Chapter 2

Axton

“When was the last time you actually paid for your own beer?” Carson huffs as a stacked blonde I’ve never met hands me a fresh bottle.

I grin over at my best friend and manager. “High school, maybe?”

He laughs, though we both know it’s the truth.

After taking a long swig of the cold beer, I set it near the heel of my boot and begin strumming my guitar. There’s no real head of the table in a circle around a campfire, but I’ve got prime position. The wind is at my back, so the smoke isn’t in my face, and almost everyone here tonight has at least some of their attention on me. Conversations continue as I strum, humming a song popular on the radio, but the noise noticeably lowers.

“We’ve been coming here for years,” Carson laments, looking around at the sea of people, “and the faces haven’t really changed.”

“Same shit, different day,” I mutter before going back to the song.

“Can you hurry up and get a huge contract?” he teases. “I’d love to get out of this tiny town.”

I smile, ignoring the childish giggle from a group of girls several feet away.

“Been working on that for almost as long as we’ve been hanging out at Old Man Henry’s.” I look down at my fingers, making sure they’re in the right position. I may have the voice of a superstar, but my guitar skills could use a little work. It’s a good thing people aren’t here to listen to my lackluster strumming.

“Don’t I know it,” Carson mutters. “At least I’ll be able to finish school before I’m paving your way all over the world.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Your mother will be so proud.”

Like always, the sight of watching him turn his bottle up makes me grab for mine. Downing it, I toss the empty bottle down by my feet and go back to picking away.

“Hey, Axton.”

I grin up at the woman standing in front of me, making sure to mask my frown when I realize it isn’t who I’m hoping to see. “Hey, darlin’.”

“A refill?” She holds out the beer, keeping a playful grasp on it for a few seconds too long.

It’s the third time it’s happened tonight, and the countless number since I started singing in this exact same spot four years ago—long before it was even legal for me to drink. I wasn’t awarded that privilege until a couple months ago.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Her eyes shine at the endearment, just like every other girl before her.

Well…all but one.

WCP, and her dislike of pet names, has been on my mind a lot this past week. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to know I’ve reduced her nickname, White Cotton Panties, to three harmless letters. I smile to myself thinking about it.

“Can I sit down?”

Shaking away the thoughts, I follow her eyes to the empty spot on my right, and Carson chuckles because I can’t be rude. It’s one of the quickest ways to ruin a budding music career. I eye her again, deciding she must be new, or oblivious. Anyone who’s ever been to one of these parties knows that spot always stays empty. I don’t like to be crowded, but more importantly is the whole look-single-without-being-available thing Carson says keeps the girls coming back for more. Being tied down, in love, or perceived to be off the market lowers your following. Female fans want to imagine they have the chance to spend the rest of their lives with you. They have some strange sense of ownership even if they’ve never had a face-to-face conversation with you.

It may not make much sense, and every time Carson comes at me with a new “rule,” I believe it even less, but this one works for us. Besides, they all gravitate near the gate, hoping to be the one I’ll take home for the night. Sitting next to me won’t increase their chances. The seasoned chicks, the ones I’ve grown up with and messed around with in the past, all know this.

“Sorry, babe,” I apologize, scrunching my nose and waving my elbow a little for emphasis. “Have to have room to play. Maybe next time?”

Her smile reveals perfect white teeth, and the dazzling sparkle in her eyes tells me she bought it—hook, line, and sinker. My eyes follow the curve of her ass, down her bare legs, to the brown and turquoise boots on her feet as she walks away. There’s potential there, but when she goes back to her friends, bragging about talking to me and my offer to hang out next time, they’ll tell her she’s full of shit because no one sits beside me. Then, she’ll remember how nice I was and consider it our little secret, but the doubt will pop up next time she sees the still empty spot, and she won’t ask again.

Instead, she’ll stand on the periphery for a few parties before building up the courage to even speak to me again. She’s cute and has legs for days, so she’ll probably get scooped up by one of the dudes looking for someone to hook up with until summer break. That won’t stop her from fantasizing about me, though—not even when she’s in the arms of her man.

Many women have whispered their drunken confessions in my ear. How they get down with my voice crooning in the background. How they close their eyes and picture me getting them there, not their unskilled, useless boyfriends. What’s worse is nine times out ten, these confessions are expressed while they’re naked, under me, and still attached to those same boyfriends.

I don’t chase women. They come to me, and I don’t bother asking personal questions. Who they go home to isn’t my concern.

“You’ve played those same three chords a hundred times now,” Carson chastises with a sharp kick to my boot. “People have their phones out, ready to post shit online. Maybe you can give them something worth posting?”

I take a gulp of the beer still in my hand and glance over at my best friend.

“These parties used to be fun,” I say, starting the chords over again with a touch of sarcastic emphasis just for him. “Before they turned into work.”

“Work,” he huffs. “When did free beer, music, and loose women become work?”

I tilt my head in agreement. “Good point. Do we have any requests?”

He shrugs. “Some chick wanted you to sing something by Garth Brooks.”

I chuckle. “This doesn’t really look like a ‘Friends in Low Places’ type of crowd.”

Covers are popular right now. They have the most potential to go viral on social media. At least, that’s what Carson says, and since he’s the one fixing to graduate with the business marketing degree, I don’t question him. I haven’t been to class but a handful of times this semester, and he goes almost every day.

Give the fans a little Sam Hunt, Brantley Gilbert, or Chase Rice, and all the women want you and men want to be you. Say what you want about the destruction of country music, but these guys are selling out everywhere they go. I can only hope to be half as popular.

My fingers shift from Chris Stapleton’s new song to the more familiar, faster beat of “Body Like a Back Road.” WCP may or may not be here, but for some reason, I want to impress her.

My eyes close, the power of the song combined with the mental image I conjure of her with her dress flapping around her waist on the interstate are all I need to give the music the justice it deserves.

As the night goes on and the booze flows more freely, song requests come in and time flies. Before I know it, I’m drunk—no drunker than anyone else here, but the words start to slur together.

“I think it’s time to go,” Carson says, still sober since he only had a couple beers.

I play one more song before my manager claims I need to be up in the morning for a big meeting and my voice needs a break. What it really means is I’m drunk as hell and the last thing we need is a video of me butchering a song on social media.

“Which one are you picking?” he asks as we climb in his truck and drive out of the pasture.

I look at the group of women, mind unimpressed, cock telling me any will do.

“Did you see WCP tonight?”

“What?” he asks. Confusion pulls at his brow as he stops a couple feet from the girls and looks over at me.

“White Cotton Panties,” I explain.

“Saw plenty of thongs, a couple of slits not covered by anything, but I don’t think there was one pair of white cotton panties in the group,” he advises.

“The girl, dipshit. Did you see the girl?”

“Axton, there are like fifty women out here willing to ride your dick until you shove them off it. Take your pick.” He gestures toward the hopeful looking girls.

“She wouldn’t be in that group,” I object, looking out at the women standing around like cattle at a sale.

She wouldn’t be at a party like this, my brain says.

He sighs. “I’m tired, man. No matter who you choose, it will end the same way. Tomorrow, she’ll be in tears. Next week, she’ll be a stage five clinger. A month from now, she’ll say she’s pregnant and be begging you to meet her parents. You know, just a typical time in Axton Lane’s life.”

“I’m not that bad,” I mutter.

“Yeah, tell that to the trail of broken hearts you’ve left behind. Are you picking?”

I shake my head, and shock registers on his face, but he puts the truck in gear and drives out of the field without a word. As soon as I get home, I climb into bed on a Saturday night alone for the first time in as long as I can remember.