Alabama forces herself to listen even as Griff’s eyes glaze over from boredom.
But there’s only one fact that matters.
She and Griff—they’re on the bus. They can’t get away from each other now.
After arriving in Louisville, Alabama disappears to get ready for the show, while Griff stretches lazily on the couch. All he wants to do is take a nap, sleep off his beer buzz, cleanse his system of Nikki. She’s like a tick. Always hanging on, following him to the next town. He saw the way Alabama was looking at her today. Though it gives him a slight thrill to think he’s pissed her off, he also hates her thinking Nikki’s his.
She’s not.
None of the girls are. Years of having a different girl every night just don’t cut it no more. He’s been on a sex freeze for a while now. Longer than he wants to admit. Besides, all the girls, they’re all the same. Cheap thrills. Nothing serious. Nothing like Alabama. No woman could compete with her.
Griff feels the couch lurch as Brian sits beside him, jarring him from his thoughts.
He lowers his sunglasses, glares at his cousin as he leans up on his elbows. “I’m tryin’ to sleep, man.”
Ignoring him, Brian taps the top of Griff’s boot with a pen. “You got anyone I should add to the list tonight? Griff?”
But Griff doesn’t answer him.
He can’t.
He’s too busy staring at Alabama, who’s just come down the hall. His eyes narrow at her outfit, no doubt picked perfectly to mess with his head. Every curve of hers—breasts, waist, hips—is hugged by a metallic miniskirt, a rhinestone belt, and a tight black top. Her sky-high heels are the cherry on top.
Fuck.
His dick, his heart clenches. She looks so damn good it hurts.
Brian’s eyes metronome between Griff and Alabama. “Let’s see your set list,” he says, snapping his fingers at Alabama.
With a sigh, Alabama hands it over. Griff gets her frustration. She’s a pro; being micromanaged by a childhood-friend-turned-tour-manager is no doubt a pain in her ass.
Brian’s lips quirk in amusement as he scans the songs. “‘Butterfly Anthem’?”
The frown on Alabama’s face deepens. It’s a shit song, but someone making fun of it is off limits.
“Lay off,” Griff says. “We all got songs we don’t like.”
“We do,” she says. “I especially hate ‘Tailgate King.’”
Griff busts out with a belly-deep laugh, too impressed to be insulted. The song, it’s one of his own. One toward which he feels an especially fierce loathing. “Brian wrote that.”
Alabama flashes a shit-eating grin. Pins her gaze to Brian, who’s turned beet red. “I know it.” The proud jut of her chin tells Griff she can hold her own, tells him she doesn’t need him to come to her defense.
“Mikey’s got your guitar onstage,” Brian grumbles, handing her back the set list. “It’s ready when you are.”
Alabama pauses at the door. A wince crosses her face as she presses a hand into her side, near her back. There’s the barely inaudible inhale of air.
Griff sits up and leans forward. “Hey. You okay?” He surveys her quick, careful.
“Fine.” She flashes a faint smile. “Just stiff. It’s not a big deal. I’m used to it.”
Guilt sweeps over him like a dry breeze. Knowing that her hip is still hurting her all this time later has him feeling like a gigantic asshole. Christ, he didn’t even know. But it’s his own damn fault because he didn’t stick around long enough to find out.
Alabama’s expression resets itself to a cool, calm facade. No telltale signs of pain, no nothing. She gives Griff a little wave with her fingertips. “I’ll try to rock-and-roll it up for you.”
Griff settles back into the couch, anchoring his boots to the floor, because all he wants to do is get up and go to her and make sure she isn’t hurting anymore. “You do that.”
The minute the door shuts, Brian laughs. “Man, they’re gonna eat her alive.”