It’s dusk by the time they leave the boot shop. Griff walks slow beside Alabama on the Oceanfront Boardwalk, taking in her stance, her lightened limp. She’s ditched the heels and is wearing her new boots. A honey-colored pair of Luccheses with elaborate stitching.
“How do they feel?” he asks.
Alabama stops in her tracks and does a little twirl. The hem of her long-sleeved yellow maxi dress flares up, exposing her long slender legs. Griff’s stomach flips. “Fit like a glove,” she says. “They feel good too.”
“Good.” He nods. “Get those worn in and you’ll be golden. I want you wearin’ those every damn night you’re onstage, Al. I don’t want you hurtin’ no more.”
“So what? You’re my big strong protector now?” Alabama teases.
She’s goddamn right he is.
Ever since they’d left the boot outfitters, Griff’s been gripped by a hollowness in his stomach. The admission that Alabama had partnered with Mort Stein to stick it to him left him reeling, left him chuckling, left him admiring her even more for fighting to make her dreams happen without him.
But it also did something else to him. It pissed him off. He saw the pain in her eyes. Saw how shitty she’s been treated in this industry, in the press, because of one stupid mistake. Lord knows, Griff’s had his share of fuckups and he’s still been able to sell records, to survive unscathed when Alabama’s never been given an ounce of the respect she’s owed.
It makes him sick to think that’s exactly why she’s here. To use her sex to sell his records. It makes him want to beat the shit out of himself. He can’t imagine how she’d feel about him if she learned the truth.
What if he told her? Told her everything. About the ring. The real reason he left Clover. Why she’s really on tour.
Griff’s cyclone of thoughts stops swirling when he realizes Alabama’s stopped. His gaze drifts to her. She’s standing beside him, frozen, the only sound in the air the carnival-like cacophony of the Boardwalk.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
As if in answer, there’s a soft rustle of footsteps behind them.
Alabama stiffens, listening. She glances back over her shoulder and then at Griff. “Paparazzi?”
Griff goes hot all over, a torrent of anger bubbling beneath the surface. His eyes narrow as he scans the shadows. “I don’t know.”
Instinctively, he moves closer to her, gripped by an urgent need to get her out of there before they can get another goddamned photo of her. “C’mon,” he says, lightly pressing his palm against the small of her back.
As they continue down the brightly bustling boardwalk, Alabama keeps close to him, her hips brushing against his, their fingertips grazing each other’s in their effort to match each other’s stride.
A soft chuckle escapes Alabama’s lips, as if she’s been lost in thought this entire time.
He looks over at her. He can’t help the catch of his breath at the way the moonlight ripples across her copper hair.
God, she’s beautiful.
“You know I don’t even like heels,” Alabama says, breaking the silence. “Guess I’ve been wearin’ ’em because I’m so used to ’em.” Her red lips purse. “It’s how Six String wanted me to look. High heels, short skirts. At first, I didn’t give two hangs about it. I came to Nashville to be famous, and that’s what I was gonna do. But it went on and on, and I couldn’t even write my songs. I was stuck singing that syrupy shit that had you cringing.” Alabama shakes her head. She breaks eye contact and looks away. “Those last few months with Six String ... I barely even remembered who I was or why I loved the music or what my own voice sounded like.”
Griff stays silent, listening, wanting to hear more about this Alabama Forester. A woman he’s admiring more and more.
Her laugh rings out over the crash of the waves. “Now, all I’ve got is hundreds of haters and a number one song that doesn’t even feel like mine.”
Her brave words, her earnest honesty topple something in Griff. A similar feeling he’s had all these long damn years. It’s no one’s fault but his, but still. He got hooked, and he got hooked good. By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late to get out. He liked the money, the fame, the high so much he was stuck.
“I’m fake,” Alabama says in her soft lilt. “All thanks to me and Mort.”
“If you’re fake, I’m fake, Al,” he says, and she turns surprised eyes his way. “Hell, I’m the fakest son of a bitch you’ll ever meet.”
They pause next to a railing, a secluded spot on the pier that overlooks the beach. Alabama sets her bags down and turns her entire body toward him. She doesn’t ask him to go on, but he does. The look on her face tells him she’s listening and to Griff, someone listening, truly listening, is worth all the whiskey in Tennessee.
“You and I—we took the same deal, I think.” He slicks a hand through his dirty blond hair. “I ain’t wrote a song since my first album. The first five years I can barely remember. I liked gettin’ drunk, smokin’ dope, startin’ fights. I liked it and the label liked it and it sold records. But it got to where I couldn’t figure out where the real Griff Greyson began or ended.”
Her brows bunch in concern.
He goes on. “These last five years I’ve been drier than Oklahoma. What I’m doin’ ain’t sellin’. I’m tired of raisin’ a ruckus, but I don’t know how to do—to be—anything else.”