Chapter 3 Rust
RUST
Caleb kills the engine of his truck in front of my house. “You got that look on your face again.”
“What look?” I ask innocently, bracing myself on my guitar case.
He lifts his trucker hat and tugs at the roots of his shaggy blond hair. “The same one you get each Thursday night when I give you a ride home from your gig at the Coal Bucket. Every time you touch that guitar, it’s like an ancient curse comes over you.”
I shrug. “You’re imagining things.”
The alcohol in my blood makes it easier to hide the pain wrapping around my heart like barbed wire.
Playing country covers at the local watering hole ain’t the big stage I dreamed of, but I wasn’t good enough for more anyway.
I admit coming back to an empty home is far from what I imagined my life to be at thirty-two years old.
But whenever I hear Tally on the radio, whenever she smiles down at me from a billboard, I know that my sacrifice was worth it.
Her happiness was worth losing her.
Caleb blows out a heavy breath. “Sure, I’m imagining things. Like that time I found you sittin’ in your F150 with an empty bottle of bourbon in your hand and tears in your eyes.” He gestures at the dark barn where I keep my old truck.
Silence stretches.
“What about that night I barely stopped you from drivin’ to Nashville with your loaded shotgun to kill Tally’s new boyfriend? I had to tie you to a kitchen chair! And let me tell ya, that wasn’t easy! You’re a big, strong fella, Rust!”
“That’s why I stay away from news about her now!” I cut in.
Good thing he only caught me wallerin’ around in my misery twice and he doesn’t know I carry her wedding ring in my wallet like a lucky charm. If my best friend knew how often I indulge in my heartbreak, he’d have me institutionalized. He wouldn’t be wrong, either.
My obsession with Tally is unhealthy, but I like it that way. I call it undying devotion. Loyalty.
I really do avoid any news about her, though. That one time I saw a picture of her on the arm of some smug city boy turned country singer was already too much. Since then, I prefer to drown myself in memories of her.
“One day, you’re gonna have to talk to me about her. About what happened,” Caleb mutters.
I give him a crooked smirk. “Yeah, one day. Try again in another decade or so.”
His jaw works. “Hell, Tally was like my sister. Now I know you always did right by her, so I reckon she had a damn good reason for leavin’. Don’t you think it’s time to come clean?”
I give Caleb a sidelong glance. It’s unusual for him to ask about Tally and press the issue, but maybe I seem more miserable than usual lately.
I shake my head. “Sorry. I wish I could, but I can’t. Made a promise.”
“To her?” he asks.
My lips pinch. Not a soul knows what happened between Tally and me in Vegas. That truth is my cross to bear because I made a dark pact I can’t break—for her sake. If I did, she’d be the one to pay the price.
I twist the tarnished golden band on my left ring finger. Sometimes I look down at myself, surprised there ain’t a crater in the center of my chest where my heart is supposed to be.
When it hurts too bad, I drink a little too much. Sleep a little longer, so I can dream of her. It’s the best I can do to dull the pain, but it never goes away.
Caleb smacks the wheel. “Alright, then riddle me this: Why do you keep playin’ and singin’ if it makes you feel like shit?”
“Cause I can’t quit. It’s in my blood. Living without her is bad enough and I can’t lose the music, too.”
He laughs. “Bullshit. I think you get off on tormentin’ yourself.”
“It’s called art. Wouldn’t expect you to understand.” I playfully punch his shoulder. “Thanks for the ride, man.”
“Anytime. Don’t want to find you dead in a ditch cause I let you get behind the wheel drunk off your ass.”
“You’re a good friend, Cal. I’ll see you bright and early on Saturday morning. Deputy George said the catfish are biting especially well.”
He hums. “Sure. My turn to bring the beer this time.”
Guitar case in hand, I jump out and the engine roars to life. Gravel spits behind me as Caleb turns the truck around and zooms down the dirt road. I jog up the warped front steps to escape the first drops of rain.
I push my key into the lock but it’s already open. Damn, I must’ve forgotten. Not like we get many burglaries out here, but I still like to be safe.
Inside, I drop my keys into an old copper bowl on a sideboard by the front door and lean my guitar case against the wall.
A blue-white flicker comes from the living room.
I recognize the familiar whine of a harmonica playing over the rhythmic thud of hoofbeats.
Apparently, I left the TV running, too. Sounds like an old Western is on.
Fuck, I need to stop day drinking before my gigs at the Coal Bucket.
Rain pelts the roof while I grab a beer from the fridge in the kitchen and make my way across the hall into the living room.
I stop dead in my tracks.
There’s an intruder in my house.
Red curls cascade over the sofa’s armrest and scuffed brown cowboy boots lie on the rug.
They’re too small to be mine. A brown Stetson with a beaded hatband rests on its crown on the coffee table.
Way out of my price bracket. And I definitely can’t remember owning a suede handbag like the one on the floor.
Thunder crashes in the distance as I step closer. The beer pert near slips through my fingers as I take in the small figure on the sofa.
It can’t be her. But it is.
Country superstar Tally Creed is asleep in my living room. To anybody else, that would be enough to get their pulse racing, but to me she’s so much more than that.
My wife is home.
Shaking, I brush over my mustache as I do a double take.
I thought I’d never see her again. On TV maybe when they’re showing one of her concerts, but not like this, without all the lights and the show and dance. Without the glitter and glam. Until this moment, I didn’t realize she wears wigs on stage.
This is the real Tally. The one who got away.
And by God, I swear she’s as beautiful as the day I was forced to leave her. Blood rushes to my groin while I drink in the sight of her.
Her round face looks angelic. Deep breaths part her full, rosy lips and her nose crinkles, making the freckles across her cheeks dance. She must be dreaming.
Washed out bellbottom jeans hug her thick thighs like they’ve been painted on, sitting low on her wide hips. She shifts in her sleep and the vintage Shania Twain T-shirt straining across her ample breasts hikes up, revealing a sliver of her soft stomach.
Fuck, I’d sell my soul to worship her curves. I’m hit with the sudden, almost irresistible urge to peel off every inch of fabric covering her body. I want to kiss her plush belly and trail my tongue over the stretch marks along her midriff.
She’s so sexy lying there. I can imagine my fingers digging into her hips, guiding her down on my lap as my cock—
No! I give my groin a tap. Bad boy! Be respectful.
I crouch next to the sofa. Her perfume reaches my nose and I inhale it like a drug. It’s a heady floral scent with a bittersweet edge of burnt sugar.
I brush over her high cheekbone and the heat of her silky skin sends a zap of electricity through my fingertips.
If I woke her and told her the truth, would she understand that on the night of our wedding, I made a deal with the devil to protect her?
Would she believe me if I said that devil wore the name Rex Dalton?
I can’t count the times I picked up the phone to call her and hung up on the first ring. How many letters I wrote and fed them to the flame.
I stayed away from her like I promised Dalton. I let her think I’m an asshole.
But now she’s here.
Shit, something real bad must’ve happened for her to return to Redbird Creek. To return to me.
I was sure she’d forgotten me by now. With all the fame and money, hordes of fans and handsome men chasing her… why would she ever think of me? She was always too good for me. But she came back, seeking sanctuary. And though I never got to tell her, she was right to think she could return.
My wife will always have a home with me. No goddamn annulment or talent manager in the world can tell me otherwise.
But whatever we gotta talk about, it can wait until daylight. For now, she needs some rest and I need a stiffer drink than this beer.
I rise, but my feet are glued to the rug. It’s creepy to stare at her sleeping, yet I can’t seem to move. I’m scared she’ll disappear if I look away.
God knows how long I stand there, watching her. Listening to her breathe. Admiring the calm rise and fall of her chest with a flutter in my stomach.
Should I carry her upstairs into my bed? It’s much more comfortable, but it might freak her out.
Finally, I chug my beer and leave the bottle on the table. I turn off the TV before I grab a blanket from the back of the sofa, draping it over her.
No matter what she asks of me come morning, I’ll do it.
I’d do anything for her.
Theft, arson or murder? No problem so long as it makes her smile. I’d burn this whole town if she asked me to. Or if she wanted to do it herself, I’d gift her a can of gasoline and a lighter.
Because Tally is the type of woman that happens to you like a storm front. No, she’s like a fucking hurricane, sweeping in and uprooting every truth you thought you knew. She’s a force of nature. A wrecking ball, crashing into my silly little small town life.
I hope I can still match her wild.
Tearing myself away from her feels like fighting gravity. A bottle of bourbon from the kitchen in my hand and the memories of the worst night of my life playing in my head, I creep up the stairs to the master bedroom.
Damn, I doubt I’m gonna get much sleep.