Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Copyright © 2017 by Holly Hall
[email protected]
All rights reserved. This book or any portion
thereof may not be reproduced or used in any
manner whatsoever without the express written
permission of the author, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental. The use of any real company and/or
product names is for literary effect only. All other
trademarks and copyrights are the property of their
respective owners.
Cover design by Kat Savage:
www.thekatsavage.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Stay Connected
Books by Holly Hall
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To my reader group, the Smokin’Squad. Without
you, this book might not have existed. Without you,
Jenson might have never had the chance to redeem
himself.
Chapter 1
Jenson
I tug the cap farther down on my head, hunching
over the bar top and two fingers of my most
favorite vice: whiskey. Maker’s, to be exact. The
amber liquid gleaming in the neon lights of the bar
looks almost warm. It certainly has its arms
wrapped around me more often than not. But the
truth is, it’s the coldest thing there is. It blurs
rationality and the hard line between right and
wrong.
Oh yeah, and it fucking decimates relationships.
My realization is alarmingly slow to settle that
I’m doing it again—deflecting blame. The liquor
didn’t breathe inadequate words at my ex-wife,
words that were meant to soothe, to temper, but
really just fueled the flames of her hatred for our
marriage. The bottle didn’t force her to leave. I did.
I did those things. And until I accept responsibility,
there’s no hope for me. My therapist in rehab told
me that. Not in so many words, but being a
songwriter and musician, I’m pretty good at reading
between the lines.
I’ve drunk so much I’m surprised I’m not
pickled yet. But I can’t stay away. Being out here
—walking among the living—keeps me connected
to the world I’m afraid to lose. The one I love and
hate. I am not made for the greed and narcissism of
the industry, yet I hold onto my career with
desperate fingers even as it slices deep. Nothing
sticks in my world; not good habits, not love.
I took as many precautions as one could when
they’re a platinum-album recording artist at a bar
near Broadway, one of the busiest streets in
Nashville. My prolonged social media hiatus means
everyone thinks I’m as long-haired and bare-faced
as always, and my sleeves cover most of my
trademark tattoos. Maybe Tripp’s wasn’t the
smartest of choices for my Thursday-night binger,
I’ll admit, but I’m sick of hiding. I’m tired of
camouflaging who I am for the sake of others. I
haven’t completely committed to waving my career
good bye as it flushes down the shitter, but I’d
better get used to the idea—that’s what’s going to
happen if anyone in this bar happens to recognize
my face in the sea of bleary strangers.
Even my own bandmates think I’m plotting my
comeback. I’m supposed to be writing music right
now, but what am I doing? Pouring gasoline on all
the bridges I’m about to burn.
Though I want to flip two middle fingers to it
all, I can’t stop my gaze from flitting around the
room. If I’m being documented by other bar-goers
guzzling whiskey while I’m supposed to be getting
my life on track, I at least want the heads up so I
can prepare an epic, not at all meaningful apology
speech for the label execs. But nobody gives me a
second glance. As of now, the haircut is working.
It’s the one everyone and their dad is rocking these
days—short on the sides and long on top—and I’ve
allowed my stubble to reach its full potential. Yeah,
a beard, as if I could get more cliché.
Counting it as good luck that no one’s onto me,
I go to turn around and snag Tripp for another
whiskey, when something by the entrance makes
me pause. Or rather, someone. The neon plays off
strands of dark hair, pulled up on top of her head in
something my ex-wife would refer to as a topknot,
though it looks more like a nest you could lose a
bunch of shit in if you weren’t careful. I peg her as
someone in the hospitality industry based on the
usual get-up—little T-shirt with a mass-produced
logo emblazoned on the front, shorts, a slice of flat
stomach showing between the two, and non-slip
shoes. But it’s not her general attractiveness
holding my attention, it’s the preoccupied look in
her eyes.
She’s shooting worried glances out the door as
if she’s watching for someone, but she flattens
against the wall after each look. Like she’s
expectant, but at the same time doesn’t want to be
seen. The group of twenty-somethings huddled
around a table near the dartboards keeps looking
her way, eating her up with their eyes and talking
loudly, puffing their chests like they’re animals
trying to attract a mate. If they haven’t learned by
now that subtlety is the key to winning the hearts of
girls way out of their league, chances are they
never will.
Redirecting my attention, I raise a couple
fingers to signal to Tripp for another. Not your
problem, Jenson. He slides a glass my way,
accompanied by a look of warning. I ignore him
and take a long pull, relishing the warmth as it
reaches its fingers down my throat. I remember
when whiskey used to burn. But you can’t fight fire
with fire, and I burn everything I touch.
I feel her before I see her, hearing the whoosh
of her breath as she plops down two barstools over.
I look in her direction and immediately regret it. I
study the bottles up on the shelves instead, though
their labels are ones I memorized long ago.
I think I hear her mutter “Who pissed in your
Cheerios?” but I can’t be sure. I don’t chance
another look. Her wide gray eyes told me a
thousand things in a fraction of a second, much
more than words ever could. I’ve seen that look
before—in Raven’s eyes six months after our
divorce. The look of someone who’s open, feeling.
Things Raven had hardly been during the five years
we were together.
I take another swig of Maker’s to temper the
memories, but my recollection of Raven is so
flavored with liquor I almost feel her here, feel her
disappointment. I can see the girl in my periphery,
but she pays no more attention to me. It seems her
focus is torn between the front door and the one
leading to the kitchen, behind the bar. It’s
unsettling, the way it dances uneasily as a wild
horse’s.
“Looking for someone?” I can’t keep the words
from coming out. It doesn’t look like she’s drinking
or expecting anyone. She probably came off her
shift somewhere, so I’m sure the last thing she
wants to do is hang out in some bar, marinating in
the same shit she’s had to deal with all day.
Besides, this place is a sausage party.
I allow another sidelong glance. Just one, and
when her distracted, stormy eyes finally fix on me,
she doesn’t react. There’s no glimmer of
recognition, not even a flinch of the pitying looks
that have become normal as of late. Her head
swivels back to the door, eyes alert.
“Um,” she finally says, facing forward again,
craning her neck to see through the porthole
window in the door to the kitchen. “No. Just, uh,
wondering if it’s going to rain.”
The comment is so unexpected that I let out a
burst of a chuckle, fully looking at her before it
registers that she could be the one who recognizes
me, who puts the final nail in the coffin of my
sullied image and my limping career. “You melt in
the rain or something?”
Worrying her lip, she drums her chewed nails
on the counter. If it weren’t for those gunmetal-
gray eyes, I’d be distracted by the colorful stack of
bracelets on her arms—the hand-woven friendship
type. “No. I walk to work, and I didn’t bring an
umbrella today.”
I’m not even sure if it’s going to rain. When I
walked in earlier, the air was thick, the clouds
swollen and dark, but as far as I know the
pavement’s dry as dust. “So why don’t you call a
cab?”
Her gaze nearly pins me to the wall. “I don’t
walk to work every day just to turn around and
blow my tips on cab fare.”
“Which one do you work at?” Her eyes tighten
and I tilt my head back toward the street. “Which
bar?”
“Not a bar, a record store. Rhythm and Beans.”
I know of it. Who doesn’t? It’s a record shop-
café combination across the street that caters to
tourists with their overpriced T-shirts and hats and
key chains.
“Ah.”
“What?” she snaps, catching my distaste.
I shrug languidly, finish off my glass. Consider
ordering another. “Just not my scene.”
“What’s not your scene, fun?”
I snort. “You call that tourist circus fun? You
must not be from around here. That place is a skid
mark on this street.”
“Whatever.” She picks at the corner of a menu,
shutting me out. I might’ve been silently ragging on
those other guys earlier for their ineffective
attempts to catch her eye, but I haven’t done much
better. Then again, I’m not trying.
I shift, pulling my wallet from my back pocket
and peeling a twenty from the wad of cash inside. I
toss it onto the bar, catch the other bartender’s eye.
“Whatever the lady wants.”
She slaps the bill and slides it right back to me,
snatching her hand away before I can even think
about deflecting her. “Uh, the lady doesn’t want
your money. And the lady’s name is Lindsey.”
“That makes it easier on me, then. I didn’t even
have to ask. And excuse me for contributing to the
cause.” When she shoots daggers at me in the form
of a glare, I hold the twenty up between two
fingers. “Look, no offense, but I can tell you’re
having a bad day. You could’ve used this for a few
beers, a couple shots, maybe even a cab. But if
you’re not going to use it, I might as well give it to
my friend here.” I dangle the bill over the tip jar
and she watches it intently, trading glances between
it and me.
“But, I understand if you’re into that girl power
thing. That ‘don’t open the door for me and
undermine my own capabilities’ bullshit. I was just
trying to be nice.”
Chewing on her lip, Lindsey draws a menu
toward her with one finger, then pushes it away.
“Yeah, no. Thanks for the effort, but I kind of just
want to go home. I guess that was nice, though.”
She angles her head toward the tip jar, and the bill
flutters down to join the others.
“None taken. Come on, I’ll drop you off.” I go
to stand, pausing beside the stool to get my
bearings. I’ve been affixed to this bar for almost
two hours, and although I’m well practiced at
concealing how much I’ve drunk, I don’t want to
fall on my face and cause a scene.
“Again, no offense, but I don’t think you’re in
the position to take anyone home.”
The bartender, Tripp, who’s also the owner and
a good buddy of mine—one who does his best to
fend off my efforts at tarnishing my own name—
slides my debit card and receipt toward me so I can
close my tab. I should’ve remembered to use cash.
More discreet. My fingers are thick and clumsy
around the thin plastic, and the card bobbles,
tumbling toward the floor. Before I can retrieve it,
Lindsey’s hunched over and fishing it out from
beneath her stool.
She glances at my card—awesome, because if
she didn’t know who I was before, she certainly
does now—and hands it back to me almost
dismissively. No questions, no requests for photos
or autographs or any of the usual clamor that
occurs when people realize who I am.
I watch her as I slide it into my back pocket.
“Thanks for your concern, but I have a ride
waiting. A sober ride. Take it or leave it.”
I can see the inner debate play out in her eyes.
It’s strange to see someone with thoughts so
unguarded. After five years of Raven, it’s a shock
to the system. I wonder briefly how young she is.
Sighing, she shoulders her bag—a beat-up
messenger type. She’s not one of those label snobs.
“Okay, but don’t think for one second that me
taking you up on this offer is also me making some
unspoken agreement to sleep with you for your
‘generosity.’ I won’t. Let me make that clear.” I’m
holding up my hands in surrender before she
literally puts her hand over my mouth, making me
swallow any words on the verge of coming out.
“And don’t touch me. I have pepper spray.
Seriously.”
“Pardon me for pointing it out, but you touched
me first. Just saying.” She breezes past me without
a word before halting right in front of the glass
door, glancing out. Then she spins right back
toward me. “Is there a back door we can use?”
“There’s always a back door,” I say with a
straight face. I catch myself before my hand fits in
the curve of her lower back to guide the way,
waving toward the door past the restrooms instead.
“Right this way.” I consider questioning her
decision to slip out the back, but I push down my
curiosity. She doesn’t seem to want to explain, and
I don’t want to seem too eager to know anything
about her. For seeming so naïve, she’s not
defenseless. Not at all like I first assumed.
We step out into the back alley, and though she
doesn’t know where we’re going, she walks a step
ahead of me. I stuff my hands into my pockets, the
tang of the oily urban air partially cleaving my
whiskey stupor. She’s mostly going in the right
direction, so I don’t stop her. The other way
would’ve been quicker, but I’m enjoying the view
too much. She’s tall—maybe five-eight or so—and
her frayed jean shorts hug her swaying hips like a
glove. Black ink shows just above the back of her
tank top, and I can just make out the top half of a
circle in the dull lighting. I bite back a smile; I’m no
stranger to ink. Half of my torso, some of both
hands, and most of my arms, from chest to shoulder
to wrist, are covered in it.
We pause at a cross street, and she takes a step
before realizing I’m no longer following her. I tilt
my head left and we continue north, away from the
bustle of Broadway. My pickup point is a few
blocks from here, in a quieter area.
Lindsey’s strides are less confident now, eating
up less ground. She glances behind us a few times
before we reach Carter’s black Tahoe.
I open the back door for her, and she glances
inside, trying to get a look at the driver. “Carter,
this is Lindsey, go ahead and give her a nice wave
so she doesn’t think we’re abducting her or
something.”
Carter, my best friend and the drummer from
my band, looks up from his phone, lifting two
fingers in his version of a friendly greeting. “Hey,
Lindsey,” he says, shooting me a look. He’s used to
me bringing girls home, but I promised him just the
other night that I was done with it. I used women
like I used alcohol—to plug up the hole in my
heart. My selection could’ve been better, safer, but
at those times, I wasn’t sober enough or happy
enough to care.
Tonight, I didn’t even have to look for
someone. She found me. But I steal a glance at her,
looking small and alone in the backseat, as I fold
myself into the front passenger side and shut the
door, and I know I won’t try to take her home. The
look in her eyes back at the bar, irises tainted with
caution, told me she wasn’t the type. Plus, I’m not
one to take advantage of someone’s fragile mental
state. I believe in karma, to an extent. She’s
certainly been a bitch to me.
“Where are we taking you?” I ask. I repeat
myself when I see her reflection in the side mirror,
looking out the window, her mind somewhere else
again.
“Oh, um, I live at Carrington Park,” she says,
her voice quieter since she’s now twisted in her
seat, facing the rear window.
Carter gives me a questioning look and points to
his head, hinting she’s crazy, and I shrug at him. It
might be rude to presume, but I don’t really know
her enough to firmly deny it. Putting the truck in
gear, he pulls away from the curb.
“Could we not? I can’t . . . don’t want to go
home tonight.”
I shoot Carter a covert look when his hands flex
on the steering wheel and he grumbles just loud
enough for me to hear. I don’t want to make her
uncomfortable. “Okay, anywhere else we can take
you?” Carter amends, raising his eyebrows at me. I
nod in approval. Better.
I see her lick her pouty lower lip, then bite it,
but not in a seductive way. Earlier, it was reddened
and raw from where she’d probably been chewing
on it all day.
“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
My confusion aside, she sounds lost. Utterly
lost. And I don’t think she’s that great of an actress,
I can practically see every thought flicker across
her features. “If you don’t mind a bachelor pad
that’s in no way suitable for female company, you
could come to our place. Hang out for a little
while.” I figure she just needs somewhere to wind
down, maybe. Somewhere she doesn’t feel alone. I
can commiserate.
Her shoulders drop. “Okay,” she breathes.
Chapter 2
Lindsey
I’m not crazy. I know how it looks, especially to
narrow-minded men who see women as hardly
more than a good lay or a pain in the ass, but I’m
not crazy. Paranoid, maybe, but that’s where I draw
the line. My head may be up in the clouds half the
day, but I know what’s real, and reality is usually
uglier than anything I can imagine.
I force myself to face forward, smooth my
fidgety hands over my denim shorts. My nerves are
shot, but that has little to do with the men in the
front seat. After a rocky session photographing an
indie punk band this afternoon and a shift at the
café, my anxiety is through the roof. Juggling
coked-out musicians followed immediately by
serving the rowdy patrons who stumble into the
record shop will do that to you. I work in a near-
constant state of panic that I’m not doing enough.
All to fund my dreams.
But I don’t have expectations, ever, and I know
anything worth having won’t come easily. I moved
from Denver three months ago to refine my craft
and chase my dream of becoming a music
photographer. I’ve met a few people here and
there, people that “know” people, but it’s an uphill
battle in an industry where self-teaching is all the
rage, connections matter more than almost anything
else, and everyone thinks they have what it takes to
take a good photograph. But I told my mom I’d
succeed. I made a promise. And I didn’t move
across the country, a thousand miles away from her,
for nothing.
And tonight, I can’t even go home to get a
decent night’s rest before the madness starts all
over again tomorrow. Because he’s found out
where my apartment is and, like several other
nights this week, he’ll be there waiting. Craig.
I swallow thickly, avoid the curious glances the
guys in the front seat direct at me from the mirrors.
This kind of irrational decision-making is what
probably got me into this mess in the first place, but
it’s Jenson King who offered to take me home. He’s
already made such a mess of his life that I doubt
he’d risk an abduction or rape scandal. Despite the
drastic change in facial hair and the ball cap over
his new-ish haircut, I could’ve told you who he was
the moment I sat beside him and met those soulful,
down-turned eyes. He might think he’s fooling
everyone else by covering the ink on his arms, but
I’m supposed to know the ins and outs of this
industry. It’s part of the job.
Besides, anyone with half a brain should’ve
been able to pick him out of a crowd. There’s
nobody who plays with the passion he does.
Nobody who caresses each note with his tongue
and the strum of his fingers as if every single one is
worth his undivided attention. The appear...