Chapter 4

Axton

I don’t know if it’s the bottle of water in her hands or the fact that my mouth waters at the sight of her, but I’m thirsty—for her, her attention, for the name she never gave me on the side of the road two weeks ago.

She doesn’t seem like the down and dirty type, so I chose a somewhat sweeter song. The lyrics are spot on, even if I’m pretty much telling her I love her.

I notice no one but her, grateful she doesn’t cringe at the pet name in the song.

I nearly stutter over, “I want to kiss the soft smile playing on her lips,” when her delicate pink tongue licks at her bottom lip. Doing my best not to rush through the song, I go to stand as soon as it’s over.

Carson’s hand catches me on the arm. “Where ya going?”

“She’s here,” I explain. “I’m going to go say hi.”

“The videographer is here, Axton. Let him get a few more songs before your dick starts its mission for the night.”

I grind my teeth, but sit back on the log, wondering if a video of punching him will go viral. No such thing as bad press, right?

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, reading the anger on my face, “but keep in mind we paid a ton of money for him to be here, and getting that video to record companies is the end goal.”

“Don’t talk about her like that and we’ll be fine.”

“Her who?” he asks.

Looking up to point her out, I notice the spot she’d occupied not a minute before empty. I search for her, or the girl in glasses who was standing next to her, but I don’t find either.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “Where’d she go?”

I strum the guitar, agitated, not sure what to play as my eyes search the clusters of people standing around drinking. I find the girl in the glasses, and a split second later, I find her. Long, brown hair, jeans that look amazing even though she hasn’t been poured into them.

My fingers move of their own accord, working on a tune I’ve never played in public. The only time I’ve ever even attempted this in private was to see if I could work on hitting a certain key for another song. My eyes never leave her vicinity. They burn a hole in the side of the head of the man talking to her. He’s standing too close.

I croon lyrics about jealousy, singing to her, telling her every man here will want her and it pisses me off.

The chatter around reduces to a soft din, and she turns toward me, a silly grin on her face at my change in musical direction. I’m glad she finds humor in it, because I’m ready to rip that guy’s face off.

Nick Jonas isn’t exactly something often played out here in the pasture, and I opt for the remix, filled with numerous cuss words and blatant sexual innuendo. As my words continue, her grin flattens and eyes narrow.

By the time the song ends, my pulse is thrumming, my eyes riveted on the guy as he leans down to whisper in her ear, his hand gripping her hips. He’s not happy with being ignored, his mannerisms becoming stiff and edgy. His expression darkens, and I’m a breath away from jumping up and throwing him in the fire when she steps out of his grasp and takes two steps back.

“I would yell at you and tell you not to ever do that shit again, but they ate that shit up.” I frown at Carson, but smile inside when the guy, not interested in the chase, walks away.

Without another moment of pause, I go right back to my roots with “Hurricane” by Luke Combs and stay with country for a couple more songs. Each one, I sing to her. Each one is about her. When I finish and tell Carson I’m done for the night, she doesn’t even look impressed.

“You going to need a ride tonight?” he asks as I hand over my guitar. “From the look on her face, you won’t be riding her.”

“Don’t,” I warn. He’s not saying anything he wouldn’t normally say, but it rankles in reference to her.

“Text me later if you need me. If I don’t hear from you by two, you’re on your own.”

Not reacting to Carson’s warning, I walk away from him straight to her.

“Can I get you a beer?”

She raises her eyebrow. “You mean get one of your girls to get me one?”

“Touché,” I whisper, oddly embarrassed at her noticing them bringing me drinks all night—just like every other night. “My throat gets dry when I sing.”

Her eyes dart to my lips, and the thirst I’ve suffered since she showed up scratches at the back of my throat.

“No thank you,” she says, taking a step back, as if she read my mind and knew I was about to wet my lips with hers.

I clear my throat, now overly aware of my need for a drink and no way to quench that without seeming like an asshole and taking one from another woman while standing in front of her.

“I figured you’d be here last week.”

“Because you asked me?”

I nod.

“You’ll find that I’m—”

“Different,” I interrupt. “You’re different.”

“Hey, Axton,” a girl I don’t even bother looking at says as she walks by. Her finger trails down my back, but the touch does nothing for me.

“You’re not,” my roadside-panty-shower says, indifference in her dark eyes.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not different.”

I grin at her assumption—accurate on so many levels, yet couldn’t be further from the truth on others.

“I’m just like every other up-and-coming, soon-to-be-famous country singer you know.”

“Exactly,” she says, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Here you go, man.” I turn at the tap on my shoulder, and Carson hands over an ice cold beer and a fresh bottle of water. I mouth, “Thank you,” before turning back to her. My fingers graze hers when I pass the new bottle to her, and again when I take the other from her hand and toss it into the fire.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, doll.” I wince inwardly as the borderline derogatory term of endearment slips from my lips.

Her brow furrows as her nose scrunches up. “Right. Nice seeing you again.”

She spins on her heel to walk away, and I catch her elbow. She pauses, but doesn’t turn fully back in my direction.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say, taking the inch she’s giving me by not walking away just yet. “That kind of stuff just slips out, and it’ll continue to happen, but I promise to tone it down.”

Promise?

I don’t promise anything to anyone, yet here I am using the word with a woman I don’t know—and meaning it.

“I just want to hang out, get to know you better.” Some of the tension leaves her body as her arm relaxes under my fingers. My blood sings through my veins at the prospect of spending the night with her. I close the distance between us, becoming more intimate. “We can go somewhere quiet.”

A snicker sounds out behind us, and I ignore it, but her eyes dart there.

My hand runs from her elbow to the tips of her fingers, and they flex against mine. “Don’t you want to play my guitar? Maybe wrap those perfect lips around my harmonica?”

I regret the words instantly, and realize only then I’ve had too much to drink.

For the second time tonight she takes a step back, putting distance between us and breaking our feeble connection. “I have to get up early tomorrow.”

Not getting the “hell no” I expected, I move in closer. “I can make sure you get where you need to go on time.” I grin, sensing she’s going to fold soon. My cock twitches in my jeans at the prospect of sinking inside her tonight.

She smiles up at me. “You want to go with me?”

“Tonight? You bet, baby. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“Not tonight,” she says with a sweet laugh. She reaches up to trail a finger down my cheek, and I sigh, content. “Tomorrow. Come with me to church.”

There’s a challenge in her eyes. She’s toying with me, daring me, and I almost give in, accept the gauntlet she’s thrown, but even I’m not that big of an asshole. First church, then meeting her family? No thanks. She may be beautiful, but no chick is worth that hassle. I’m not a religious guy, and I’m certainly not going to mess with theological stuff to get into some chick’s panties.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” It’s my turn to take a step back and break our connection. I hate the look of confirmation in her eyes, as if she read my mind. “Not really my thing.”

“Nice seeing you again,” she says, her voice saccharine sweet. Turning to leave, she slips her arm through the arm of the girl with the glasses and disappears into the crowd.

Twice now she’s left me standing alone without knowing her name.

“Damn,” Carson says, coming up almost immediately. “Maybe she’s a lesbian.”

“Get me out of here,” I mutter, shrugging off the arm he latches over my shoulders.

“Alone?” He chuckles, and I glare at him. “This new Axton is kind of crabby.”

“Nothing’s changed,” I correct, walking toward his truck without so much as glancing in the direction of women vying for my attention.