2. Nash
Chapter 2
Nash
T he roar of tepid applause followed us offstage, the crowd’s half-hearted clinking of glasses and muted conversations still audible. It wasn’t the sound of magic; it was the sound of mediocrity.
Easton didn’t meet my eyes as he packed up his guitar, but he didn’t need to—I knew exactly what he was thinking. We used to own this. We used to be the Golden Duo. Now? We were little more than background noise in the main tent of a small-town rodeo.
I set my guitar case on the ground, my gaze wandering back to the tent’s entrance. People were flooding in now.
“Incredible,” I muttered under my breath. Easton gave me a sideways glance, but I didn’t elaborate.
I needed a drink.
The marquee hummed with activity, a sharp contrast to earlier when we were on stage. Festivalgoers crowded the place, their voices rising in a chaotic symphony as they mingled, the earthy scent of leather boots and alcohol lingering in the warm night air. Line dancers took to the wooden floor in front of the now-deserted stage, their boots tapping in rhythm as the old wood creaked beneath their movement. The air buzzed with celebration, alive with the rhythm of the festivities, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clang of a discarded bottle hitting the ground.
Running a hand through my overgrown brown hair, I felt the coarse strands snag between my fingers as the breeze lightly brushed against my face. I placed my white cowboy hat on my head, feeling the fabric of my shirt tighten uncomfortably as sweat clung to my skin. As a nervous tick, I rubbed a hand over my short beard and thick mustache, their rough texture grounding me before I left Easton to his task. I couldn’t bear to look at him after another trainwreck of a show. The weight of his disappointment hung heavy, a stone I couldn’t shake off.
I felt like a ball and chain attached to his ankle now, watching as his dream crumbled little by little because of me. The regret and shame gnawed at me, swirling in the pit of my stomach like a heavy drink gone down wrong. Yet, he stayed—his loyalty unwavering—clinging to the hope that we might regain what we’d lost. That loyalty would be the death of him. Dejection twisted in my gut as I pushed through the crowd, my boots making hollow thuds on the dusty floor.
As I weaved through groups of drunk revelers and couples lost in their own worlds, their slurred words and soft murmurs melting into the background, my eyes landed on the familiar braid of chocolate-brown hair. It was as if the air itself shifted, the stillness settling in like the calm before a storm.
Dawn Taylor.
Her name alone was a melody, rolling through the air with effortless admiration. She entered the room like a comet streaking across the night sky, her gravity commanding all eyes. The crowd that barely noticed us had come alive the moment she appeared during our last songs. Her aura radiated like a distant star—impossible to ignore, impossible not to be drawn to. I doubted she even realized the effect she had, her stride steady and confident as she strolled toward the dance floor, oblivious to the glances and murmurs trailing her every step.
I couldn’t help but watch her as I’d sung one of our best ballads. Dawn Taylor wasn’t just any rodeo star. She was the rodeo star—a barrel-racing champion with a string of titles to her name and the kind of presence that turned heads without effort. And me? I was a man who’d once been on top, now struggling to find his way back. The scent of leather and fresh hay still clung to her like a subtle reminder of the outdoor arenas she owned.
She stood near the end of the makeshift bar, her friend leaning close to say something that made her laugh—a soft, melodic sound that could charm the devil himself. It sent a tremor through the air, an impossible sweetness that lingered long after. Her laugh resonated through the room, warming the cool air around us. As she gestured for the bartender’s attention, the quiet admiration of the crowd grew, almost tangible in the space between us.
I hesitated, but something tugged at me, an invisible string pulling me toward her like a compass to true north. The rush of emotions clouded my thoughts, but the pull toward her was undeniable. Before I could overthink it, I walked to the bar, signaling the bartender as I approached, the space around me buzzing with a sharp contrast of noise and quiet anticipation.
“I’ve got hers,” I said smoothly, nodding toward the gorgeous woman.
Her friend froze mid-sentence, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. With a sly grin, she nudged Dawn, whispered something in her ear, and slipped away into the crowd, leaving Dawn standing there, her annoyance evident.
“That wasn’t very subtle,” she muttered, turning to face me fully. Her flushed cheeks hinted at a combination of dancing and drinking. Her blue eyes—half-lidded but sharp—met mine. There was no starstruck awe in her gaze, just quiet curiosity.
“Subtle’s overrated,” I shrugged. “Figured it was the least I could do after stealing your spotlight.”
She blinked, then snorted softly. “Stealing my spotlight? Bold, considering half the crowd was on their phones during your set.”
Ouch. But fair. Leaning against the bar, I let the sting roll off and relied on my usual armor—flirtation.
“Well, at least one person was tapping his foot,” I shot back with a grin. “That’s practically a standing ovation these days.”
Dawn’s lips twitched, a glimmer of amusement breaking through her exterior. “I’ll give you that. The bald guy in the corner? He looked like he was having the time of his life.”
The bartender slid a beer in front of me and set her cocktail—a colorful drink garnished with mint—beside it. I passed a twenty across the counter, catching her gaze as I did.
“So, what brings the princess of the rodeo to the land of wayward musicians and lukewarm applause?”
Her eyes flickered, something unspoken shifting behind them. I couldn’t quite place the emotion there—restless, elusive—but it faded as quickly as it came. For a moment, it seemed she might brush me off, but then her shoulders relaxed slightly.
“Needed a drink. And Willow insisted I’d ‘have fun,’” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the dance floor where her friend was belting out Shania Twain lyrics. “Not sure she and I have the same definition of fun, though.”
“Her idea of fun involves ditching you at the bar?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“For tonight, apparently,” she laughed.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’d say she did you a favor.”
She tilted her head, her felt cowboy hat following the gesture. “Oh? How’s that?”
“Because now you’re stuck talking to me,” I said, raising my beer in a mock toast.
She laughed—a real laugh this time—and shook her head. “Someone’s pretty fond of himself.”
“I’m my biggest fan,” I admitted with a wink, more truthful than I intended.
Her smile lingered, and for the first time in a long while, I felt something besides the dull ache of failure. It might’ve been the way her eyes softened ever so slightly or the way she hadn’t walked away yet. Whatever it was, it intrigued me.
Turning to take in my surroundings, I tipped the beer bottle back. Line dancers filled the floor, country hits pulsing through the air. The venue was growing hotter by the minute. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her watching me, her expression scrutinizing.
Maybe she was thinking about the headlines—my so-called erratic, self-destructive behavior.
Despite all that attention from the crowd, Dawn seemed entirely at ease, a quiet confidence radiating from her. It wasn’t fair, really, how someone could be so damn magnetic without trying.
“So, what’s it like being the princess of the rodeo?” I asked, keeping my tone light even as I echoed her media moniker.
Her eyebrow arched, unimpressed. “Princess, huh? Is that what they’re calling me now?”
“Yep,” I said with a grin. “Read it in Rodeo Roundup Magazine. You walk in, and suddenly no one’s paying attention to the band anymore. Seems pretty royal to me.”
Her lips twitched, but she wasn’t letting me off easy. “They stopped to gawk because I tracked half the arena’s dust here, not because of some imaginary crown.”
“Or maybe it’s because your family has more trophies than this bar has bottles,” I countered, tipping my beer toward her.
That got her—a soft, real laugh that shook off her guard. For a second, I saw the kid she must’ve been before all the hard work.
“I think you’re overselling it,” she said, hiding her pink cheeks behind her drink as she took another sip.
“Nah.” I leaned in just enough to drop my voice, making it feel like our little secret. “Trust me, I know what it’s like to be on top. People can’t take their eyes off you, even when they act like they don’t care.”
Her smile faltered—just a flicker—and there it was: something real, something raw. She covered it quickly, but not quickly enough.
“Yeah, well,” she said, her voice quieter now, as if thinking out loud. “Things aren’t always as golden as they appear. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel great—it can feel like a responsibility I never asked for.”
I nodded, her words hitting deeper than I’d expected. “True. And sometimes it’s just about figuring out what keeps you going.”
Her eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, the whole bar seemed to disappear. Then she tilted her head, the corner of her mouth lifting into a smirk.
“You’re smooth, aren’t you? Do all your lines come prepackaged, or are they tailored for the occasion?”
“Only for the beautiful country girls,” I said without missing a beat, a challenge lighting up my eyes. I hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. Talking to her felt like stepping into a lighter world, away from the weight of my own thoughts.
She laughed again, this time louder, and damn, it was a good sound. It felt like I’d hit the jackpot—even if she was probably laughing at me, not with me.
“Well, I hope you’re better at writing songs than pick-up lines,” she teased, shaking her head.
“Oh, I am,” I said, leaning just a little closer. “But with you, I’d probably have to write a whole album just to keep up.”
Her drink paused halfway to her lips, and she gave me a look equal parts suspicion and amusement. “And why’s that?”
“Because I’d need at least ten tracks to capture how good you look tonight.”
She snorted, nearly choking on her drink, and set the glass down. “Okay, now I know you’re laying it on thick.”
“Just calling it as I see it,” I said, shrugging with a grin. “But hey, talk is cheap.”
I set my beer down and extended my hand toward her, palm up, feeling bold. “So how about we let actions speak instead? Dance with me.” I couldn’t believe what I was doing; dancing wasn’t exactly my strong suit.
She stared at my hand for a moment, her lips twitching as if undecided between a smirk and brushing me off. Her eyes flicked toward her friend on the dance floor, who was grinning and giving us an enthusiastic double thumbs-up, then back to me. Finally, she sighed.
“Really? You think I’m the kind of girl who gets swept off her feet by a dance?”
“I don’t know,” I said, holding her gaze steady. “But there’s only one way to find out.”
She hesitated a moment longer, then let out a small laugh—the kind that told me even she wasn’t sure why she was agreeing. But she placed her hand in mine anyway, and that was all I needed.
“All right, cowboy,” she said, her tone daring. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”
I grinned as I led her to the dance floor. “Oh, I plan to do much more than keep up.”
* * *
The DJ played a slow, easy tune—the kind that made it impossible not to sway along. I lightly rested my hand on her waist, her palm still warm in mine. She moved with the kind of confidence I should’ve expected from a barrel-racing champion, but there was a softness to her steps, too, as though she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to be here after all.
“So,” I said, breaking the silence as we found a steady rhythm. “How did you end up here after your race? You’re not really known for it.”
Dawn Taylor’s exploits always made the front page of rodeo magazines. She had a reputation for professionalism and an intense dedication to the sport.
Her lips quirked up at the corner. “You mean dancing with a washed-up country singer?”
“Washed up?” I pretended to look wounded. “I’ll have you know I’ve got at least two fans left. Maybe three, if my mom still counts.”
That earned me a laugh—light and genuine. “I’m not sure how to follow that up,” she said, “but let’s just say I’m here because I needed a change of scenery. Life gets loud sometimes.”
I nodded, understanding her words in a way I hadn’t expected.
The dance shifted, the tempo picking up slightly, and I spun her gently. The way she moved—confident, controlled, but with a spark of something untamed—was intoxicating. I pulled her back in close, the soft scent of her perfume brushing against me. For a moment, I forgot where we were.
“You’re good at this,” she admitted quietly, her voice softer now. “Not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect, exactly?” I asked, genuinely intrigued.
She hesitated, her inviting lips curving into a small, teasing smile. “I don’t know. Maybe someone a little less coordinated? More... I don’t know, rough around the edges?”
I chuckled, guiding her into a gentle turn. “Rough around the edges? Is that your way of saying you thought I’d be a mess out here?”
She laughed, the sound soft but unguarded. “I mean, the way you’re known to come storming into places, stirring things up—let’s just say I didn’t peg you as the smooth and steady type.”
“Storming into places?” I echoed with a grin. “That’s dramatic.”
“Is it?” she countered, raising a brow. “Let’s see… you’re on stage one minute, then disappearing into the night the next. You’ve got everyone talking, wondering what Nash Rhodes’ next temperamental streak is going to be. Sounds like a storm to me.”
I held her gaze, my grin fading just slightly. “Maybe I’m still figuring out what I’m doing out there,” I admitted, my voice quieter now.
Her expression softened, curiosity replacing the teasing edge. “Why did you ask me for a dance, troublemaker?”
I spun her again, partly to buy myself a moment to think. “Maybe I needed to get away. Or maybe I’m just trying to remember who I was before it all got so... complicated.”
She studied me as we fell back into step, her eyes searching mine. “And? Any luck with that?”
“Some,” I said, giving her a small smile. “Tonight’s been a good start.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she held my gaze. “Well, for what it’s worth,” she said softly, “you don’t seem so complicated right now.”
I pulled her a little closer as the music slowed, letting the moment stretch between us. “Maybe that’s because I finally found someone who’s willing to give me a second chance.”
She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “Careful, cowboy. You’re starting to sound like you might have some charm after all.”
“Oh, I’ve got charm,” I said with a wink, switching the conversation back to playfulness. “I’m just saving the best of it for you.” I didn’t even understand how it had flowed to this deeper exchange in the first place.
Her laughter carried between us—straightforward and honest—and for the first time in a long time, the storm inside me felt like it might be settling for a bit.