She rips her arm away from Mikey and then spins around on her heel.
She needs to get away from Griff. Fast.
Two in the morning and the sound of laughter shakes the entire bus. Alabama exits her room to see the front of the lounge packed with people. She wades through the haze of smoke and conversation to see Griff sitting on the black leather couch, a beer in his hand. There’s a brunette with thigh-high boots tucked into his side.
When Alabama hovers in the corridor, Brian gives her a nod. “We wake you up?” he asks in a tone that says he doesn’t care. He’s in the dinette, counting money from the merchandise sales. Alabama can’t help compare his expression to the same one Mort would wear. Greedy as hell. He doesn’t care about the music or Griff. All he cares about is getting rich.
“You did,” she says coolly.
Before she can silently escape, Griff glances up, his tawny-colored eyes sliding to hers. The girl he’s with looks Alabama over from head to toe—scanning her bare legs, her long T-shirt and ratty hair—and softly snorts. “Who’s that?”
“No one,” Griff drawls, his voice husky and bored.
The girl giggles and marks her territory by scooting herself up onto Griff’s lap.
Resentment curls Alabama’s stomach. She can’t deny it anymore. She’s jealous, like some damn teenage girl. In fact, teen Alabama would haul this girl off Griff’s lap by her hair and toss her out on her ass.
But she ain’t that girl anymore, and Griff ain’t hers.
The truest two facts she knows.
Alabama watches as Brian pushes another beer on Griff, watches as Griff fumbles with the lighter to light a cigarette. Her gaze narrowing, she takes in the cemetery of beer cans, the empty whiskey bottles. Griff, his face drawn, looks worse than she’s ever seen him.
As if he’s read her mind, Mikey steps close to her from where he’d been refilling the small fridge with beers. “He started drinkin’ the minute you left the stage.”
Her stomach drops. “Shit.”
“He could barely finish his set.” Mikey’s hushed voice betrays worry. “It wasn’t a missed show, but ... it was close.”
That seals it. She pins her gaze to Griff. “We got a six o’clock show tomorrow.”
His brows lift, but his voice remains deadened. “So?”
“So. That’s early. You gonna be able to take the stage feelin’ like shit?”
He sneers. “I’ll do better than you did tonight.”
The girl giggles and the scornful sound slices through Alabama like a knife. A reminder of what she lost. A reminder of what she can still lose.
Freddie’s threat ringing in her head—they miss a show, they end the tour—Alabama tries again. “You keep drinkin’ yourself silly, you won’t be able to play.”
Griff knocks back the entire beer in three deep gulps. He wipes his mouth on his arm. “Guess you’ll see tomorrow.”
“No, you’ll see tomorrow,” she warns. “Crack of dawn I’m gonna be in your room wakin’ your ass up.”
Keeping his eyes on her, a smirk on his face, Griff calmly cracks open another beer.
Mikey swears under his breath, and Brian snickers.
That’s it.
Not missing a beat, Alabama strides forward.
She rips the beer from Griff’s hands and tosses it in the trash.
“Hey!” he snaps.
He stumble-staggers to standing, tossing the brunette off his lap.