You'd Be Mine Page 11

  * * *

  That night when we perform, the cosmos shifts. I knew it might happen. It’s why I haven’t offered to share my stage with Willows yet, despite Fitz and Trina mentioning it a thousand times. Once this happened, we couldn’t go back.

  It’s not just chemistry. Lora and I have chemistry. If you’re a good-enough performer, you can create believable chemistry with anyone. Even in still photographs, Annie and I have chemistry that leaps off the page.

  No, what we have is something more; we have magnetism. Chemistry is give-and-take; magnetism sucks you in like a black hole. Annie sucked me into her universe back at the fairgrounds last summer, and her hold has yet to release me. And I’m not being cocky when I say I have a similar effect, albeit on a smaller scale.

  So putting us together singing a classic for all the world to see? I knew we’d never come back from that. Still, I couldn’t refuse. For as much as everyone else wanted to see what would happen, I needed to feel it for myself. To confirm what I already suspected.

  I’ve never been able to turn down a dare.

  As planned, I start in with “Some Guys Do.” Annie creeps onstage about halfway through, and I don’t have to see her to know the exact moment she’s there. Barefoot and dancing to my song. She doesn’t have a mic and doesn’t plan to sing along. She’s just there to dance and be a fan, and I’ve never wanted to sing so well in my entire life. She and Kacey are bobbing along, mouthing the lyrics and laughing as if they were in the front row and not standing alongside Fitz.

  Goddamn.

  At the end, I pass off my mic, and Kacey takes her fiddle from a stagehand. Jason kick-starts into “Coattails,” and while I don’t take off my boots and dance like Annie did, I don’t leave the stage either. In fact, I take a second mic on a stand from a stagehand, and when she gets to the line about not being a Carter to (my) Cash, I give Fitz a nod. We start low and quiet, leading into an overlay of music we planned backstage as a surprise: a little taste of Johnny’s “Walk the Line.”

  Annie’s so caught off guard, she cuts off midsentence. I round my mic, strumming my guitar in a steady rhythm and humming the start. Annie begins to laugh—full-bellied and high-pitched—as I hoped she would. She’s shaking her head and swaying her hips, and I recite the first lines. We don’t get far, though, before she cuts me off to skip straight into “It Ain’t Me, Babe.” It’s the best kind of battle of the bands, and I’m having the time of my life under the lights. She takes on Johnny’s smoky lines, and I harmonize with June’s half in a falsetto, which adds to the crowd’s amusement. If they’re of the generation who came up with Johnny and June, they’ll appreciate our back-and-forth. If they’re too young to recognize it, they’ll still find the open flirting to be fun to watch.

  I’ve never been able to pull off anything like this with anyone else, but that’s because I didn’t know Annie. She’s the darling of the country music world for a reason, and blessedly, she’s taking me along for the ride. We close out our set to uproarious applause. Annie grabs my hand to bow, but I step to the side, holding out both of my arms to her. This was her debut, if you ask me. A handoff of epic proportions. I’m not sure what I’ve witnessed tonight, but I’m positive it wasn’t my star shooting into the stratosphere.

  The question now is whether I hang on for all I’m worth or let go so I don’t drag her down.

  13

  Annie

  monday, june 24

  nashville, tennessee

  This summer was a terrible idea. Or maybe the best idea in the history of ever. I go back and forth. I’m doing exactly what I’ve always wanted to do. Since I was a little girl watching my parents perform under the hot lights to screaming fans, I’ve wanted to do the same.

  Just not the same way.

  We perform “It Ain’t Me, Babe,” and it’s a resounding success. I’m riding high. I’m feeling more me than ever before and I swear, I swear, I could do literally anything at this moment.

  So naturally, when we return to our hotel after the performance and the subsequent after-party and it’s 3:00 A.M. and I should just go to bed because I’m wrung out and my mascara’s probably streaked to my earlobes, I knock on his door instead.

  And he opens it.

  He leans a hip against the jamb and folds his arms across his chest. My eyeballs seem to get hung up on his tanned forearms before I drag them north to his down-turned lips.

  “I’m not going to be your booze hookup, Mathers.”

  At first, all I hear is hookup, but then my dizzy brain snags on the rest, and I’m indignant. “I’m not looking for tequila, Coolidge. I have some in my own room.” I think. Probably. To be honest, I haven’t looked. Last weekend’s hangover is still mighty fresh in my memory.

  He raises his brows, expectation painted across his face. “It’s late, Annie. We leave early for Milwaukee.”

  “I know that. I only wanted to come by and say I had fun singing with you tonight.” I hear a door slam within his room behind him. Fitz’s bronze hair flashes over Clay’s shoulder, his toothbrush dangling between his teeth. He waves and gives a salute. Clay rolls his eyes and pulls the door shut behind him, stepping out into the hall in his socks. He leans back against his door.

  “Me, too. I was thinking, maybe we should incorporate it into the show from here on out … you guys come onstage with us for a song or two.”

  He seems so genuine, it gives me all sorts of warm fuzzies. “Really? That would be great. I mean”—I try to play it cool—“as long as we can keep the fiddlers off each other. We have to think of the tweens.”

  He barks out a laugh, and I glow at the sound. Making this boy laugh might be more rewarding than performing.

  “I’ll have a talk with Fitz about appropriate touching.”

  “I’m not worried about the appropriate kind,” I say without thought, and his eyes darken. I swallow hard, resisting the urge to backtrack. Holy hell, did I just hit on Clay Coolidge? My words could have been innocuous enough, but the suggestive tone … did I have a suggestive tone? Do I even know what that is?

  “Are you hitting on me, Mathers?”

  I grimace and cover my face with my hands, walking back until I hit my door. I drop my fingers and stare at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe. Why? Is it working?”

  Suddenly he’s in front of me, his hands on either side of my head. “Annie, I’m not the kind of guy you should be hitting on.” Even as he speaks, his body betrays him. I can feel the heat radiate from his skin. It’s as though there’s a magnet charging between us, drawing us closer and closer.

  I lick my lips experimentally and thrill as his intense eyes follow the motion.

  “I’m not a good guy,” he protests weakly.

  I reach up and brush a soft wave off his forehead, dragging my fingertips down the side of his stubbly cheek and tracing down to his collar, skimming the blazing skin peeking out of the top of his V-neck T-shirt. “I know who you are. You’re Clay.” I press forward and pull him toward me at the same time. He gives easily, and suddenly every soft part of me is overcome by the hard planes of him. His lips are pliable and soft against mine until I sigh and his warm tongue pushes past my open lips and starts to dance with mine. My fingers twirl themselves in his hair, and I tug lightly when his hot hands tease up my sides. I don’t know when my hips started grinding into his, but it’s obvious he doesn’t hate it, and my heart is in my throat. Am I doing this?

  Are we doing this?

  He pulls back with a groan, and I know without a doubt we aren’t doing this.

  His face is pained, and he runs his hands through his mussed hair. His mouth is the exact shade of my lipstick. He licks his lower lip and then wipes a hand across his mouth as if to erase me.

  “Annie, you’re—” He swallows. “You have so much … I’m not—” He stops, taking another step back and curses to himself.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I ask and then immediately feel stupid. The heat slips from
my face. Of course I did. “Oh my gosh. I totally forgot about Lora.”

  He looks up at me. “Who?”

  “Your girlfriend, Clay. Jesus.”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Lora’s not my girlfriend. She’s … an old friend. I get lonely on the road, I guess, and we have a history. We aren’t anything, really. No. You did nothing wrong, Annie. Kissing you, that was … it was a lot of things. Good things, but also bad because I’m wrong for you and you don’t want to be like me. You’re so much better than a tour piece. I mean, Jesus, Annie. You went to church this morning.”

  I clasp my hands behind me to keep from reaching out and lean back against my door again. “So?”

  His eyes widen. “So? So you’re a good person. A good g—”

  I raise my hand. “Don’t say it.”

  He slumps. “Well, you are!”

  “I’m eighteen, Clay.”

  “Can you please stop calling me that? Clay isn’t my real name. It’s Jefferson. I can’t—” He struggles with himself, waving his hands around uselessly as though hoping to catch on a word. “I’m trying not to be Clay Coolidge right now. Okay? I’m trying to do the right thing.”

  I don’t know how to respond. This feels bigger than I am, but I can’t figure out how. “Okay, fine. I’m eighteen, Jefferson.”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  Suddenly I’m very aware we are in public. “Maybe we should talk in my room.”

  “No!” He catches himself and lowers his voice. “No. That’s my point. I can’t go in there with you. I can’t be alone with you right now.”

  I roll my eyes and slump against the door again. “I don’t see what my virginity has to do with anything.”

  He rolls his eyes right back, but his face is relaxed. “It has everything to do with everything.”

  I exhale loudly. “So that’s that, then. You don’t want me.”

  “Oh, I want you. Never doubt that. But now isn’t the right time. So I’m going to turn around, walk through that door”—the corner of his mouth twitches—“and pretend to sleep while replaying that kiss until I give up and drown myself in a cold shower.”

  My cheeks heat, and despite my annoyance, I smile, feeling bolder with his confession. “Save some cold water for me.” I tug my key card from my pocket and turn to my door, leaning my forehead on the cool, painted metal. At the click, I turn to see him watching me, still standing in the hallway. “Night, Jefferson.”

  His eyes darken, but he seems pleased, and that’s enough for me.

  saturday, july 6

  columbus, ohio

  Kacey and I sit in our bus trailer, dipping homemade gingersnaps into a tub of Cool Whip while our gran fusses at the tiny stove, warming up some vegetable soup she brought from home. She and Pop came up last night and are sharing a hotel room with Kacey’s mom in town. I figured I wouldn’t see any of them until tonight, since travel is hard, but Gran and a far more reluctant Pop showed up at our door bright and early this morning with a picnic feast planned. Aunt Carla begged off with a headache we’ll call “Pop’s Back Seat Driving” and promised to catch up with Kacey after the show.

  “Gran, it’s a hundred degrees out,” Kacey says. She licks her Cool Whip before double dipping her cookie in the plastic container of fluff.

  “You look jaundiced. You need more vitamins in your diet. This is the quickest way to get veggies.”

  I snicker, and Kacey shoots me a daggered glare. “I don’t have scurvy, Gran. I eat my veggies. I’m just suntanned.”

  My grandma grunts to herself, stirring once and tapping her wooden spoon on the side of the pot before laying it on top of a folded paper towel on the counter. The screen door opens, streaming yellow light before closing with a smack. Jason hops up the stairs in one bound and sniffs loudly.

  “Is that the famous Rosewood family recipe I smell?”

  My gran preens under his flattery, and Jason leans over to kiss her cheeks. “Grab yourself a place setting, young man, and I’ll bring this outside for you kids to enjoy at the picnic table.”

  A timer dings, and she pulls a sheet of hot rolls from the pocket-sized oven.

  Kacey whispers, “I didn’t even know that thing worked.” I didn’t either. Not that I would’ve taken the initiative to check. My culinary skills reach as far as buttered toast and memorized Chipotle orders.

  “Grab the cold meat tray out of the icebox, Kacey. Annie, make yourself useful and grab the jar of sweet pickles I packed. I think it’s in my handbag.” Only my gran would unashamedly admit to carrying pickles in her purse. In short order, we’re all sitting out in the sun with a full homemade Sunday picnic, looking for all the world like it’s just a typical summer weekend, which I guess it is.

  * * *

  “This is the most at home I’ve felt in ages, Mrs. Rosewood,” Fitz says, ladling himself another serving of soup. Kacey grins at him, all smitten kitten.

  I glance around at the table, sipping my unsweetened iced tea. Clay—I mean Jefferson—is engaged in some conversation with my grandpa about woodworking, while Jason and Ever-Silent Jackson are leaning over Patrick’s iPad watching the Tigers lose against the White Sox. Connie is talking my gran’s ear off about some sermon we heard at the megachurch in Nashville.

  My cousin leans in. “Sorta weird how a month ago we barely knew these guys, right?”

  I lower my eyes to where I know she and Fitz are holding hands under the table. “No kidding.”

  Her cheeks turn a happy, glowing kind of pink. “How about our headliner talking shop with Pops? Never saw that coming.”

  I glance back over, a crazy flutter in my stomach. “Me neither, but he fits, doesn’t he?”

  “Did I hear you calling him Jefferson?”

  I nod and lower my voice. “It seems to be a touchy subject. I wonder if he’s changing his image or something.”

  Kacey narrows her eyes. “You do realize that it’s only you he wants to call him Jefferson, right?”

  “What?” I ask loudly. The guys watching the game startle and look my way. I sip my tea, waving them off. Kacey nudges Fitz.

  He pulls a reluctant face and motions for me to move closer after checking Clay and Pops are still talking. “All I said was that since his open mic days, Clay’s always been Clay. His brother and his grandpa called him Jefferson. Both died a few years back. Then I heard you calling him Jefferson, and he seems pleased as punch.” Fitz shrugs, perplexed. “Maybe it’s some identity crisis. He’s been sort of weird since Nashville.”

  This time, I’m the one flushing. I wave my hand. “Whew, soup in July. Scurvy or not, I’m gonna need to find some ice cream.”

  Kacey’s eyes widen. “I’m coming with.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already at the door. Fitz shakes his head, chuckling to himself as I stand, untangling my legs from the fixed picnic bench.

  “Ugh.” I open the trailer to find her perched on the tiny counter, holding the ice cream hostage.

  She hands me a spoon. “What happened in Nashville?”

  “Nothing. We sang Johnny and June. It was a hit. He asked if we wanted to collaborate the remainder of the tour.”

  Kacey opens a pint and scoops a bite without removing her glare.

  I sigh, reaching with my spoon, but she pulls the container back. “Not a chance.”

  I throw my arms wide, brushing against either wall of the tiny tour bus. “What do you want me to say? That we had a hot make-out session in the hotel hallway? That I offered myself on a silver platter and he flat-out rejected me, even though I swear he wanted me, too?”

  Hot tears sting the corners of my eyes, and Kacey’s mouth drops open. She plops the tub of ice cream on the counter behind her before hopping down and pulling me close. “Shit, Annie.”

  I sniff, accepting her embrace. “It was not my shining moment.”

  She pulls back, confused. “But you said it was hot and he clearly wanted you?”

  I nod. “I thought so. He said so.” At th
e root of everything is boiling humiliation. My pride took a massive hit. I offered myself to a rock star, and he turned me down. Forget the details; I’d been rejected. “He’s apparently got this idea I don’t know my own mind and it would be a mistake. He’s being honorable or something.”

  Kacey bites her lip, considering. “And this is when he told you to call him Jefferson?”

  I pull the Ben & Jerry’s toward me. “Yeah. He got all mad and said to stop calling him Clay because he was trying not to be Clay around me.”

  Kacey’s hand stills in midair, and she points her spoon at me. “Bear with me here. What comes to mind when you think of Clay Coolidge?”

  “Levi’s,” I blurt before thinking.

  She laughs. “Okay. My bad. This isn’t a word association thing. I mean, what would your average female say about Clay?”

  “Sex appeal, boozehound, makes love to the mic, rock star, stadium filler.”

  My cousin grins. “Yes. All of that. Now what do they think of Jefferson Coolidge?”

  I blink. “I don’t think anyone even knows that’s his real name.”

  “Exactly. He doesn’t want to be Clay the megastar boozehound around you. He wants you to see Jefferson. Just you.” She shrugs lightly. “I can’t pretend to know what’s happening in his mind, Annie, and I know rejection hurts, but maybe it’s not so cut-and-dried as you think.”

  I put my unused spoon in the sink, suddenly not hungry. Kacey grabs a handful of fresh spoons, and I help her carry plastic bowls to the picnic table. I return to my seat and my iced tea and meet Jefferson’s eyes. He’s still talking to Pop, but he gives me a small, friendly smile. A real smile.

  And for the first time, I realize it’s a Jefferson smile.

  * * *

  “A very good evening to you, Columbus!” I shield my eyes from the spotlight and find the section of the stadium where my grandparents’ tickets are. I imagine I can make out my gran’s proud smile, but in reality, it’s impossible. I blow a kiss in their direction, anyway. “This is a special night, y’all. My gran and pop are here in the audience, along with Kacey’s momma, Carla. In honor of them making the long drive out here to see us, we wanted to play one of my gran’s old favorites.”