile and launches into the final song on the set list.

I shake off Thrasher’s arm and turn to him. “Don’t you ever try to get between me and Holly. You get me, Thrasher? Not here, not anywhere.”

My tone promises violence, as my rage at his interference pulses to the surface. She’s my woman. I will fucking protect her from everyone and everything.

Thrasher just shakes his head. “You’ve got a lot to learn, man, especially about her. She’s a strong woman. She doesn’t need you to save her. Hell, she found a way to use you to save herself. Don’t ever underestimate her because it’ll be the biggest mistake you make, I can promise you that. Country girls got grit like you couldn’t imagine.”

“You think I don’t know she’s fucking special?” I gesture to the stage. “She’s a goddamn goddess out there, and I’d have to be blind to miss it.”

Thrasher nods. “Good, and don’t you fucking forget it.” He turns to walk back toward the hallway that leads to his designated room, and then pauses. “You should both come out with us tonight. We’re gonna hit up one of my favorite bars. Play some horseshoes in the pits out back. Let’s see if you can hang with the country boys.”

The last thing I want to do tonight is go out and hang with this cocky punk who thinks he knows more about Holly than I do, but something keeps me from saying no. Instead, I punt.

“I’ll leave that up to Holly.”

“Pussy-whipped motherfucker.”

The words are tossed over Thrasher’s shoulder, and I flip off his back as he walks away. I don’t like the son of a bitch, but then again, I don’t exactly hate him either. He’s looking out for Holly, and that I have to respect.

But horseshoes? Really?

“She’s kicking your ass, man!”

“You’re on his team, which means she’s kicking your ass too!”

The guys in my band are getting no end of amusement from ribbing the crap out of Creighton during our game of horseshoes at Boone’s favorite bar outside Biloxi. I couldn’t believe it when Creighton deferred to me about whether or not we join them rather than scooping me up and carrying me off to the bus, like he did the other nights after I finished up “That Girl” during Boone’s set.

Tonight, Creighton was waiting offstage with a beer and a smile. The beer was his, because I was still on the “tour diet from hell,” but he handed it over anyway and told me that Boone invited us out and he was leaving it up to me to decide.

In all honesty, my lady parts kind of need a break from the nonstop banging that we’ve been doing, and after-show sex is turning into the most energetic kind. So I said yes, partially out of self-preservation.

Now I’m wondering if I made the right choice. Creighton isn’t exactly showing any signs of wanting to commit murder, though. He’s just sipping on a beer and shrugging off the comments.

Finally, he says, “Since my ass is hers, she can kick it whenever she wants.”

His words come just as I’m swinging to toss my horseshoe and the throw goes wild, nearly kneecapping Boone.

He jumps back out of the way, his beer splashing out of the bar’s trademark red Solo cups. “Shit, woman. Watch your throw!”

But I’m not paying attention to Boone. I couldn’t care less about him, his kneecaps, or his beer. I’m staring at Creighton, trying to interpret what that comment meant. My ass is hers.

Is he truly in this for real? I mean, he’s said that I’m his, but it’s never really been a mutual sort of ownership like you’d have in a “real” marriage. Or is living in the middle of a tour, where we’ve finally found our rhythm, messing with his head?