You'd Be Mine Read online

  “Mood lighting,” I say to myself as my hips slowly sway back and forth to Beyoncé. I walk over to my curtains and pull them open. It’s pitch dark, but lights flicker like a zillion stars on land. I squint to see past my reflection to the shore below. I crack open the window. Up here, it only opens a few inches. I smirk darkly at my reflection. Well, ain’t that something. We all know jumping out a window isn’t the only way to end your life.

  Sad reality starts to creep in again. I spin for the table and grab the second bottle. This one, whiskey. It burns worse than the tequila. I grimace, and another shudder runs through me for a second, but then I feel lighter. Like I should go somewhere. Do something. Why hide out in my room? I’m young, and I’m a celebrity.

  I slip back into my boots and stride to the full-length mirror in the center of my room. My hair is considerably larger than I prefer, so I gather it up on the top of my head in a knot. My eyes look wild. Too wild. I’ve seen those eyes before. On my father. I pinch my eyes shut and shake my head back and forth.

  “So you’re just going? Just like that? Forget your kid, forget your wife?”

  “Screw you, Cora. I’ve stayed back three times in the past year playing the doting spouse while you travel all over God’s green earth. It’s my turn. Or did you forget I had a career, too?”

  My mom’s laugh is shrill. “Had a career, Robbie. Had. When was the last time you were even in the studio?”

  “Someone has to raise our daughter, or did you forget about her while you’ve been screwing your way around the continent?”

  “No, no, no, no, no.” I walk back to the table and crack open the third bottle. How many of these does it take to erase them from my brain? I swig the third, vodka this time, and throw the empty bottle on my bed. I grab my phone from the dock and slip it into my pocket along with some money and my driver’s license.

  I’ll text Jason on the way and see where he’s ended up. Maybe I can crash his party.

  The elevator doors open, and it’s Clay. Alone.

  “Hey,” he says, stepping past me.

  “Hey yourself,” I say and stumble slightly in my effort to brush past him to the door.

  I make it to the back of the elevator and turn to see his hand shoot out to stop the door. The doors fly open again. “You okay?”

  “Fabulous.” I slap the lobby button again. He stands there, holding the door a second before exhaling.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t drink.” I stand up straighter as if to prove my sobriety.

  He grimaces. “I’ve heard that. But the booze on your breath says otherwise. Annie, you can’t go out there drunk. You’re underage.”

  “That’s never stopped you from going out.”

  He presses his lips together and scratches at his stubble. “True. But that’s my reputation. You’re a role model. Role models don’t get arrested in Jersey for underage drinking.”

  I jab at the button again.

  He holds the door with his foot and holds out a hand. “Come on. Please? You can drink all you want right here. I won’t tell.”

  I consider him. Even blurry, he’s still stupid-handsome. “Where’s Lora?”

  It looks like his lips twitch, but in the shadow cast by the brim of his ball cap, it’s hard to say. “Probably halfway to Cali right now. I put her on a plane. You coming or what?”

  “I drank all my little bottles already,” I admit.

  He raises his brows. “I have plenty.”

  “Today’s the anniversary,” I blurt, feeling like an idiot.

  He nods, his hand still outstretched. “I know.”

  My stomach drops. “How do you know?”

  “Come on, Annie. I’m not a complete heathen. I never cared much for your dad, but your momma had the voice of a saint. I was a huge fan. Still am. The day Cora Rosewood died is right up there with Kurt Cobain and John Lennon.”

  Somewhere between his frank honesty and the knowledge I’m not the only person in the universe who remembers this date, I’m convinced, and my feet move forward. I don’t have to be alone, and I don’t have to explain myself.

  He waits until I’m off the elevator before letting the door go. “I’m down this way.”

  I follow him to his room, and he swipes the key card with a click. “Sorry for the mess.”

  I take in the rumpled bed linens and the clothes draped over the chair in the corner. He tosses his card on the table and reaches into his cabinet, pulling out several bottles and two glass tumblers.

  “What do you like?”

  I tilt my head, thinking. “I tried one of each tonight. Tequila made me want to barf the least.”

  He laughs, and the hairs on my arms raise. Even his laugh is rich and musical. “Jose Cuervo it is, then.” He reaches into his fridge and pulls out a lime. Then he reaches into a takeout bag and tosses some salt packets on the table. “It’s pretty redneck, but we’re all country singers here, right?”

  I grin as he tries to cut the lime with a plastic knife. I point to the pocketknife at his waist and then feel my face get hot as his shirt lifts and exposes his toned middle when he pulls it from his belt. He cuts the lime into wedges and passes me a few.

  “First, lick your wrist, like so.”

  I watch, rapt, as his tongue darts out to wet his wrist. My breath is dangerously close to panting, and I can’t help but remember Jason’s teasing me about finding my lady parts when I first heard Clay’s sound check at the start of the tour.

  The damned things are basically humming their approval right now.

  He raises a brow, and I quickly imitate him, feeling stupid licking myself.

  “Then you shake a little salt on your wrist.” He shakes some from one of the packets, and I do the same, spilling more than a little on the table. He pours a shot into my tumbler and passes it to me.

  “So lick, drink, suck,” he says. I bite my lip and nod. His eyes follow my mouth, and I try not to pass out.

  Some part of me—we’ll call her Reason—is screaming.

  “On my count,” he’s saying.

  Lick, drink, suck.

  It’s actually sort of delicious. Way better than drinking straight from the bottle. I slam my drink down and almost laugh, but still, I remember. Calling the police in hysterics and forgetting my own address and having to run out in the street to check the mailbox in my bare feet, nearly dropping my phone in the dirt. Throwing up against the giant oak tree in our front yard until my ribs felt like they would crack apart.

  “I still see them,” I gasp, shaking my head. “I need to do it again. It’s not working yet.”

  Clay nods seriously. “Okay, but I should warn you, if this is your first time, you’re dangerously close to getting sick.”

  “Are you doing this with me or not?” I ask, feeling a little angry at his misplaced rationale. “Because I’ll just take this back to my room alone if you’re going to preach at me.”

  Clay watches my face and then pours another glass. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

  I lick my arm without waiting for him this time. “I didn’t ask you.”

  “To outdrinking our demons,” he says, holding up his glass.

  For a moment, our eyes meet, and it’s as though something long buried inside of me recognizes a similar something long buried inside of him. I open my mouth as though to ask him about his demons or maybe to spill all of mine. It lingers in the air between us, tangible and warm. His hand is still hovering, though, and instead, I clink his glass with mine and pour it back.

  This time, the dizziness is real. I slip out of the chair at the table and crawl over to lean against his bed. He grabs the bottle and moves to sit next to me. His long legs stretch out close to mine, and I tap my boot-clad toes together, watching as they blur.

  “I was the one who found them,” I say slowly. I’m trying not to slur, but my tongue feels thick and tired.

  “Christ. How old were you? Twelve?”

 
“Thirteen. It was a few days after I turned thirteen.”

  “That’s plenty messed up.”

  I snicker humorlessly. “Yep.”

  We sit in the silence, and my head sinks to his shoulder. He smells so good. I turn my face and inhale. He doesn’t say anything.

  “I still see them in my head. Lying there, all gray and bloody. I can’t…” I shake my head back and forth again. “I can’t get it out of my brain. I can’t unsee it.”

  “Why are you alone tonight? Where’s your cousin?”

  “Making sweet fiddler love with Fitz.”

  He snorts, and my head bounces on his shoulder. I swear I’ve never felt anything softer than this boy’s shoulder in all my life.

  “What about Diaz?”

  “He found groupies.” I inhale again, nuzzling his shirt. “They forgot it was today.”

  “And you didn’t remind them? And then decided to get drunk alone?”

  I shrug and lift my head, rolling it back to stare at the ceiling. “If a girl gets drunk in her hotel room alone, and no one sees it, did it really happen?”

  “Ah. But I ran into you on the elevator.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “You’ve mentioned that already.”

  “My parents were junkies. Addicted to each other and to getting high.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to turn into a junkie after one night, Annie. In fact,” Clay says softly, “I’m pretty sure you’ll regret this in the morning.”

  “I won’t regret you,” I say. I grab the bottle from him and take another swig. “I’ve always wanted to drink straight from the bottle like I was in some old western.” He chuckles low, and I pull my legs up to my chest and lay my head on my knees. I squint one eye and look at him. My heart squeezes in my chest. “You really are too attractive for your own good.”

  He takes the bottle from my hand and takes a swig, grimacing. “So are you.”

  “I’m sorry I eavesdropped on you in your trailer. It was uncalled for, what I said to you.”

  He leans his head back, rolling it to look at me again. “Maybe, but you were only speaking the truth.”

  “I shouldn’t have written that song about you. It was mean.”

  He laughs. “No, that was genius. I love that song. You’re a clever girl, Annie Mathers, and crazy talented. Don’t you ever apologize for that.”

  My stomach swirls giddily. “Clever woman. Even so. I didn’t mean to mock you.”

  “The hell you didn’t!” he sputters.

  “Okay. Fine. I did.” He wraps an arm around me, and I tip my head onto his shoulder again.

  “Well, maybe I didn’t need to be such a dick.”

  “Maybe?”

  He releases a breath, and my head sinks farther. It’s as though my body is melting into his. My eyelids feel heavy, so I let them drop closed.

  “Probably, okay. You were right. It’s a good song. I should play it.”

  “For me,” I insist tiredly.

  “Someday, maybe.”

  “I like you, Clay.”

  “You’re pretty likeable yourself,” he says as I drift off.

  12

  Clay

  sunday, june 23

  nashville, tennessee

  Today we’re back in Nashville for the CMA Music Festival. It’s 9:30 on a Sunday morning and way too early for Trina, if you ask me.

  “Where did you say Annie went?” Trina asks, her heels clacking on the tiles as she paces the short lobby of our hotel. I lower the brim of my cap as a small family of tourists enters through the automatic doors, a too-warm morning breeze following them in.

  “Church,” says Kacey. She’s sitting on a sofa next to Fitz, sipping a steaming complimentary coffee.

  Trina stops her pacing. “Church?” She rolls her eyes heavenward, and I don’t doubt she’s having a private conversation with God about his followers messing up her schedule.

  “Gran printed off a schedule of churches in every tour stop.”

  “You guys don’t go with her?” I ask, leaning forward and picking up my own cup from the glass coffee table in front of me.

  Jason shrugs. He has gray bags under his eyes, and his T-shirt is a rumpled version of the one he wore yesterday.

  “Sometimes. Usually back in Michigan I go. She hasn’t really been going since we left on tour. She seemed oddly determined this morning, though. Called up Patrick and Connie and asked if she could get a ride. Wonder what lit a fire under her butt to plop it in a pew?” Kacey raises one brow in my direction, but I ignore her, sipping at my coffee. The fact of the matter is I might have something to do with it. But not because of the reasons Kacey and the rest of the world think.

  Annie was honest with me. She doesn’t drink. It doesn’t take a psychologist to know why she avoids the stuff. Instead of cutting her off and tucking her into bed that night, I invited her back to my room and taught her how to do proper tequila shots. If that’s not reason enough to go to church, I don’t know what is. More than once I’ve found religion after a hangover.

  The following morning, she crept out of my room before the sun came up and we were on a plane most of last Sunday. Point is, I’m not surprised she dug out the church list now.

  “Ah, there she is. Morning, Mother Teresa.”

  Annie blushes, tucking a rogue curl behind her ear. It springs right back. She’s wearing a blinding white summer dress and flat sandals and looks too beautiful to be believed. She’s casually holding a gigantic bundle of long-stem red roses down at her side, as if she could hide them. “Shush, you.” She takes in our haggard group in the lobby. “Were we supposed to meet this morning?”

  “Yes, but you didn’t know, so don’t worry,” Trina allows. “We’ve had a change of plans for tonight’s performance at the festival. They’ve decided they want to feature Willows and Clay together for a live feed that’ll be broadcast on XM radio as well as on pay-per-view.”

  “Wow, that’s…” Annie’s brown eyes flicker to mine.

  “Great,” I assure her. “More than great.”

  Trina smiles too brightly. “Glad to hear it. There’s a slight catch. You know how the theme this year is ‘Take Me Home, Country Road’?”

  We all nod.

  “Well, it’s sort of comical. They must be really feeling this Johnny-and-June thing, because they want you to sing ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe.’”

  “Oh, well…,” Annie starts.

  I laugh as the idea sinks in. “Actually, it’s sort of genius. We get a set of three, right? I’ll kick us off with ‘Some Guys Do,’ and Annie can follow up with ‘Coattails,’ and we’ll wrap with ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe.’ A little back-and-forth to keep their jaws yapping and the papers speculating, right?” I turn to Annie, mindful of her freak-out in Atlanta. “Only as long as you’re game?”

  She releases a breath, but grins. In the weeks since her panic attack, we’ve been able to ease more into the media attention. I’ve heard a few of Annie’s interviews, and she fields questions about us like a pro. I figure if the ball is in our court … “I can work with that. As long as I can be me onstage and not some dressed-up icon. Imitation makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Fair enough,” Trina agrees, already pulling out her phone. “No bouffant this time. Just Annie Mathers and Clay Coolidge. I’m going to call us a town car.” She looks around. “Or two. Grab anything you’ll need for rehearsal and meet me down here in fifteen.”

  Before we can disperse, however, the glass lobby doors swish open once more to reveal Connie and Patrick in deep conversation with a tall man wearing a fitted black suit and a black cowboy hat. The man raises a hand to tip his hat at our group, and Annie gives a small wave back before the trio moves through to the elevators.

  I glance back at Annie. She’s studiously avoiding Trina’s wide-eyed stare, but from my angle, I can see her grip tighten on the roses, still hanging at her side.

  “You went to church with Roy Stanton?”

  Annie shrugs.r />
  “The Roy Stanton?”

  “I didn’t know he would be there today. He used to be friends with Cora.”

  “Not Robbie?” I ask, grasping onto the first question that pops into my brain. I’m not sure who this Roy guy is, but Trina is practically radioactive.

  Annie’s eyes flick to mine. She shifts the roses to her other hand, flexing the first. “No, not Robbie. Robbie hated Roy. Roy is the president of Southern Belle Records, Clay.”

  I swallow. Holy hell. No wonder Trina’s flipping out. Southern Belle is SunCoast’s rival in every way. How could I forget? The story is the stuff of Nashville legends. Roy broke off with SunCoast, stealing Cora Rosewood and starting his own label with her as his top act.

  It was a gigantic scandal in the late ’90s. Completely rocked Nashville, because Stanton decided to base his enterprise on the West Coast. There’s still a lot of contention about it.

  Lora’s with Southern Belle. It’s not unheard of to have acts from different labels share a stage, but I doubt SunCoast would be super-happy with me if Annie and Willows jumped ship after the tour wrapped; not after all the trouble they went to in sending me to secure her in the first place.

  “Did he talk shop?” Trina asks evenly.

  Annie shakes her head. “No, nothing like that. I mean, of course he mentioned it, but I have zero desire to be courted by Roy or his label. I’ve made it very clear. I’ve been avoiding his calls, but then there he was, right in the sanctuary, holding a dozen roses.” She snorts. “Called it ‘divine providence.’”

  Trina’s shrewd eyes follow the numbers lighting up over the elevator. I’m sure she’s replaying the scene in the lobby—the familiar way Connie and Patrick spoke with Roy and then left to talk in their room with him. They were likely old friends as well, but still.

  I turn back to Annie in time to catch her shaking her head at some silent entreaty from her cousin.

  “So,” I say, clearing my throat. “You were calling our cars, Trina?”

  Trina shakes herself, clutching her phone in her hand. “Absolutely. Get your things. We have a show to get to.”

  No one brings up Stanton again, but when we return to the lobby a few minutes later, I notice a bunch of stems sticking out of a trash bin. Annie catches my eye, the corner of her mouth lifting in a half attempt at a grin. “Cora loved roses. I hate ’em.”