Page 38 of Country Music Cowboy
“We booked a spa day and were hoping you two would join us?” Emmy Lou asked. “We can bring back something for lunch. Brock will be done training by then, and I need a break from all the wedding stuff.”
Travis understood. They wanted to be here when their father got home. If it was good news, they’d celebrate. If it wasn’t…well, they’d take it one step at a time.
“And Emmy’s making me go with her.” Krystal’s resistance was all pretense. “We made the appointment early, in case you two had to head home today.”
“Our flight was scheduled for noon…” Margot’s yawn was a production, a sort of see-how-tired-I-am move. “But there’s no reason to hurry home, so we could push it back a bit? I think I’ve earned a little pampering. You too, Loretta. I’d like to stay, if you’re all right with that?” She turned, waiting for Loretta’s answer.
Travis almost snorted out loud. How could she say no to that?
“Sounds good to me.” If Loretta was irritated by this new change of plans, she didn’t let on. “Thank you for including us.”
Travis inhaled two tacos and was on his third donut when Sawyer nodded at him, then the clock.
Right, Dad’s appointment. The next hour was a blur. Austin traffic, finding the highly specialized otolaryngologist they’d had recommended to them, and waiting in the room with a collection of sinister-looking devices and equipment all led up to the arrival of Dr. Anne Hodges.
Thirty minutes of scopes and cameras scanning the inside of his father’s throat later, Travis sat by his father, scribbling down notes as Dr. Hodges listed off things his father should or should not do until they had the test results back. The scope had confirmed that his father had trauma on his vocal cords, but until they got the biopsy back, there was no way of knowing if the polyps were cancerous or not.
“If the biopsy comes back benign, I recommend a phonomicrosurgery. I’ll make a small incision away from the vibrating edge of the vocal cord and a tiny flap of tissue is lifted so we can remove the polyp or cyst.” She paused, in case they had questions. “This technique reduces the risk of scarring and provides the best voice outcome. Though, voice therapy will be required for optimal results.”
“Voice therapy?” Travis asked, scribbling away.
“We have three excellent speech pathologists who are familiar with the wear and tear of a singing career on the vocal cords. They have exercises that will help improve your breathing and endurance, Mr. King. And to prevent further complications.”
They left the office with a prescription for steroids and strict voice rest. He’d hoped they’d leave with answers and a set plan. And, if the biopsy came back all clear, they did. Surgery. Rest. Avoiding stress. Voice therapy.
The hardest part of that would be the avoiding stress part. Still, Travis did his best to diffuse things on the elevator ride down to Sawyer and their waiting car.
“I can buy you a little chalkboard to wear around your neck?” Travis teased. “That way if you need anything, you can write it down?”
His father shot him a look.
“I’ll take that look as a maybe.” Travis chuckled, following his father out of the elevator and into the parking garage.
It was the sudden flash that tipped them off. One, then another—the sudden rapid-fire click of a camera shutter—right before a reporter and cameraman appeared from behind one of the large concrete pillars. “Mr. King,” the woman called out, her heels echoing in the garage.
“Shit,” Travis hissed, steering his father to the waiting black SUV as quickly as possible.
“Mr. King. Mr. King,” the reporter kept calling, her words running together as she asked, “would you care to comment on the rumors about your health? Who were you here to visit today? Should your fans be concerned?”
Travis ignored them until his father was safely inside the SUV.
“I didn’t see them,” Sawyer said from the passenger’s front seat. “They didn’t follow us here or I’d have noticed.” He was pissed off.
Even after two years of employment, Travis didn’t know much about Sawyer—personally. Sawyer was the eat-sleep-breathe-your-job type. He didn’t like missing things. For him, it was personal. So this, having press sneak up on them, would chew on Sawyer’s insides until he’d learned all the who, what, why, and when’s involved.
“It’s not your fault,” his father managed.
“Dad.” Travis sighed. “Keep that shit up and I’m buying the damn chalkboard.”
“Chalkboard?” Sawyer asked.
“He’s not allowed to talk.” Travis nodded at his father. “Not until the doctor gives him the okay. Since he doesn’t text—like most normal people these days—we’ll be going old school.”
His father sighed, frowning.
In the rearview mirror, a furrow cut deep across Sawyer’s brow. Was this about the press? Or his father? For a man who made his living off his poker face, it was a significant show of emotion. Very unlike-Sawyer behavior.
“The press back there?” Travis asked, trying to get a read on his bodyguard—and friend. “You think someone in the office tipped them off?”
