Chapter 4
My flight to Alabama is short, just over two hours, but all the bumps and jolts from turbulence makes it seem like double that. Maybe it’s the tin-can plane I’m on, but, regardless, I’m white-knuckling my armrests the entire trip. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I loosen my death grip as soon as we touch down safely. Despite doing plenty of it, I’ve never loved flying.
The smallest airport I’ve ever laid eyes on comes into view as I lift the shade on the tiny window beside me. Given this town’s size, I’m honestly surprised they even have an airport.
The moment I can switch my phone off airplane mode I tap out a text to Ty.
Made it
Ty
Whatcha think so far?
Man, I haven’t even got off the plane yet. Ask me again tomorrow.
Ty
Give it a chance. Ok?
Your rental should be parked directly at the front entrance, and I’ve already booked your first studio session for tomorrow to get a feel for things. I’ll send you a pin for the location.
Am I really doing this?
Ty
Looks like it. Hey, try not to do stupid shit while you’re there.
This makes me roll my eyes. Even at our age, Ty still plays the overprotective big brother role well. With a smirk on my face, I shoot off one last sarcastic text.
Can’t imagine why you’d think I might.
Hey, Ty? Can you let everyone know I landed and I’ll talk to them soon?
Ty
Yeah, man. You know I will. Love you, brother.
And hey, I’m really proud of you.
Yeah, yeah. Love you too, bro.
I have to squeeze my eyes shut to keep my emotions at bay. Lately, the tabloids have called me every name in the book—arrogant, cocky, reckless—you name it. I’ve seen headlines about the women I’ve been with, the property damage I’ve caused, and an endless stream of videos showing me messing up lyrics, stumbling around, and slurring my words. TikTok users have stitched the videos, giving all sorts of opinions about my behavior. A shelf full of CMA trophies, Grammy’s, and Platinum hits doesn’t stop people from latching onto the negative. It’s as if they thrive off inspecting small pieces of me to judge my worth, and I come up lacking every single time. It’s all a constant reminder of how very far I’ve fallen.
The media has tried to paint me as a callous, shallow man, and everyone has bought right into it—hook, line, and sinker. Hell, I’ve given them plenty of reasons to believe it. But the picture they’ve painted is a false narrative, or at least I hope to God it is. Honestly, I’m not even sure I know who I am anymore. The old Austin couldn’t pick me out of a lineup if he had to. But hearing Tyler say he’s proud of me after everything I’ve put him through gives me the slightest seed of hope that I might find a bit of my old self if I try hard enough.
Once I’ve gathered my bags and guitar case from the back of the plane, I slip out as discreetly as possible, but the airport seems pretty empty. I head in the direction Tyler said my rental would be parked, double-checking the area and thinking it must not have arrived yet.
Surely to God, my eyes are playing tricks on me after a long day of travel because my email from Tyler reads “Mid-Size Sedan" and that’s clearly not what I’m looking at. As I approach, I spot a sticker with the rental company’s logo on the windshield, and yep, this is definitely mine. An honest-to-goodness green minivan is parked exactly where Tyler said it would be. I snap a quick picture of it and send it to him. His only response is a laughing face emoji.
Inwardly groaning, I haul all my belongings to the back and lift the hatch. The only silver lining is that my luggage and guitar fit easily inside. This feels like a cosmic joke to continue humbling me, and thanks a lot, universe, message received. The van is a far cry from what I’m used to, but it is what it is, I guess.
My GPS leads me to the motel that Ty booked, and I pull into a parking lot full of trucks with expensive fishing boats attached to the hitch. A group of men are gathered by one, and they don’t even glance my way when I walk past. That’s…strangely reassuring?
A bell jingles when I open the door, and a gray-haired woman with her hair pulled up in a severe bun sits at the counter, her eyes glued to a small television. A cigarette dangles from her lips, the ash so long it’s bound to fall to the floor any second.
“Evening. What can I do for you? she asks, not looking up from her television.
“I’ve got a room booked under the name Tyler Kent.”
“No, sir, not here you don’t. We’re all full. Those fishermen out there booked us up months ago.” Still, she never looks my way.
Closing my eyes, I mentally count to ten. I will not snap at this innocent old woman .
“Ma’am, with all due respect, I think you might have it wrong. I have a confirmation email.” I pull out my phone and scroll to the email from Ty, turning it for her to see.
This snaps her attention from her show. Her eyes scan my phone screen and she curses under her breath, looking up at me with an apologetic expression.
“Son, my granddaughter has started covering some shifts here, and she must have overbooked us. You might have an email, but there ain’t a single room available.”
I sigh. “Where else can I stay?”
“We’re it. Not sure what to tell you.”
“Thanks,” I mutter tersely, and without another word I turn on my heels, pushing through the door into the night. I scroll to Tyler’s contact, nostrils flaring, and he answers on the first ring.
“Ty, the motel is overbooked. There’s no room available.”
“Dammit,” he says under his breath. “Okay, give me a bit. Maybe I can find something. Call ya back soon.”
The line goes dead, and I sit, contemplating what to do next. It’s been right under twenty-four hours since my last drink and this frustrating evening isn’t helping matters. The craving for a buzz is hitting hard and without thinking I open maps on my phone to find the nearest bar. Old Town Tavern is the first listing, and it’s only a few minutes away. With a sigh of relief, I crank the engine and follow the directions on my phone.
The bar is directly on Main Street, sitting at the end of a strip of businesses that have all closed for the night. If the lack of cars is any indication, it’s probably empty inside, but I still lower my ball cap to conceal my face as best I can while heading to the door.
I’m so consumed by my frustration that I have tunnel vision to anything around me, and the siren song of bourbon is calling. With the lighting low and the cloud of smoke thick, hopefully no one will recognize me. Making a beeline for the bar, I slide onto the empty stool near the corner, positioning myself so the people sitting nearby can only see the edge of my profile.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks, trying to crane her neck to get a better look at my face. Turning slightly in my seat, I face her more fully as she sizes me up, likely trying to figure out if she knows me from somewhere.
My eyes scan the bourbon selection behind her until I find what I’m looking for. I point to the top-shelf bourbon. “A shot of that one on top there.”
My spirit might be willing, but my flesh is pretty damn weak tonight. Plus, I just rolled up in a swagger wagon. I deserve this. Something I’ve gotten great at lately is lying to myself. I’ve perfected it, in fact. And telling myself that I deserve this drink after the shitty day I’ve had is just one more lie stacked on top of the others.
When she hands it over, I toss it back in one fluid motion, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. “Another, neat.”
She raises a questioning eyebrow, watching me as I take a small, deliberate sip and set my glass down. Chuckling, she shakes her head and moves on to take another drink order.
“What’s going on that I can’t find anywhere to stay? It’s like everyone decided to visit this tiny town at the same time,” I ask, only half-joking.
She’s mixing a fruity cocktail, but she pauses mid-shake to answer my question. “Oh, it’s those fishermen. Dunno which way you came in from, but that river of ours has some of the best fishing in the south.” She points her index finger in a vague direction. “It lasts several days. I’d be surprised if there’s anything available for a while.” I have to listen carefully to catch everything through her southern accent. Texans have accents, too, but there’s something about Alabama that creates a unique twang.
The reality of my living situation hits me, and I let out a groan. She chuckles, raising her shoulders like she’s saying, them’s the breaks .
I’m so done with this day. Maybe the universe saw this coming, and the powers that be sent the van to show me what van life is all about, cause it looks like that will be my bed tonight.
Slipping my phone from my pocket, I fire off a text to Ty.
Pretty sure you won’t find anything.
Ty
Yeah, I was about to call and tell you that.
I’m willing to sleep in the van tonight, but I’m done if we can’t find something by tomorrow.
I passed a truck stop on the way in. I’ll see if they sell travel pillows or something, just for tonight.
Ty
Understood. Don’t blame you a bit. I’ll keep working on it.
Cheers and laughter erupt from different groups in the bar, momentarily distracting me from my thoughts. I put my phone down, glancing around to see what’s happening. Over in the front corner, a small stage is set up with a microphone and screen for karaoke. A group of college-aged girls steps up and performs a slightly past tipsy rendition of "Goodbye Earl."
I’m surprised when a small laugh rumbles deep in my chest, one corner of my lip pulling up slightly.
After them, a few others take their turn. When an older gentleman with a gray combover shuffles onto the stage I expect him to sing some classic country, but nope—that’s not at all what happens. We all sit through an awkward-as-hell but surprisingly soulful and in-tune rendition of “I’ll Make Love to You” by Boyz II Men. The bar falls silent and all I hear is the rattle of ice in glasses.
From my periphery, the bartender shakes her head, her lips rolling in to hold back a laugh. Okay then, I’m not the only one feeling secondhand embarrassment. Seems like nobody here knows how to react.
When the whiskey kicks in, a slight buzz loosens me up. I think to myself, fuck it . Apparently, I’m only scared of being recognized when I’m stone cold sober. I ask the DJ if he minds I do a live performance, and he shrugs like he’s used to this question, giving me a double thumbs up.
Grabbing my guitar from the van, I head back inside and jump onto the stage. I strum the opening chords of “ After Midnight ,” and a few people at a nearby table turn, recognizing the intro. By the time I’ve gotten through the first verse a small crowd has gathered, and when I hit the chorus they’re singing along with me. This, this , is what I’ve been missing. There’s a connection with a small crowd that doesn’t happen when all I see is spotlights.
Toward the end of the song, an undercurrent of excitement buzzes through the room, and the energy shifts. The crowd in the bar has grown, and it’s evident at least half are starting to realize who I am and it won’t take long before the other half has caught on. Suddenly, it hits me how foolish I’ve been as people start nudging each other. When the first appears, I duck my head low and hop off the stage. Getting up there was a stupid idea, and I can only hope nobody was quick enough to snap a photo. If I ruin Kate’s meticulous planning on day one, I’ll never hear the end of it.
After quickly tossing a hundred-dollar bill on the bar, the bartender shows me the side exit. Nodding my thanks, I head that way, tugging the brim of my hat down low again.
I’m almost to the door when the sound of one pissed-off woman snags my attention.
“What did I say, you fuckwad? Did you hear me say I’m fine? Because I am, in fact, fine, thanks.”
My blood runs cold when she jerks her arm from him, only for him to grab it again a bit too rough for my liking. My warm buzz instantly disappears and I stalk their way, my vision turning crimson at the edges.
I don’t make a habit of jumping into bar fights; I’ve managed to stay out of the media circus for that, at least. But I can’t stand when a man can’t take a hint from a woman. I’m six-foot-two and not small by any means. When I tower over the wiry little bastard, he instantly drops her arm, but he’s still breathing hard, and from the looks of his pinprick pupils, alcohol isn’t all he’s had tonight.
“I think she told you to leave her alone.” I motion to the woman, my anger simmering right beneath the surface.
“Who the hell are you?” he spits his words out, slurring them slightly, and literal spit flies at me. He’s a mouthy fucker. I rear back in disgust.
“That doesn’t matter,” I say through gritted teeth. “What matters is that when you’re told no, you understand it and leave her the hell alone.” As soon as the words leave my lips, his buddies show up and haul him to the men’s room.
“What the hell! Asshole!” The woman I just helped out whirls to face me, fire blazing in her eyes as her ponytail lashes around, and it’s like all the oxygen has been sucked from the room. Such words coming from such pretty lips. Full, pink lips, with the most perfect cupid’s bow shaping the top.
Words crowd my throat and my mouth goes dry, because standing before me is the most breathtaking woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. No one has ever stolen the breath from my lungs until now. I’ve written countless songs about beautiful women, but I’m suddenly acutely aware just how hollow my words have been. Nothing I’ve ever written comes close to describing her .
She has a heart-shaped face with a nose that has the slightest upturn, and despite being a total stranger, she feels instantly familiar. Even in the low lighting of the bar, it’s obvious she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup, and her red hair is pulled up in a high ponytail that sways slightly with her movement. Her dark skinny jeans hug all the right places, clinging to curves that my fingers itch to explore. And right before she whirled on me, I caught a glimpse of some sort of flower tattoo snaking up her back between her shoulder blades, something I know I’ll be thinking about late into the night.
She's on the shorter side, causing her to have to look up at me when she speaks. “I can take care of myself! I didn’t need Mr. Hero Syndrome stepping in for me.” She flings her hands out into jazz hands, and one side of my mouth hooks up in a small grin. This woman with the cutest nose and southern accent is mad as hell and not afraid to show it.
Her eyes flash when she sees the amusement on my face, and I bite the inside of my cheek to pull it back in.
Flattening out my expression, I dip my head, muttering, “My apologies,” before walking in the other direction.
I don’t know what I did to make this day hate me, but it sure as hell does. It’s determined to kick my ass six ways from Sunday, and the van is sounding better and better. Maybe that truck stop has hot showers, at least. Grabbing my guitar, I walk-run to the door, the sound of the next karaoke song following me into the warm summer night.
I’ve almost reached the van when I hear the prettiest words.
“Hey, asshole! Hold up!”
All right, my new name is "asshole," as long as she’s the one saying it. Turning on my heels, I already know I’ll see that mane of red hair coming toward me. A thrill races up my spine as she approaches, a golden halo of light illuminating her from the street lights’ flickering bulbs.
“Listen, I’m not normally like this. I was way out of line in there.” She hitches her thumb toward the bar. “It’s been a bad day. Well, a bad handful of days, and I was projecting. I shouldn’t have done that.” She walks toward me, breathless from chasing me down, and as she gets closer, I notice that she looks as defeated as I feel.
“Well, that makes two of us cause it’s been a hell of a day for me, too. Sorry if I made things worse for you in there.” I tilt my head toward the bar. “I can’t stand dickheads who don’t understand that no means no.” God, isn’t that the truth? Having a younger sister has at least taught me a thing or two about consent.
She pops her hip with a hand on her waist and pins me with a glare, that same fire back in her eyes. “What about dickheads who let doors slam in people’s faces?”
“Come again?” What is she going on about? Did that guy also let a door slam in her face, and I didn’t notice it?
“I walked in right behind you. You let the door slam on me.” She mimes with her hand something hitting her in the face.
Narrowing my eyes, I rack my brain, trying to remember if I saw her coming in behind me. Honestly, I was lost in my thoughts and oblivious to my surroundings.
She’s standing there, eyes blazing, and I know I should get in the van and leave this day behind. But my feet turn to lead as I take her in. My eyes trail from that gorgeous face, down to her mouth, and all I can think about is how she’d taste. They hover there for a second before making their way down her curves to her little black sandals.
“Darlin’ if I saw your face behind me, I’d remember it.”
She sucks in an audible breath and our gazes hold. She’s the first to look away, a small smile on her lips as redness blooms up her neck and onto her cheeks.
“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat, “If I did, I’m truly sorry about that. Slamming a door in a woman’s face doesn’t sound like me. Not saying I didn’t,” I add, holding up both hands. “But it wasn’t intentional. Like I said, it’s been a hell of a day. I’m about ready for it to be over.”
Her face softens, and she nods, stepping closer. “Apology accepted. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“Well, you know what they say about assuming,” I say, arching an eyebrow at her.
She gives a throaty laugh that sends all the blood in my body rushing to my cock, and suddenly, my pants are a little too tight around the zipper.
Her head tilts sideways, and two divots appear between her brows.
“Well, Mr. Mysterious, I didn’t take you for a van-driving man.” She smirks at me, and I can’t decide if she knows who I am or not. But I can’t be sure with my favorite Texas Longhorns hat pulled down low.
“Mr. Mysterious, huh?” Smirking back at her, an idea forms and I decide to shoot my shot. “That right there is a story for another day. Seeing how I’m new in town, maybe you could show me around. I could tell you how I ended up here, van and all.” I give my best self-deprecating shrug. “I’ll be around for a bit. You could give me your number.” Something tells me this spit-fire of a woman doesn’t freely hand out her number to total strangers. But then she shocks the hell out of me, proving me completely wrong.
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip in the cutest gesture, eyes narrowing. After a moment’s hesitation, she steps even closer and holds out her hand for my phone. After I unlock it, I hand it to her, catching a whiff of something floral and earthy when I do. She types her number into my contacts, holding it up to take a selfie for the contact photo before handing it back to me. And for the third time tonight, that foreign feeling hits me and a ghost of a smile curves my mouth at the unexpected turn this night has taken.
“What’s your name?” she asks. Either she truly has no clue who I am, or she’s one hell of an actress.
Humming out a low laugh, I decide to go with honesty. “My name’s Austin. You got a name?”
“I’m Penny.” Her voice is soft and kind now, a juxtaposition to her earlier tone.
“You got a last name?” I ask.
“Just Penny. How ’bout you? You got a last name?”
Shaking my head, I say, “Just Austin.”
She takes a step backward, like she’s suddenly realized how close we’re now standing.
“Maybe I’ll see you around Austin, just Austin.”
I give her a wink and a dip of my chin before climbing into my van. “Penny, just Penny, I sure hope so.”
Maybe this trip’ll turn out all right after all.