Aweek later, Alabama boards the bus for the Straight to Hell Tour, feeling like she’s already halfway there. She’s the first to arrive. Griff’s late, per usual, leaving her with a parking lot full of nosy news media to avoid. The schedule has them in Louisville tonight, performing at Graham’s Grotto, a dinky dive bar with a rep as bad as Alabama’s.
She finds her bedroom at the end of the hall, next to Griff’s. As she unpacks her things into the marble-top dresser, she has to keep reminding herself that this isn’t new to her. She’s been here before. Only six months ago, in fact.
When she told her father she was joining Griff’s tour, he had responded with a grunt of disapproval. “I don’t know, Alabama. I just don’t know.”
Alabama doesn’t know what she’s doing either, but Holly was right. Sure, her career’s seen better days, but it’s not over. No way in hell. If Mort fucking Stein can still land clients, then she sure as hell can have a comeback. All Griff has done is pave the way. Her mind flashes back to last week. Griff bare-chested, his jeans slung low on his waist. He looked damn good, but he also looked wary as hell when she agreed to go along.
He doesn’t want her here any more than she wants him around.
Distance,Alabama thinks, setting a photo of her and her father on the dresser. Keep a Grand Canyon of distance between the two of them and everything will turn out just fine.
It isn’t lost on her that—except for Holly—Griff’s the only one who’s kept faith in her. She’s here because she can sing. Even Freddie, Griff’s bulldog of a manager, had looked her over doubtfully. But she didn’t let any of that bother her. Because for once, Alabama has a kick-ass contract, and that contract gives her the freedom to sing her own songs. She has boatloads of ’em. Songs Mort made her shelve. Songs he said weren’t good enough. He had her singing like some country Britney Spears when she wanted to be Dolly.
Her eyes land on her guitar. Truth be told, she’s giddy with excitement for this opportunity. For once, she’ll do the right thing: take control of her life and let her love of music—not fame—drive her. If she can survive six weeks on the road with Griff, she’ll have enough money to pay off her legal fees and, by the time it’s over, get the hell away from Griff Greyson and start fresh. Easy.
Real easy.
A commotion outside has her attention drifting. Peering through the window, she sees Griff sauntering through the parking lot full of news media. He’s got a bottled blonde tucked under his arm, and Alabama rolls her eyes at his token entourage. She knows about his reputation as a womanizer. He went through ’em like Tic Tacs. Griff’s no different from any man she’s ever known. Everyone loves, everyone lies, and everyone leaves. Especially in the music business.
Alabama meets him at the front of the bus as he’s disentangling from the blonde. Before he can escape, she grips his hand and pulls him back for a sloppy kiss.
A pang of jealousy rolls through Alabama, and instantly she’s angry with herself. She’s not looking to rekindle the past. Just her career.
This is what got her in trouble in the first place. Cozying up to Griff is not an option. Hell, he’s the one who dumped her way back when. The only thing she’s on this bus to do is shake her bad image, to do things her own way, to keep it platonic no matter how good a tattooed Griff Greyson looks.
Alabama angles her gaze down at Griff where he stands at the foot of the stairs. “Bad night?”
He grips the bar and pulls himself up so they’re standing on the same stair. Inches apart. Alabama bristles as his chest brushes against hers. His musky scent’s tainted by floral perfume. On his breath—booze and spearmint. He lifts his sunglasses to look at her, those yellow eyes of his pinning her down. “I’ll tell you right now, sweetheart, bad life.”
There’s the flash of a camera.
Griff braces a hand on the wall beside her.
Alabama’s heart beats unsteady in her chest; she’s unable to tear her gaze from his. He’s got her shivering in her skin like she’s seventeen all over again.
Damn Griff Greyson.
“Griffy,” whines the rail-thin blue-eyed blonde below.
“Your puppy dog’s cute,” Alabama tells Griff. “What’s her name?”
“Nikki,” he grunts, instantly looking uncomfortable at the conversation.
Alabama gives the girl a bright smile, only to be greeted by a middle finger.
Griff groans.
“Mmm.” Alabama lifts a brow. “Seems like she has real good manners. You must be proud.”
His lips lift at the corner, but he doesn’t look happy. “Look, you gonna bust my balls or are we gonna get the hell on the bus?”
Alabama wets her lips. Extends an arm. “After you.”
He stares at her for an extra-long beat, then brushes past her, his scarred face twisted up into a scowl.
Alabama follows, heading into the lounge at the front of the bus. She bypasses Griff, who sits on a couch, to settle into the small dinette near the kitchen. She wraps her arms around herself and forces her eyes away from Griff, unwilling to let the girl or Griff get to her.
She’s not here to make nice. She’s here to sing.