Griff kicks off the Creole Ballroom with his signature country-rock song, “Roast ’Em Smokey.” His fingers burn the guitar strings as he sizzles out a frenetic electric chord. Behind him, his band pumps out licks like fireworks.
Hey, when ol’ Smokey took the stage the crowd was hushed and somber
They could tell it was that old cowboy’s last and final number
Ol’ Smoke shifted in his boots and raised his fist up to the sky
Said who the hell am I playin’ for, all this is just do or die
Then he let loose that guitar and threw it off the stage
And that night the outlaw legend of Roast ’Em Smokey was made ...
When the song’s over, he hands his guitar to Scotty and steps back to the mic.
“I know you’re wonderin’ where she is,” he says to the crowd. He saw the look of disappointment on their faces, the craning of necks, when Alabama failed to come out for the opening act and instead it was Griff. It never fails to thrill him—they want Alabama as much as he does. “Hell, I’m wonderin’ where she is. You don’t think she left me high and dry, do you?” He glances offstage, craning his neck in exaggerated confusion. “Alabama, you back there?”
Freddie’s in the audience; he’s gotta give her a good show.
Hoots from the crowd and Griff holds up a hand. His smile cocky, he wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m goin’ back there. No apologies for what happens next.” To Scotty he says, “Let it rip, boys.”
The intro riff to “Ring of Fire” follows Griff as he ducks backstage.
He finds Alabama waiting in the shadows, all long legs and wild red hair. His balls clench at the sight of her. She’s smoking hot and he already knows he’s gonna lose his goddamn mind tonight. She cocks her head, amused. “I think you went in for the wrong profession. Stand-up is more your gig.”
He moves for her, fast. They’re on each other instantly, hungry as teenagers, as stupid as them too. But he can’t help himself. He’s so damn hot for Alabama, for this woman who has him on his knees every night, who won’t sleep in his bed, who barely believes that he’s turned over a new leaf, and he still doesn’t care. He’d go to bat for her and then some. Show her until the end of his days that she’s the one he wants.
His hands on her waist, his lips on her mouth, Griff walks her backward. He slams her up against the wall, gripping her thigh to drag her leg up around him. There, in the shadows, he kisses her roughly, heated, feasting on her strawberry-red mouth, her soft tongue, the curve of her pale white throat.
A rustle in the dark, fast, retreating footsteps.
Alabama breaks away from him with a gasp. “Someone’s there,” she says, stiffening in his arms.
“No one’s there,” he whispers. She relaxes, arcs into him, opening her mouth once again for his. He leans down, devouring it.
The music gets louder, more insistent, the band’s cue to get his ass back onstage.
“C’mon,” he growls, snatching her hand and pulling her alongside him. It’s habit, instinctual to keep her close, to have her near him always. But when they reach the stage, Alabama stops. Griff’s stomach drops, reality sideswiping him like a bus, as she extracts her hand from his.
In her eyes, apologies as she straightens her dress, wipes her lips.
“Okay,” she says. “Ready.”
They walk out. Together. The touch of her hand still burning a hole in his.
Instantly, an uproar. Deafening.
The crowd loses its mind when Alabama walks onstage, and all Griff can do is grin.
Alabama can command the stage like no one else. She’s so confident, so cool, so goddamn sexy. Even in the shitty bar with its shitty acoustics, Alabama is a shining light. A fucking powerhouse. And that fucking body. Griff knows he should keep it professional, but still, he can’t help his eyes roving over her as she steps up to the mic.
She’s a vision to watch. A far cry from the broken-down woman he found waitressing at Mill’s Tavern.
Jesus, he’s obsessed.
“I think they’ve been waitin’ for you, Alabama,” he says into the mic, casting a lingering glance at her.
“Well, hell, let’s not keep them waitin’ any longer,” she says in her trademark Texas drawl. She gives a little shimmy, Griff gives a hoot, and then they kick off their tried-and-true cover of Waylon Jennings’ “Mama Tried.” Alabama gives the song her own little boost, more folk-country than rock and roll. That combined with Griff’s rollicking style has the crowd howling.