There are three things Griff’s good at: fighting, singing, and kissing pretty women.
Add a fourth to that. Pissing off Alabama Forester.
He saw her hasty exit minutes earlier with that busted-ass bolo-tie-wearing cowboy, moving fast like she couldn’t wait to get away from him. He keeps his face forward, scowling at the rows of alcohol behind the bar. Watching that cowboy spin Alabama all over the dance floor ain’t his idea of a good time.
At least she stopped drinking those damn shots. He already ripped Scotty a new one for pushing alcohol on her. Goading Alabama into doin’ something is like waving a red flag at a bull. You just don’t do it. Or you do it, and then you run.
Griff leans his elbows on the bar and rolls out his tense shoulders. He finally told Nikki to get lost. But that’s not why he’s bothered. He’s bothered because he cares. Goddamn, does he care about Alabama. Always has. He can’t fucking deny it anymore. Singing onstage with her night after night—it’s a feeling more intense than lust. A tenderness, that same gotta know her, gotta have her feeling he had when he first saw her walking down that dusty dirt road with a cherry pie to welcome him and his mama to town.
And tonight, reminiscing about good times in Clover, just cranked on all those buried-deep feelings. Not to mention a rogue wave of guilt twenty foot tall. He’s wanted to tell her so long why he left, but it wouldn’t matter. He sees what she thinks of him.
He’s a fuckup with a quick temper. A loser who left her. And she’ll never forgive him for breaking her heart.
Griff stares down at his drink, his fingers digging into the cheap glass. He knows she’s hurting, too. Physically. Her injury from the rollover. He sees the pain in her face night after night after finishing a set; she practically limps back to the bus. He even ordered Brian to put a stool out onstage so she could sit and rest while she sings, but she ignores it. Damn mule-headed woman.
A groan rips out of Griff, and he swallows the rest of his drink. Twisting on the barstool, he scans the bar for Alabama. For that flash of red hair that always told him she was near. Except she’s not.
Griff’s spine goes stiff. He snaps his fingers at Brian, who’s skirting the bar with a pool cue in his hand.
“Where is she?”
Brian halts in his tracks. “Who? Nikki?”
“No. Alabama.”
Brian shrugs. “She went out back with the guy she was dancing with.”
Griff tenses. There’s a roaring in his ears, a strange kind of panic and urgency tearing through him.
Brian sighs, his mouth flatlining. “Dude, you’re gettin’—”
He’s up and moving before Brian can finish his sentence.
No one’s seeing Alabama naked tonight.
And sure as hell not when she’s fucking drunk.
Though he’s no saint himself, has had many one-night stands, he never took a woman to bed if she didn’t have her wits about her. It wasn’t fair. To her or to him. And tonight, Alabama definitely doesn’t have her wits.
He stomps across the dance floor and slams open the door to the alleyway. Instantly, he’s greeted by neon light, by the buzz of a fluorescent beer sign.
The next thing he sees has his insides turning to liquid. Has Griff thanking Christ he made it here when he did.
Alabama’s sitting on the window ledge, pressed back against the wall, her gray eyes unfocused and swimming. The strap of her dress hangs loose, flashing a peek of lavender lace bra. The cowboy has one hand on her cheek, while his other hand grips Alabama’s shapely thigh.
Bolo Tie dips his head for her lips.
Griff stops him with a growl. “Don’t you goddamn move.”
Alabama’s eyes pop open. “Griff?” she calls, searching for him in the darkness.
He moves toward her. “I’m here, Al.”
Bolo Tie glances over his shoulder. “Hey, man, we’re busy.”
Griff clenches his jaw, his fist. Some big-mouthed cowboy trying to give him static ain’t happening.
“Move,” he demands, baring his teeth in a dangerous canine snarl. “Now.”