3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Willow
1 year later
I slam my door shut, and collapse on my childhood bed.
After my life finally imploded in Nashville, no other options were open to me except to move home to Lupine Valley, and give up my dreams.
To say I’m pissed off at the world is an understatement, not that it’s a change from how I felt the last time I was here. Living with my mom means she gets the brunt of my damage. Except I’m too ashamed to tell her why she’s getting it. She just knows that I showed up on her doorstep, my car filled to the brim with bags and boxes; and a whole lot of anger at the world.
A soft knock on my door sounds. “Baby girl, are you alright? Do you want to talk?”
“Jesus, Mom can I be alone for like five seconds?” I snap.
“Sure…I’m…I’m here if you need me. ”
I can hear the sadness in her voice and the guilt that’s always there in the background takes over. I need to stop snapping at her. And everyone else. Knowing it, and being able to stop myself are two very different things.
I wait until I hear her soft steps get down the stairs before I hop off the bed, grab my purse, and sneak out the side door. I don’t know where I’m going, but my childhood room feels like it’s closing in on me.
I walk down Main Street, aimlessly, when I see The Bar’s neon sign calling to me from the end of the street. A shot of tequila is exactly what I need. The live music streaming from the patio is not.
I slip in quietly behind a rowdy group of young kids, they must be home for the summer from college. Something I’ve missed out on in favor of trying to make it big in Nashville.
I take a seat at the end of the bar in a quiet, dark corner. Trying to hide my presence. Despite my downfall in the music world of Nashville, I’m still going viral on social media. Locals always notice me.
I order a double shot of Don Julio from the bartender, who thankfully, isn’t Gunnar. It’s been a year since I’ve seen him, but the image of his bare chest and low hung sweatpants haunt my dreams on a nightly basis.
I need him less than that live music.
“Rough day?” A guy from the group I snuck in with asks .
I down my double shot in one swallow. I slam the glass down as the liquor burns my throat. “You could say that.” I don’t make eye contact and signal to the bartender for another.
The guy grabs the bartender’s attention, “Put it on my tab.” He winks at me.
“You know I am not sleeping with you, right?” I stare at him.
“I was kind of hoping. I’ll wait for you to make up your mind later.” He winks again, like he’s God’s gift to the world.
“Move on, buddy,” a deep voice says as my shot is placed in front of me.
I look up to find Gunnar staring at him, a fire in his eyes that says he’s ready to handle this guy if need be. I gulp down the shot once more.
“You better slow down, darling,” he warns before walking away.
I salute his retreating form, more of a fuck you , with no intentions of listening to the too attractive for his own good man.
“Another?” I ask the bartender, noticing my new friend has gone back to his group to lick his wounds.
“Sorry. Boss said a mixed drink or beer, no more shots for a bit.”
I roll my eyes in the general direction of said boss.
“Fine. Jack and coke. Heavy on the Jack.” I slump back in my chair and pull out my phone.
I open my social media apps, searching for any news of my downfall. Hopefully, Jake will continue to keep his word. He will if he knows what’s good for him. The NDA we both signed is ironclad.
I spent all my money taking Jake to court over the sexual harassment and contract issues. But shitty luck would have it, he’s got better connections. So even though the bar managers from the bars I sang at were pissed at him for lying about the contracts, and I had a slew of girls that joined me in the fight against his sexual harassment, he still makes them a lot more money than I do and they wouldn’t burn that bridge in the end. Or they got more money and opportunities to keep quiet.
I finish my drink and order another before someone recognizes me.
“Oh my God! Willow Harper?” A girl all but screams from down the bar.
“That’d be me,” I raise my finger in the air.
“I can’t believe it, are you going to sing tonight? I love that cover you did of Crying in the Rain last week.” She starts to walk toward me, her friends following.
Fuck . “No, just here to listen tonight.”
“But you have to sing something! It’s open mic tonight and you’re here!” One of her friends demands, spinning around in a circle with her arms like this bar is special to me.
I can see I’m not getting out of this. “Ok, I’ll do one. What do you want?” I say as I sling back the rest of my drink.
“The cover you just did.” They all nod in agreement with broad smiles .
What they don’t know is that I recorded that months ago. I haven’t sung or picked up my guitar since leaving Nashville. It’s too painful to remind myself of the dreams I’ll never see come true.
I walk over to the guy running Open Mic Night, at least I think I walk. All the shots are starting to hit me now that I’ve stood up from my stool.
He lets me know I can go up next.
I groan out a thanks and wait by the stage.
The thought of touching the guitar brings on nothing but bad memories, and worse emotions.
The girls bring a shot for me and ask if I could take it with them. Since I was put on a shot ban by the sexy owner, I happily agree, shooting the sugary pink shot with the five girls.
Before I know it, I’ve been up here singing for an hour with a borrowed guitar, and they’re closing down the bar. I don’t even know how many shots those girls brought me, but my head is spinning and I can’t quite figure out where the step is to get off the stage in the corner of the patio.
I take a risk and step where I think I need to before the sensation of falling sets in.
Shit. This is going to hurt.
As soon as I have that thought, I am already smashing into a hard chest, and big, warm hands wrap around my waist.
“Not fucking again,” the body whispers to himself. “Seems we keep meeting like this, Willow Harper. ”
I stare up to find the deep blue eyes of Gunnar Keaton staring into mine. But he is not smiling like I am.
“Sssure dooo.” I stumble to stand. “You’re so frigin’ hot,” I let my eyes roam his body. His dark jeans, and black tee with cream lettering that says ‘The Bar’ on the front must be the uniform. But somehow he looks way hotter than any of his bartenders. His biceps look like they’re about to bust that tee open.
“Listen, I can’t leave right now, you got a ride or someone to walk you home?” he asks.
I lie, I don’t know why. I don’t have anyone. “Yea, Ade is coming to get me.”
He walks me to the front door and sets me on the bench outside to wait for her.
“Can I just stay?” I ask before he leaves.
“No, darling. You should get home, sleep it off,” he answers flatly.
“Rhett is more fun,” I pout.
“Who the hell is Rhett?” He stares at me waiting for my answer.
“My bestie who owns the bar in Nashville below my apartment.” I notice the tick in his jaw. “He’s my gay bestie. His husband owns the bar. They always let me stay.”
“I’d gamble to say you weren’t trying to numb the pain away in their bar. Call Addy. I know you didn’t call her before.” He walks back into the bar leaving me outside, slumped on the bench after hearing his name called from somewhere inside .
I pull out my phone to call Adelaide, but my eyelids are so heavy. Maybe I’ll just close them for a few minutes here before I do.