“Order up!”
Alabama Forester winces at the shrill screech coming out of the kitchen. Mindlessly, she fills large tumblers full of ice and Coca-Cola, the sticky liquid splattering the front of her apron. Her gaze swivels across the room. A group of truck drivers crammed into a booth. Two young mothers bouncing babies at a small table. Hot pink graffiti scrawled across the front window: To mess with Texas or not to mess with Texas, that is the question.
She sighs. Great. Now her shift just got longer, thanks to some dickweed who thinks he’s Shakespeare.
If anyone from Nashville could see her now, they wouldn’t believe it. Smelling like fried grease, sloshing beer, schlepping food for the locals. It would mortify her teenage self beyond belief that she was back here. Hell, she can’t believe she’s back here. Back in her hometown of Clover, Texas, population 3,500, working at the local dive, Mill’s Tavern, wearing a scratchy apron that could double as kindling.
Alabama’s five hundred miles from Nashville, lying low like the trifling coward she is. Hoping, wishing, and praying that the last four months blow over.
Though she ain’t too happy about the reasons that brought her home, she loves Clover. It’s the town that raised her, Mill’s Tavern the spot that kicked off her musical path. If only she knew how steep that path descended, right down into a fiery pit of what-the-fuck-did-I-do?, she might have rethought her next steps.
She might have rethought her life.
“We got burgers so rare the cow’s still mooin’ in the field.”
The bubbly voice jars Alabama from her thoughts, and she glances up at the kitchen window. Her best friend, Holly—the fry cook, the manager, the emcee, and everything else under the sun—sets a plate stacked with a greasy hamburger in the window.
Alabama makes a face at the blood pooling on the plate. “Remind me to never let you write the menu.”
“That’s an insult to the chef,” Holly replies, adjusting the red bandanna around her brow.
Alabama, suddenly feeling eyes on her, glances over her shoulder at the table of Carhartt-wearing truckers. One man’s staring at her with wary concentration.
“They know me,” Alabama says as she balances another Coke on the tray.
Holly sticks her head out of the kitchen window for a better look, her neon pink lipstick making Alabama wish she had on a pair of shades. “Of course they know you. You’re Clover’s claim to fame.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Look at them.”
“They just want an autograph from our pop-country princess.”
“Bullshit. They’re leerin’, Holly.” Alabama sighs, adding the last plate of food to her already-full tray.
Holly grins. “Speaking of leerin’ ...” Her curly blond head disappears. Then she’s back, her phone in her hands, the Nashville Star website called up on the screen. “Did you see Broody McBroodster made the Star today?”
Alabama scoffs at the headline. Country Music Star Griff Greyson Arrested on Disorderly Conduct Charge in Nashville.
In the picture, Griff, being escorted out of Robert’s Western World, looks worse for wear. Like something rough and bitter scraped off the grill for the first time in two years.
Holly swipes to the next photo. “I think he’s punchin’ somethin’ here. Or maybe he’s holdin’ a beer.”
Alabama forces a half-hearted shrug. Griff doesn’t deserve an ounce of her sympathy. “And everyone’ll still love him,” she says in a dry drawl. “It’s the name of the boy’s game.”
With a groan, she hefts the tray. While she can tool around with her old six-string any day of the week, a tray of food and Cokes is nearly besting her. “Remind me why I’m doin’ this again?”
“Money. Cold hard cash, Al.”
Money. She needs it. All because of one terrible mistake. Is this what she’s going to be for the rest of her life? A waitress in her dusty hometown? She should be steaming her face in a sauna, not steaming her face on the grill.
“Yeah. Don’t I know it,” Alabama mutters.
“I know you hate it. But you gotta go out there. Fluff your hair. Put a smile on your face.”
She evaluates the men in the booth. “It ain’t the stage, Hol.”