Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
“Odd place to vacation. Not much to do around these parts.” I watch, impressed, as she pounds her beer back.
Ignoring my question, she slides the bottle toward me. “I’ll have another.”
“Better slow down. The night is young. I would hate to peel that pretty ass of yours off the floor, darlin’.” I hand her another Keith’s.
“I’m a big girl. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, darlin’.” Her eyes wander to the small stage at the corner of the bar. “I hear it’s open mic night tonight?”
Bingo. The bitch is here for my mother. Why else would she scan the room like a damn lion searching for prey?
My jaw clenches, and I grip the bar rag, smoothing the disdain from my face. “Every Tuesday. You sing?”
A cocky grin splits her lips, making me feel like I’ve missed an inside joke. “I’ve dabbled here or there.”
She sips her beer, tracing the tip with her tongue and making my balls constrict in my jeans. I fucking hate how much I want to bend her over the bar and split her open until she begs me for more. This girl’s probably here to ruin my life, yet my balls want to unload in her warmth. Maybe I can bang this chick and get her out of town before she does any serious damage. Two birds with one stone.
She digs in her pocket and slams a fifty on the bar before marching toward a table hidden at the back. I can’t help but notice her thick ass as she saunters away.
“It’s only five bucks for the beer,” I holler at her back, but she doesn’t even acknowledge me.
Chapter Two
Cash
I tap the mic, clearing my throat softly as I settle into the dim corner stage of the local bar. It feels like home. Even though I’ve been performing in sold-out stadiums for the last few years, this is where my heart formed—a guitar in my hands and a semi-drunk crowd barely paying me any attention. Moments like this have a beauty I’ve never experienced in a theater. I’ll never silence a crowd that’s there for me.
I strum the chords on the weathered guitar, sucking in a breath before singing the opening line of a classic country song.
My grandma hummed “Wild Roses” to me plenty of summer nights under the stars, her gentle arms around me as she lulled me to sleep. Grandma loved music of all kinds. She filled my head with stories of her life as a traveling musician when she and Grandpa were first married before the babies came.
It’s no wonder I still sing this song, only with my unique slow twist on the familiar lyrics. I begged the record label to get the music rights to the song so I could add it to my last album, but they refused, claiming it wasn’t consistent with my brand. These classic country melodies are more my brand than anything the label makes me record. It’s the music that formed me, entrenched in my childhood, and imprinted in my DNA.
The lyrics transport me to memories filled with sorrow and joy, something my current music could never do. The words bring back the smell of apple pie baking in my grandma’s kitchen and her tinkling laugh as I kiss her wrinkled cheek.
The sweet chords spin through my fingers with the help of muscle memory. The energy in the room grows with every passing beat until the audience sings along to the final chorus. Their voices are a euphonic symphony echoing through the bar.
This surprise little rendition of a classic tune would likely hit the news cycle before the morning if this were a bar in Brooklyn. But as I scan the crowd, no one whispers or points. I’m just a regular girl with chops. It feels fantastic to merge with the crowd and sing simply because it fuels my heart with joy.
The last note of “Wild Roses” fades, and I set the guitar against the stool. People push closer to the stage as I stand. They cheer and clap as I descend the stairs into the anonymity of the crowd. I nod and smile my way to the bar, surprised to find a lineup of shots waiting for me from appreciative audience members.
I thank them for their generosity but refuse to take a sip. Hard liquor and I don’t mix. It took some time to realize. I used alcohol to escape the things I’d rather forget, but those unhealthier phases of my life are in the past, and I’m a beer-only girl now.
I turn to the hot bartender and blush under his heated stare before asking him for another Keith’s. He doesn’t appear to fit the aesthetic of a small town with his black jeans, My Bloody Valentine T-shirt, and steel-toed combat boots. The guy stands out like a punk rocker at the Grand Ole Opry.