“Me too.” She’s staring at him with sad, understanding eyes. “When you try to change, they won’t let you.”
“They got you so goddamn pigeonholed—”
“No one will take a risk on you doin’ somethin’ different.”
“I sing songs someone else wrote. And I hate ’em, Al.” He clenches a fist. “I fuckin’ hate ’em.”
She’s nodding. “Same. I don’t connect with any of mine. I mean, ‘High Heels, Higher Expectations.’ What the hell kind of song is that?”
They crack up.
When she sobers, Alabama says, “At least you could have written your songs.”
Regret slams him in the gut. He squandered his opportunity when Alabama never even had it.
“Yeah, but they’re a load of hokey bullshit. They don’t mean anything. Not like the songs we sang.”
The words land between them like unfinished lyrics.
Alabama averts her eyes, and he’s hit with a hard realization. She doesn’t want to talk about the past. When suddenly it’s all Griff can think about. Being with Alabama has him remembering the guy he used to be, the songs he used to sing, the man he wanted to become.
“We wrote some damn good songs,” Griff hedges. There’s an ache inside of him. One that wants Alabama to pick up the trail, to tell him she remembers, that she still feels that way too.
A smile works its way across Alabama’s lips. “We did. Our sound was so different,” she muses, staring out at the water. “You always wanted to sound like Kristofferson, all badass and renegade.”
“And you had that gut-busting voice like Loretta.” He chuckles. “You were a wild card, even back then.”
“Wild card, huh?”
“Hell, yes. You had this spirit. Guts like no one I ever seen.” He cuts her a look. “You still do.”
“Hmm. I like that.” Her eyes brighten. “And I did. Somehow, someway, we met in the middle and it worked.” She meets his gaze. “Our songs were good, Griff.” She shakes her red head, exhales. “Man, I really loved those days.”
Griff loved those days, too. Days where he and Alabama would spend all day penning a song. They’d work it over together, just right, and they’d bicker over everything. In the end, that’s what made them better. That’s what made them them.
Alabama’s soft voice brings him back to the present. “No one would even recognize us now. Not even our past selves.”
She’s right. Past Griff knew what he wanted. Alabama. A music career. Only he gave up one for the other and he’s regretted it ever since.
“Remember the name of our band?” Griff peeks over at Alabama, her pretty face pensive.
She lifts a challenging brow. “The question is, do you?”
“The Copper Hounds, and our first gig was gonna be at the Bluebird.”
“You got it, Greyson.” Alabama turns her face to listen to the faint strains of music from a nearby restaurant. A soft chuckle escapes her. “Wow. Guess we’re really barin’ all tonight, huh?” She leans against the railing, bracing her back against it to face Griff. A shiver runs through her body and she hugs herself.
“Speaking of barin’ ...” Griff steps close and runs a finger down her collarbone, watching as goose bumps break out over her porcelain skin. “You cold, Al?”
She keeps her body slightly rigid, like she’s trying to refuse his touch, then she smiles. “I remember this move. The pretend-to-care, then cop-a-feel.”
“That’s harsh.” Griff braces his arms on either side of her, his rings nicking the metal railing. “You know it wasn’t like that. I always cared. But I was a red-blooded all-American boy. I had needs.”
Alabama tilts her chin. There’s a flirty glint in her eyes. “Clearly you still do,” she says and, for emphasis, glances down at the ever-stiffening crotch of his pants.
Griff’s brain is going places. Dirty places. He knows he needs to rein it in. He knows he left her. Knows he owes her an explanation, knows she needs it, but that explanation would shatter one truth for another.
But Griff sees the woman Alabama is—strong, stubborn, and hot as hell—and wants to bring the past to the present. If she’ll let him.