FOUR
Fallon
A woodpecker hammering at the inside of my head finally had my eyes fluttering to life.
I pushed a hand over my face, taste of whiskey still on my breath as bolts of violent sunlight streaked my eyelids.
“Christ,” I groaned, trying to twist away the pain in my lower back when I landed with a thunk on the wet ground below me.
The bench.
The bar.
The girl.
“Fuck me.”
I pulled the empty bottle out from under my back, groaning as I slowly peeled myself off the muddy grass and stumbled to my feet.
The memories of last night were fighting at my consciousness, memories of the past haunting my brain as if I’d relived them all again last night.
I s’pose I had.
One by one.
The movie of our lives played out right there on that bench, ticket for one.
Morning was the worst time of day for me, too early to pour another drink, mind too goddamn foggy to keep the past at the door for long.
I walked slowly back across the field, following the swampy tracks I’d marched in on, the journey a helluva lot easier without a bottle in my hand.
The bar was probably only a mile down the road. I sure as hell knew I hadn’t walked that far last night.
And what did I expect to find when I got there?
A goodbye letter tucked under the windshield wiper of my truck?
Maybe.
Gouges out of all four of my tires?
Possibly.
What I did find once I’d made the trek back was about the furthest possibility on my list.
Hadn’t even occurred to me.
Augusta Belle Branson.
Perched on my stage.
My guitar in hand.
Singin’ prettier than a songbird, half a dozen alcoholics hangin’ on her every word.
I hated her even more than I had five minutes ago.
“What the fuck is this?” I gritted out, pausing at the dimly lit bar. “Why’s she got my guitar?”
The bartender, who’d I’d been slippin’ twenties the last few nights to keep the drinks coming while I sang, just shrugged and trained his eyes back on my girl.
My girl.
A low growl tore past my lips. “She’s always fuckin’ with my stuff. Gonna put an end to this. Make me a Bloody Mary for when I get back, wouldya?” I tapped the wooden bar once before stomping off through the tangle of round tables and right up onstage as Augusta Belle crooned the last lines of her song.
Everyone clapped, a few whistles and hollers of appreciation before I snatched the guitar, my guitar, from her hands and slung it over my back. “Whaddya think you’re doin’?”
She tilted her head to one side, those warm brandy eyes swimming with curiosity, contempt, a mixture maybe, until she finally said, “You look like hell.”
Damn, she looked even prettier in the morning. What I said instead was, “Good thing I give zero fucks what you think. Got my truck keys?”
I’d always been a real charmer.
She stood from the stool, pushing a hand into her pocket and fishing out the familiar set. “Sure you’re not still drunk?”
“I’m ’bout to be.” I swiped the keys from her palm and shoved them deep into my pocket, safe from her.
“You’re drinking again?” She was quick on my heels as I headed back to the bar for my breakfast. Or lunch, as it were.
The pounding in my head had grown to DEFCON levels. “What’s that?” I tossed over my shoulder. “A high-pitched wail with a Southern accent in my ear fillin’ my head with shit?”
I paused at the bar. “Where’s my Bloody Mary?”
“She told me to cut you off.”
“What!” I spun on her, mouth twisted. “I hardly know her. If I don’t get that Bloody Mary, I won’t get my daily serving of vegetables. It’s my salad, man.”
“You’re such a baby.” Augusta Belle looped her arm in my elbow and pulled me off the bar, dragging me ass-backward out the front door and into the warm afternoon air.
“Hate your fucking hands on me,” I said, a visceral reaction down deep finally bubbling out.
“Fallon—”
“Don’t fucking Fallon me,” I husked at her ear. Without thinking, my hands landed at her inner elbows, tightening slowly, pulling her up nice and close to my hard chest. “You lost the right to give a goddamn when you left.”
Her dark eyes hung heavy on mine, soft contours of her neck flexing as she swallowed. Tears welled up in her beautiful, stubborn eyes before she started to speak. “Fuck you, Fallon Gentry.”
I laughed off her curse, murmuring into the curve of her tender neck. “So sweet. So vulnerable, heartbeat racing like a brand-new bird.”
I grazed my lips along the edge of her ear, delighting when aroused shivers followed in my wake. “I could slide in deep, fuck you raw until you forget where I end and you begin, couldn’t I, Augusta Belle? Anything for a piece of the country boy turned superstar, is that it? Next, you’re gonna tell me you were thinkin’ we could start a band, some John and Yoko bullshit.” I tightened my grip at her arms. “At one point, I thought you were dead”—the last word a sneer—“and when I found out you weren’t, I wished it.”
I released her arms, pushing away from her body and turning on my boot heel, gravel crunching as I strode to my truck.
“Fallon!” she called, the word nearly lost on the wind.
I paused at my truck, hand hovering on the door before I took an extra second and turned to look at her, commit her to memory one last time.
She stood in the parking lot, just as I’d left her, but this time, her arms were wrapped around her waist and tears tracked down her cheeks.
“Christ.” I suppressed the roll of my eyes before I shoved both hands into my pockets and went back to her. “Jesus, Augusta, don’t fucking cry.”
Her usually pretty pink lips twisted into something angry, ruthless. “If you think I tracked you all the way out here to this hellhole just to get in bed with you, then you have changed.”
“Changed?” I roared, fists balling with anger in my pockets. “I’ve changed? You disappear for ten years, and you’re telling me I’ve changed? I used to think if you waltzed back into my life, I’d take you back without question. But now that you’re here, Augusta, I’ve got a fuck of a lot of questions. So many fucking questions I’ve been drownin’ them in whiskey tryin’ to chase them out of my head. I let that pain marinate real good. Only thing I could find to help me heal.”
“Heal?” She breathed. “This is you healed?” Her brows knitted together. “I’d hate to see the before.”
My glare refused to unchain her, head shaking. “Where the fuck did you go, Augusta?”