Griff winces as Alabama walks away from him. The over-the-shoulder glare she shoots him burns as red as her hair.
Fuck.
He lets out a long breath, his fists unclenching as he comes down from his hotheaded asshole antics.
He doesn’t know what his fucking problem is. You think he would’ve learned with Brian. But the minute he saw Kincaid, some primitive caveman reaction took over his goddamn senses. It made him crazy. Made him possessed with a need to defend Alabama, even though deep down, he knows it ain’t the guy’s fault.
At least all of it.
“You gonna play or not?”
Griff looks over to see Seth Kincaid glowering at him. Before Griff can reply, Seth flings the pool cue his way, catching him off guard and hitting him hard in the stomach.
Annoyance simmers, but Griff swallows back his retort, not wanting to break another promise to Alabama. Besides, he’s got no right to get pissed when he’s the one who came in fists swinging.
Luke’s brow furrows. He shoots his brother a warning glance. “You heard Sal.”
Seth shrugs. “He started it.” Then, after a last evaluating look at Griff, he and Jace rack up the balls.
Staking the end of the pool cue in the ground, Griff eyes Luke. “I fucked up,” he says. It’s as close to an apology as he can give Luke Kincaid. “Tryin’ to start something with your wife here. It ain’t a good look for me.”
Jace and Seth scoff in unison.
“Same look as I remember,” Seth mutters from across the pool table. “Startin’ fights like an asshole.”
“Pretty much par for the course,” Jace agrees, lowering his cue to break the balls.
Luke sighs and shakes his head. He turns to Griff and makes a help-yourself gesture to a bucket of beers on a corner high-top. “Already forgotten.”
Griff pulls a sweaty bottle of Shiner Bock from the bucket. “You on tour?” he asks, searching for a topic of conversation that’s common ground for both him and Luke. It’s the only explanation for their random run-in. Trust goddamn bad luck to put him on the same path as the Brothers Kincaid.
“Yeah.” Luke takes a swig of his beer. “We played last night at the American Airlines Center in Dallas.” He lifts his eyes. “And you were at ... ?”
“Willie’s Crab Shack,” Griff grunts.
A snort comes from Seth. But he keeps his mouth shut and takes his shot, knocking a striped ball into the corner pocket.
Griff leans back against the wall and assesses Luke. “You know, I heard your last album. Can’t say it impressed me.” He can’t resist goading Kincaid.
An amused chuckle rolls off Luke’s lips. “Oh, yeah? I could say the same thing about yours. Think I saw it down at the bargain bin at Wal-Mart.”
Both men stare at each other for a long beat and then slow smiles spread across their faces.
Griff bursts into a gut-busting laugh. “Alright, I’m owned, Kincaid.”
Luke shrugs. “You made it easy, man.”
As Luke steps up to take his shot, trading bullshit banter with Jace and Seth, Griff searches the crowd for Alabama. She stands at the bar, in animated conversation with Sal, and a rush of shame hits Griff fast and hard. If Sal can be cool toward Alabama, he ought to be able to pull his head out of his own ass and act like a decent human being.
For a couple of hours at least.
Sipping his beer, Griff takes a second to evaluate Luke’s wife. Sal’s small and slender with dark hair and startling green eyes. A petite powerhouse who put him in his place faster than any man could.
That’s when a faint memory drifts into Griff’s brain. He frowns, remembering the Nashville Star headlines he had either scoffed at or discounted.
Sal. She’s the reason Jace and Seth left his tour. All this time he’d been thinking they were assholes who blew him off, when in reality, they had found Sal in Florida. She had been in a plane crash, kidnapped, and returned to Luke with no memory.
Shit.