Sneak Peek
Annabelle
Then
Up ahead, the flickering neon sign for Tank’s Motel and Tavern cuts through the hazy night sky. From the looks of the place, it’s seen better days, but then again, so have I.
Trudging down the frontage road as cars whip by, I pull my jacket tighter around my torso to fight November’s chill.
I cannot believe my plans for the evening went up in smoke. Literally. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. With the way my life’s been going lately, my car dying on the side of the highway is just another entry in a long list of problems.
Shoving open the door to the tavern, I welcome the warmth and drop onto the closest wooden stool with a weary sigh. “Is this seat taken?” I ask the man sitting next to me. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I smother a groan. Without intending to, my question sounds like a cliché pickup line.
He shoots me a look that could sour milk. “No, but to be clear, I’m here to drink beer, not socialize. Capisce?”
“Capisce, asshole,” I spit out, side-eyeing him. “I was being polite. I’m not looking to socialize either.”
His crappy attitude doesn’t stop me from giving him a quick once-over.
Shaggy chestnut curls peek out from beneath his cowboy hat, like he’s a week or two overdue for a haircut.
His hat's brim is tilted just enough to keep his eyes hidden, but I catch the shadows of his long, dark lashes sweep across his cheeks as he blinks.
When he catches me staring, he shoots me a smirk.
It's cocky and insincere, but it still manages to send an unwanted zing straight to my belly.
Spinning away from him, I signal to the bartender and ignore my neighbor’s snort when he hears me order a glass of wine in a place that screams cheap beer.
Pulling up the rideshare app on my phone, I type in my hotel’s address.
My best friend, Laura, volunteered to babysit my daughters and gifted me hotel points so that I could have a night to myself.
Unfortunately, my car had other ideas when it started smoking on the outskirts of downtown, forcing me to pull over and change my plans.
“Damn,” I mutter. Since it’s still rush hour, it’s more expensive than I imagined. I guess I’m stuck here until surge pricing ends.
When my glass of wine arrives, I gulp it down, grateful to wash away the taste of exhaust and disappointment.
The bar is dimly lit, but the music is loud.
Since it’s Nashville, of course, old-school country music is playing over the speakers.
I dislike country music for a lot of reasons, one of which is that it reminds me of Kyle.
A forlorn frown tugs at my lips. That’s the problem with loving the same man for my entire adult life.
He’s wrapped up in every one of my memories, and as much as I want to escape him, I can’t.
Desperate to keep my pity party at bay, I blink rapidly. If I need to cry, I will. Later. But not in this bar and not while I’m sitting next to this asshole. “Keep it together,” I chant quietly to myself.
Next to me, the jerk scoffs into his beer. He’s pissing me off, so as I slip off my jacket, I not-so-accidentally elbow him in the ribs.
“Sorry, sir,” I singsong, shooting him a saccharine smile.
His gaze darkens, and instead of replying, his eyes rove over my body in a slow perusal. My boobs look good tonight, but they’re not on display for him; that’s for damn sure.
“Eyes up here,” I point to my face. “Capisce?”
Rolling his eyes, he grumbles, “I wasn’t looking at your tits, princess.
I was looking at your shirt.” He gestures to my Rolling Stones T-shirt.
“You look like the type to wear the vintage tee because it’s cool, not because you like their music.
” He refocuses his attention on the television hanging on the wall.
Wrong move.
“Miss You .” That should startle him out of pretending that he’s watching the old replay of a Cincinnati Reds game.
My bet pays off.
The asshole spins toward me, a feral look in his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“ Miss You. That’s my favorite Stones song, followed by Beast of Burden, Start Me Up, and Wild Horses .
The Rolling Stones have sold over 250 million records worldwide.
Did you know that Mick Jagger and Keith Richards have known each other since they were five?
” I pause as he stares. “No, you didn’t, but I did.
I wear the shirt because I like the fucking band, you pretentious asshat. ”
Something like respect flashes across his face before he turns back to the baseball game. “Settle down over there, Jeopardy.”
“Shut up, Cowboy.”
A sardonic chuckle breaks past his lips. “Not original, but better than asshole, I guess.”
He may be laughing, but I'm not. He’s infuriating. I’m supposed to be relaxing. My goal tonight is to lower my blood pressure, not elevate it by arguing with a broody cowboy suffering from attitude issues.
“Want to know a fun fact? When a worker bee mates with a queen bee, his penis explodes,” I say, lips curving up.
“Jesus,” he mutters, his face twisting in horror.
Which almost makes up for him calling me Jeopardy earlier. My smile grows as I lean in for the kill, whispering, “If you listen closely, you can even hear it go boom!”
Despite everything, he grins. “Well, aren’t you a little fucking ray of sunshine?”
I lift my eyes and signal for another glass of wine from the bartender.
But then the cowboy goes and annoys me further. Raising his eyebrows when he hears me order another drink, he starts, “Look, you may want to slow down—”
Cutting him off, I mutter, “I neither asked for nor want your opinion on my shirt, my drinking habits, or anything else, asshole.”
I feel the judgment in my neighbor’s stare, so I reposition myself on the stool, giving him my back. Whatever he’s thinking is nothing I’m not already telling myself.
Getting drunk won’t solve my problems.
Tomorrow’s hangover will only make things worse.
Shit, how much worse can my life get? I bark out a laugh that borders on hysteria, sharp and brittle.
Resting my forehead on my hand, my eyes well up again.
I swipe my fingers across my cheeks when a few traitorous tears spill over.
I’m worn down from months of being strong, pretending to have my shit together when, really, I’m falling apart inside.
The kaleidoscope of emotions that I keep on lockdown seems hellbent on breaking free tonight.
Fine , I huff to myself. If my feelings refuse to be ignored, I won’t suppress them. Tonight, I’ll allow the emotions I’ve bottled up to rush to the surface, overflowing like a shaken-up soda. I’ll acknowledge them in hopes of moving past them.
The sadness, the betrayal, the anger and rage.
The aching loneliness.
But as swiftly as that idea springs to mind, I dismiss it.
No, tonight, I’ll give myself the gift of forgetting. Instead of accepting my godawful feelings, I’ll stick with denial. I’ll drink copious amounts of alcohol to forget my problems, if only for a night.
Yep, that sounds better.
Next to me, the cowboy clears his throat to get my attention. “Umm, are you okay?”
His concern irks me. “You sure are talking a lot for someone who isn’t here to socialize.”
Surprisingly, he holds up his hands in surrender and apologizes. “You were right earlier. I was being an asshole. It’s been a tough day, but that’s no excuse.”
Through narrowed eyes, I scrutinize him.
He’s ruggedly handsome. The type of handsome where the cumulative sum of his features is far more striking than each individual one.
The type of handsome where his features align just right, coming together to form a face that is almost unfairly gorgeous, framed by those enticing caramel-colored curls.
My fingers itch to comb through them, to see if they're as soft as they look.
When his fingers flex around his beer bottle, my eyes track up his hand to his tanned forearm.
His flannel shirt strains over muscular arms and broad shoulders, and the sight alone ignites my long-neglected libido.
And then he smiles. It’s lopsided, one side hitching up a little higher than the other, and somehow, that imperfection makes him even more attractive.
God, he looks like trouble.
Clenching my jaw, I grapple with my vacillating emotions, so I take a few seconds to respond. “Same. Tough day, tough week, tough month, tough year.”
My neighbor calls for another round of drinks and some food from the bartender. With this glass of wine—my third, I think—I sip it. The lukewarm alcohol is working its way through my system, my body feeling sluggish and languid. Hopefully, my brain will soon follow suit.
I shift on my stool and lean my back against the bar to survey the place. I would never have been caught dead in this type of bar before my life imploded.
The atmosphere is dark and hazy. Even though Nashville outlawed smoking in bars years ago, the stale scent of cigarettes stubbornly lingers in the air.
The space is lit by green lights over the pool tables and mismatched strings of colored Christmas lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling.
Based on the dust and number of burnt-out bulbs, I don't think Tank's management is simply feeling the holiday spirit. My guess is that those Christmas lights have been up there for at least a decade. An old Dwight Yoakam song reverberates from the jukebox, mingling with the sounds of cracking pool balls and scattered conversations. After glancing around at the clientele in Tank’s—bikers in black leather vests and others who look like recent parolees—I shift my attention back to my neighbor.