The Devil Dog Lounge in Myrtle Beach is a grungy bar out on some country dirt back road. It’s late, after midnight, after a show that killed it. Griff, the band, and Alabama are in one of the best moods they’ve been in, and ready to celebrate. Tomorrow’s their first day off in a week. And so far, Griff’s been a poster child for good behavior. There’s no drinking to excess, no missing shows. He’s kept it professional, and she’s kept her distance. Talk when you need to; shut the hell up when you don’t. The way it should be. The way it’s gonna be.
The tour’s also getting good press. For once, the Nashville Star isn’t so focused on her sex and instead is focusing on her songs.
Which puts Alabama in a very celebratory mood.
She glances down the bar where Griff and his band—the Gunslingers—have bellied up. Scotty, their drummer, orders shots of tequila. As he passes them down the line, he catches her eye. “You doin’ this, Red?”
Accepting the shot, Alabama raises it in a toast. “Anything worth doin’ is worth doin’ right.” She shoots back the tequila, swallowing through the burn as Scotty cracks out a gunshot of a laugh.
She smiles, finally feeling as if she’s found her groove with the band. Sure, the communal bathroom sucks and the closet space is lacking, but she doesn’t mind sharing a bus with the boys. They treat her like one of their own. Anything to be back onstage again, to be singing her songs. Although, so far, her songs have been met with a lukewarm reception. She knows it’s because they’re older; she needs to write new material, but she can’t work up the nerve. She’s worried about clamming up again. She didn’t like the way it made her feel. Vulnerable and anxious. It opened up a whole new world that was scary and strange and foreign. What if she can’t do it anymore?
“Another?” Scotty asks.
She nods, glancing down the bar at Griff, who’s got Nikki pressed up against his side. Singing with Griff—it’s not something she bargained for. It gets her hot and bothered more times than she wants to admit. Sharing a mic with him, his low voice unfurling like a spool of velvet so close to her ear she shivers. So far all they’ve done are covers, but it’s made her think of the past and the songwriting sessions they used to hunker down for. It was like sex. Writing their songs. The closest, the most passionate they had ever been.
“Man, y’all sure made the whole stage rattle tonight,” says Coop, the big, burly bass player. He ashes his cigar on the bar, much to the chagrin of the scowling waitress.
“You should’ve heard ’em back in the day,” Brian supplies and Alabama fights to hold back an eye roll. His smile’s proud, like he personally introduced the two of them.
“No way.” Scotty gapes at Griff. “Really?”
Griff, not looking happy with his cousin volunteering the information, turns his empty shot glass between his scarred knuckles. The glass clinks against the metal of his rings. “Really.”
“Man, how did I not know this?” Scotty drums his hands across the bar top and whistles. “Now that’s a story I’m gonna need.”
Alabama leans back from the bar, voice neutral. “Ain’t no story. We knew each other in the past. We sang together once upon a time. The end.”
Griff lifts a brow but doesn’t say a word.
“I knew there was somethin’,” Scotty muses. “The way the two of you sing ... like fire and gasoline.”
“Combustible,” Alabama mutters under her breath.
“You wanna sniff something out,” Griff says easily, slapping Scotty on the back like he can kick him into a different gear, “sniff me out a goddamn drink.”
At that, Scotty rattles off an order for a whiskey neat.
Alabama quickly surveys Griff. A decision she immediately regrets. Because when Nikki leans in to nuzzle Griff’s neck, Alabama has to fight the urge to scrape out her eyeballs.
The tips of her ears burn, and she looks away.
Good Lord, what’s wrong with her? Getting back in the saddle with Griff ain’t even a thing. It ain’t even an option. It’s a mistake is what it would be. And yet, she can feel it. Every time she gets close to him, onstage, on the bus, she can’t help but go back there. To Clover. To the way she used to feel. Damn near close to spontaneously combusting from lust.
Lust she can work with.
She turns to Coop. “Another.”
Coop looks impressed. “Man, girl, you keep continuin’ to impress.” He looks past Scotty and Brian to Griff. “Greyson, you think she can outdrink you?”
Scotty passes down a shot. “Now that’s a bet I’d put good money on.”
“How much?” Alabama asks, wiggling her brows before shooting the white-gold liquid back down without so much as a second thought.
Tonight, it’s her turn to have fun. To make mistakes, to drink herself silly. She hasn’t had a good time in so long. Besides, they’re off tomorrow. Griff can get as drunk as a skunk because that’s what she plans to do.
Two more shots are set in front of her. Scotty whips out a wad of dollar bills.
Griff stares slack-jawed as Alabama downs the shots in quick succession.