Maybe We Can Find It (Mayweather #2)

Prologue

RILEY

The bartender asks if I’d like another drink, and I say yes while silently cursing Skyler James’ name.

Maybe that’s harsh. Skyler’s a great guy. I know that. The whole damn world knows that. Which is exactly the problem for me.

Who would have thought a stupid PR stunt I agreed to almost a decade ago could come back to screw me over so royally? Certainly not me. Probably not my manager. Unfortunately, nobody around me is clairvoyant.

I mutter a thanks as the bartender clears away my empty glass and slides a fresh Tennessee Mule in front of me. I only feel a tinge of guilt at my less than stellar manners. Normally, I’m all politeness and friendly smiles—partly because that’s my true personality, and partly because it’s my brand.

But my brand has already been tarnished, and truthfully, I just don’t have it in me tonight. I came here to sulk, so that’s what I’m doing. The bartender will have to forgive me. I’m sure he’s seen much worse anyway.

I take a long pull of my drink, relishing the burn of the whiskey as it travels down my throat.

The owner of this place apparently doesn’t believe in AC, and there’s already some condensation forming on the glass.

I swipe my finger through it, tempted to slide the wet finger down my neck to cool myself off.

A mule should really be served in a copper mug, but I didn’t expect that from this grungy, dimly lit bar.

I came here because it’s a total dive, making it less likely I’d get recognized.

These days, there’s no telling if getting recognized will mean being hounded for autographs or being hounded with accusations and insults.

Damn it, how did I get here?

For almost a decade, I was known as America’s Country Sweetheart.

But Skyler James coming out as gay had a ripple effect that I’m sure he never intended.

The media and his fans were quick to question the playboy image he had back when he was in Boys Will Be Boys, and they realized all his public relationships from that period were most likely fake.

Including my relationship with him that was possibly the most talked about at the time—not only because so many people loved us together, but because I supposedly wrote songs about him.

From there, they were even quicker to turn on me.

And listen. I’m not saying this mess I’ve found myself in is actually Skyler’s fault, and I’m not saying I’m entirely innocent here. Skyler and I both agreed to the fake relationship for publicity.

Did I write songs about that relationship as if it were real? Kind of. I draw inspiration from all sorts of things, though. From my personal life, from the lives of other people I know, and sometimes simply from the fantasies I make up in my head.

Sure, I may have used the hype from our fake relationship to land a few hits on the Billboard chart, but that was the deal. And that doesn’t mean the songs didn’t come from real emotions I felt at some point. I just didn’t feel them with Skyler.

I swear I’m not a horrible person. I’m happy that the guy finally got to come out and live his truth.

I really am. But people love him so much that they blamed all the girls who dated him for PR as if we were the ones keeping him in the closet, rather than his shitty management team.

And unfortunately for me, since I’m one of his most famous exes, and country music is possibly the most unforgiving of genres, I took the biggest hit.

Someone trying to get the bartender’s attention knocks into me as I raise my drink to take a sip, making me slosh some of the sticky liquid over the edge of the glass and onto my hand.

They don’t even apologize, which is whatever.

I look around for some extra napkins but don’t see any, so I use the tiny, flimsy cocktail napkin that came with my drink to attempt to clean off my hand.

I heave a sigh when this method is mostly ineffectual and I’m left with an almost disintegrated little lump of paper. Just perfect.

But I suppose it’s fitting. Staring at that sad, pathetic napkin, I find myself starting to identify with it. I feel used up and disregarded. I’ve spent a decade giving everything I have to the music industry, and this is how it treats me?

My manager thinks everything will blow over, but I’m not so sure. I’m twenty-nine, and if I’m being honest with myself, the decline of my career may have been inevitable even without the Skyler drama. The industry doesn’t want a thirty-year-old sweetheart.

So here I am—trying to drown my problems with whiskey in a bar where my cowboy boots stick to the dirty floor. Glad America isn’t seeing me now.

By the time I’ve finished my third drink, I’m really feeling the effects of the alcohol. I haven’t eaten much today, and I don’t drink too often. Whiskey and wine are my preferences when I do, but while I can kill a bottle of wine in one night without much trouble, whiskey is a different story.

There’s a tiny wooden bowl of pretzels the bartender set in front of me some time ago that I haven’t touched.

Not to be a snob, but I’m guessing they’ll be stale.

I contemplate reaching for one anyway, but the phantom chalky taste in my mouth as I imagine eating them is unappealing enough to stop me.

I should probably go. Call my driver to come bring me home, then crawl into my bed and pass out. Maybe when I wake up, I won’t remember the nasty article I read about myself tonight.

Flagging down the bartender, I pay my tab, leaving an even bigger tip than I normally do to make up for being rude. I’m about to stand when there’s a hand on my shoulder, too light to be a man’s touch.

I look up to find a woman standing over me.

She’s attractive, wearing a pair of black ripped jeans and a fitted navy tank top that shows off her toned shoulders.

Her dark hair is braided and tossed over one of them, and she’s giving me a friendly smile.

Which, embarrassingly, is something that hasn’t been aimed at me too much lately, but I find myself smiling back reflexively anyway.

“Are you leaving?” she asks.

I nod. “I was going to.”

She cocks her head to the side, the smile on her face unfaltering. Her hand is still on my shoulder. “What if I offered to buy you a drink? Would that tempt you to stay for one more?”

At first, I assume she must know who I am, because why else would she want to buy me a drink? But my most recognizable feature is my long, wavy red hair, which is currently all tucked up in a low bun and mostly hidden under a gray Nashville Sounds baseball cap. So maybe she doesn’t.

And maybe the three drinks I’ve already had are affecting my judgement, but in this moment, I don’t really care if she’s only trying to hang out with a celebrity. It sounds like a better proposition than going home to cry into my pillow, so I accept.

She slides gracefully into the empty seat beside me, ordering me another mule and a vodka tonic for herself. Then she extends her hand for me to shake.

“I’m Faith,” she says. Her thumb runs over the back of my hand before she lets it go.

I’m hesitant to give my name, but I take a chance and tell her, “Riley.”

She seems genuine when she asks if I’m from around here. I say I am, leaving out how I’m originally from a small town in New England. But I’ve lived in Nashville since I was eighteen, when my parents and I moved here for me to pursue country music.

This city might not be as large as L.A., but it’s got the same vibe. People move here from all over the country searching for fame. And I’m one of the lucky ones who actually found it.

Although I’m not feeling particularly lucky tonight.

We chat for a bit as we sip our drinks. She laughs like my lame jokes are funny, and she curls her fingers over my forearm when she wants to emphasize something she’s saying.

I’ll surely regret this fourth drink when I’m hungover tomorrow, but right now, I’m feeling better than I’ve felt in a while. The tension I’ve been carrying in my shoulders for the past week seems to have disappeared, and the ache in my jaw from how much I’ve been clenching it has eased.

When one of my songs starts playing over the bar’s tinny sound system, muscle memory has me singing the first few lines before I catch myself and clamp my lips shut. The one way in which I have been lucky tonight is in not getting recognized. Better not push it.

Faith is pretty cool. I like how she talks animatedly with her hands as she tells me stories about the advertising agency she works for.

And when a guy sits down on her other side, she slides her chair closer to me, so now it feels like we’re in our own little bubble.

This is so much better than me bitterly sucking down my drinks alone earlier.

It takes until we’re both on the last sips of our drinks, and her outer thigh is pressed tightly against mine, for me to realize something.

Oh my god.

She’s flirting with me.

Right? That must be what this is.

Why didn’t it occur to me right away when she asked to buy me a drink?

Probably because I’m a straight celebrity—with a very publicly documented relationship history—so I’ve never been hit on by a woman before.

It feels surprisingly nice. Which I’m too drunk to properly analyze, but I suspect it has something to do with the way most hetero men are so easy to entice. Whenever a man hits on me, it doesn’t feel like I’ve necessarily earned anything.

But I should tell her I’m not interested, shouldn’t I? Or is that weird at this point? There’s no harm in having a conversation with a woman. And I’m enjoying it. So I can simply wait until we finish our drinks, thank her, then make my exit.

That seems like a solid plan, even with my mind swimming in alcohol. But I only manage to complete those first two steps before getting tripped up on the last one.

After I text my driver, I excuse myself to use the restroom. And when I step back out into the small, dimly lit corridor at the back of the bar, Faith is there waiting for me. She’s leaning against the wall with one knee bent and her heeled boot propped up on it. It’s such a confident pose.

I find myself gravitating toward her. Not that there’s much room in this space to avoid her.

“I had a lot of fun talking to you,” she says, reaching out one hand to graze her fingers along my waist.

“I did too,” I tell her truthfully. I’m considering asking for her number to see if she wants to hang out again—since I’m not currently doing much music-wise, and having a friend would be nice.

But then she brings her hand up to the back of my neck and pulls me forward. And before I realize what’s happening, her lips are on mine.

I kiss her back instinctually. It’s a little different than what I’m used to, sure, but it still feels good when she coaxes me to open my mouth for her and sneaks her tongue inside. She tastes like vodka and something sweeter. Maybe chapstick.

I shouldn’t be doing this. Not only because I’m drunk, but because we’re in public. Each time that thought occurs to me, though, I can’t hold on to it. It keeps slipping away as I continue giving in to this woman’s kiss.

My phone buzzing in my pocket is what makes me finally pull back. And as soon as there’s an appropriate amount of space between my mouth and hers, I’m slammed in the chest by the reality of the situation.

Holy crap, what am I thinking?

Stumbling a few steps away from her, I shake my head and mutter, “My ride’s here. I’ve got to go, I’m sorry.”

And then before she has a chance to respond, I turn around and bolt out of the bar, almost bumping into a couple people in my haste to reach the exit.