Chapter 4
RHETT
My tires rip up the gravel as I tear down the lane toward Black River Ranch. I’m a man possessed. What the fuck was I thinking? Three. Years. I spent three years trying to erase the remnants of Noah Lane from my lips.
I wasn’t rid of her taste, not by a long shot. But fuck, I was trying.
Addiction runs in my family, and I can safely say my ex-fiancée is my drug of choice. Then. Now. Always.
“Goddammit.” Kissing her was the height of stupidity. She isn’t mine anymore, hasn’t been for a long time. But hell, when I saw that ring on her finger, something inside me snapped.
I’m man enough to own up to my mishaps, and tonight was a huge mistake. I slipped straight off the sobriety wagon and overdosed on something I know is bad for me. Was the hit worth the years of progress it has undone? Turmoil heats my blood, and my palm slams against the steering wheel.
“Fuck!” Maybe I shouldn’t have left the bar. Lord knows I could do with another drink, or ten, which is precisely why I stopped off at the liquor store on the drive back and grabbed a bottle of cheap bourbon. Nothing eases heartache better than my good friend Jim.
Battling with the raging storm of emotions clawing their way through my body, I push down on the gas pedal.
The light of my grandmother’s ranch house illuminates the night.
But instead of doing the responsible thing, like going the fuck home, I veer left and follow the small dirt trail that runs along the side of the house toward the mountain.
The grass-lined track diverts me away from logic and leads me to ruin. But I’ve already self-destructed. May as well completely detonate.
Ignoring the bumpy terrain, I continue the drive up for another five minutes until finally I reach what was once my favorite part of my family’s property.
The headlights cut across the clearing, and there it is, nestled into the hillside, looking out over the headwaters of Black River—the house I built for her.
A wraparound porch, white paneling turned silver in the moonlight, the swing swaying gently in the night breeze.
My heart aches just looking at it. Every board, every nail, every inch of this house was carved out of the hopes I had for our future. One I never got to give her.
I park the truck, but leave the engine running for a moment, the steady hum grounding me.
Or maybe it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
I don’t know why I came here. I could’ve gone home.
Could’ve drowned myself in a bottle behind a locked bedroom door.
But this place has haunted me for three years, and tonight, I guess I want to return the favor.
I step out into the quiet, the bourbon bottle heavy in my hand.
As I walk up the steps, the porch groans beneath my boots.
It’s been a few months since I’ve been here, as evidenced by the dust that clings to the windows.
My hand settles on the doorknob, and my eyes close briefly. What are you doing, Rhett?
Ignoring the shattering of my already broken heart, I push forward. The front door sticks before giving way with a low creak, and then I’m inside.
The air smells like wasted potential and the ghosts of my past. Once again, I’m fighting off memories of Noah Lane.
In a desperate attempt to calm my racing pulse, I draw in a deep breath and peer around the vacant space.
The house was never finished. There are still a few rooms with exposed wires that require attention and need to be drywalled.
It wouldn’t take much to turn it into a home, but all the plans I had for this place were left in limbo when she jetted off to LA and never returned.
I hung on far longer than I should have, working on this place right up until the moment I heard she was engaged to someone else.
For so long, I hoped one day she’d change her mind and come back to me. Only she never did.
As I swallow the regret that sours my stomach, my feet carry me up the stairs and down the hallway like I’m retracing steps I never got to take. My thumb runs along the door frame before I enter one of the few rooms in this house that I’ve completed.
Her studio.
I flick open the lid of the bottle of Jim Beam, and the cap flies off, landing somewhere on the carpeted floor.
My eyes drink in the space as I raise the bottle to my lips, washing down the bitter taste of another life—one where she fucking stayed.
My chest cracks wider with every mouthful, the burn doing nothing to help ease the devastation that’s burrowed inside my veins.
Everywhere I look, I see her. I can’t escape. She’s like black mold growing on my soul, impossible to get rid of.
Four vintage guitars decorate one of the walls, next to a framed photo that’s frozen in time. It captures Noah on stage at Boozin’ Boots, arms raised, mid-note beneath the spotlight.
My legs give out, and I drop into the studio chair, then brace my elbows on my knees. The bottle dangles from my grip as I stare at the desk in front of me. A state-of-the-art soundboard, fully equipped with a console and mic—one I saved all my summer wages to pay for.
Suddenly, my pap’s voice echoes in my mind, his deep gruff laugh accompanying his statement. “There are only two things a man breaks his back to pay for, boy. Titties and tires. Find yourself a good set of both, and the payout is worth every cent.” Yeah, Pap … look where that got me.
Raising the bottle to my lips, I take another swig, savoring the burn as it hits the back of my throat.
My fingers drift toward the setlist hanging next to me. Her first real gig at Boozin’ Boots. She’d shoved the thing into my hands that night, still breathless and flushed, and said, “Frame it, so we remember where it all started when I make it.”
She made it, all right. Then fucking hightailed it. She traded a home on a hill for a house in the Hills. Sold the dream we had for fame. Only from where I’m sitting, I’m the one paying the price.
Anger rages through my body, rattling my bones. Before I can stop myself, I’m tearing that stupid reminder off the wall. A roar ruptures from my chest as I send it flying across the room and it crashes to the floor. A spiderweb of glass blooms across her messy handwriting.
To my muse,
You’ll always be the reason behind every lyric.
I love you now. I’ll love you always.
Until the last note.
Your Starlet,
Noah Lane x
My lips are back on the bourbon bottle, and I swallow it down like it’s medicine. Like it’ll erase her from my mind. But it doesn’t.
The red Martin guitar on the wall catches my attention. Rage simmers in my gut like coiled wire. I walk to it slowly, reverently, like I’m approaching an altar. Then, I tear it fucking down and swing.
It hits the edge of the console with a crack that echoes through my chest. Splinters fly. Strings whip through the air. I swing again—harder this time—until the neck snaps clean and the body folds in on itself.
And then, I lose it. One by one, I pull each guitar down before averting my attention to the mic stand.
Then the framed photos. I move like I’m possessed.
My vision tunnels, blood roaring in my ears.
Her face is everywhere. Her voice is still in my head.
That goddamn kiss is still on my fucking lips.
After three years of holding the fuck on, I slipped. And I liked it.
That’s the part that guts me. I didn’t just like it. I craved it. I wanted her mouth on mine, her fingers in my hair, her body pressed up against me like we still belong to each other.
But she’s someone else’s now. And I still fucking kissed her.
I slam my fist into the wall. Again. And again. Until the drywall caves. Until blood paints my knuckles. Until Pap’s voice resounds in my head. “You ever seen a bull charge a barbed wire fence, boy? It doesn’t end well for the bull … or the fence.”
Guess I’m the bull.
The studio’s a war zone now. The console’s sideways. The soundboard’s dented. Instruments, glass, wood—all of it wrecked.
Dropping to my knees, I slump back against the wall, and tighten my grip on the bottle.
She never saw this place. Never heard the way it echoed with her name. Never got to play the songs I built this room to hold.
It was supposed to be a wedding gift—a house for the family we wanted.
I would’ve gone with her, after Pap died … after everything. I would’ve left it all. I was ready.
But she chose this path for me.
And I’ve been rotting in that choice ever since.
I curl forward, bringing my legs to my chest and dropping my forehead to my knees. My heart pounds like it’s trying to break free, and right now, I hope it does. It’s not worth a damn to me.
Somewhere in the bourbon fog, I hear her. Laughing. Singing. Whispering my name like a vow, like a curse, like a goodbye.
I reach for her.
But there’s nothing here.
Just the dark. Just the ruin. Just me and this fucking bottle.
And when it runs dry and my fists stop bleeding, I let the black take me.
Because I’ve got nothing left to feel. And no one left to feel it for.