Whiskey Lullaby(16)

“Momma…” I stepped behind her and placed my hand on her back.

Her shoulders rose and fell on a hard breath. “I may be dying, but I refuse to do it without grace.” And she went into the hallway, slowly making her way down the stairs.

_





Much to my surprise, Noah’s truck was parked by the shop when I got home from work. When I opened my car door, Bo’s distinct laughter came floating around the back of the house.

Instead of walking through the front door, I followed the stepping stones around to the backyard. Noah was leaned over Daddy’s tractor working on the engine.

“Need a wrench?” Bo asked.

“Yeah.”

Noah stopped and grabbed the bottom of his grease-stained undershirt, lifting it to wipe the sweat from his face. My eyes went straight to the exposed skin on his stomach, then to those deep lines that disappeared under the waist of the jeans hanging dangerously low on his hips. When he dropped his shirt, my gaze lifted to the ridiculous grin on his face.

“Hey, you,” he said.

“Hey, baby girl,” Daddy chimed in.

I immediately spun around, praying no one saw me staring at Noah. Mommy and Daddy were sitting on the old aluminum glider by the azalea bushes. “Hey.” I glanced over to Momma, taking note of the pink scarf wrapped around her head. “You look pretty.”

“Your daddy thought it would be good for me to get some fresh air.” Placing a palm on his chest, she rested her head against his shoulder and Daddy stretched out his legs, rocking the glider.

The tractor engine cranked, and Sampson sat up from his spot on the backporch. “Yeah,” Noah shouted before shutting it off. “Looks like you just needed some spark plugs, John.”

“Thank you, Noah.”

Bo wiped sweat from his brow as he started toward the backdoor. “Bo,” Daddy shouted. “Grab those burgers when you come back out, would you?”

“Sure, Dad.”

I turned around just as Noah dusted the dirt from his hands onto his jeans. His gaze stopped on me for a brief moment. “Alright, John, well, I think that’s got me done for the day.”

“Guess it does.” Daddy stood, hitching his pants up before he walked to the grill and fiddled with the burners. “You sure you don’t wanna stay for dinner? I grill a good burger.”

Noah rubbed the back of his neck. “Appreciate it, but I already have plans.” He took a slow step back, his gaze stopping on me for a beat too long before he turned around. “I’m playing tonight at Tipsy’s…eight o’clock,” he said as he rounded the side of the house.

Something on the grill popped and Daddy jumped back a good foot.

Momma looked over, laughing. “Don’t burn your eyebrows off, John. We’d be the pair then, wouldn’t we? Me with no hair and him with no eyebrows.” Momma patted the empty spot on the swing next to her and I took a seat. “Was work good?”

“It was fine. Just glad I have the next few days off.” The engine to Noah’s truck rumbled to life. Sampson hopped up with a growl before taking off around the side of the house, barking.

Momma’s cheeks had a slight, healthy pink tint to them, not near as pallid as they had been. It was evident she felt better, and that was what made it so hard. I knew it was only temporary, but I also knew I should be eternally grateful for every moment, no matter how temporary it was.

“We should go get our nails done at Judy’s this weekend like we used to,” I said.

She grabbed my hand and squeezed. “I’d like that.” She swept her hand over my cheek, cupping my face like she did when I was a little girl. “Noah seems nice.” The hinges on the glider creaked when she pushed it back.

“Yeah.”

One corner of her mouth curled in a knowing smile. “He’s not hard on the eyes either.”

“He’s more Meg’s type than mine,” I said in an attempt to deflect the fact that I found him hopelessly attractive. Funny how we do things like that.

“Mmhmm.” She moved the glider back again, the springs squeaking. “Just be careful.” She patted my thigh.

Be careful, I agreed with that… whatever it meant.





15





Noah





Trevor leaned against the side of the stage and set his drink down. “You lucky bastard, you’ve got it made.” He laughed, staring out at the crowded bar.

I tuned my guitar. “Yeah, if pussy makes you a made-man, I guess so.” I rolled my eyes and plugged in my amp. “You’re an idiot.”

“Seriously, look.” He motioned with his chin toward the girls at the side of the stage primping and giggling like mindless bimbos. “You could have any of them.”

Sometimes I think growing up privileged makes you a dumbass. And by privileged, I don’t mean growing up with a silver spoon in your mouth, I mean growing up with more than one person that gives a shit about you. It must be hard to appreciate things of value when you have no idea what’s valuable. And girls like that—they aren’t valuable. They’re a distraction from your shitty life. “Man,” I said, taking a seat on the barstool, “any idiot can get a girl to fuck him.”

“True, but only an idiot with a guitar can get any girl to fuck him.”

Laughing, I reached down, grabbed my drink from the floor of the stage, and took a sip. Over the rim of the plastic cup, I caught sight of Meg and Hannah walking in, and I grinned around my drink. Hannah was in a pair of faded jeans, her hair in a loose ponytail, and that made her stick out like a sore thumb amongst all the short skirts and tight dresses. It made my heart beat a little faster. Jesus, this is ridiculous.

“What are you…” Trevor glanced over the crowd then slunk into the shadows of the stage. “Aw, shit,” he mumbled, pulling the bill of his ball cap down a little. “That’s Meg, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” I said, staring at Hannah.

“Look, dude, I told you. Have at it, she’s batshit crazy.”

“Are you fucking insane? I don’t want her.”

“Then what were you…” Squinting, he took another survey of the crowd. “Oh, hell no. Hannah?” He lifted both brows. “Hannah Blake?”

I smiled like a little shit, plucking the string of my guitar.

“She wouldn’t give you the time of day, she’s a—”

Hannah grinned and waved at me from the side of the room, and I waved back before looking over at Trev. “What was that?”

“Aw, she’s just being nice because you’re working for her dad. I’m telling you.”

“How about you just shut up and get drunk?” I stepped up to the mic and cleared my throat, strumming out the notes to the first song.

Toward the end of the first set, Trevor made his way to the bar, and there was Meg right behind him. She pretended to ignore him, sweeping her hair to the side. I never did get girls. I mean, she knew he was an ass, and yet, there she was watching him all googly-eyed. If I had to guess, she was waiting for him to look her way so she could pretend she wanted nothing to do with him.

I kept singing, all my attention on Hannah, barely any on the words rolling from my lips.

When I finished the set, the girls at the front clapped. The rest of the bar didn’t give two shits about anything but their drinks and who they were taking home for the night.

“Alright, well, that’s it for me. Now, y’all get to listen to that dance shit they play on Saturday nights.” I laughed before switching the mic off and packing my guitar up. I slipped my arm through the case strap and hopped off the stage, staring at the floor so I didn’t have to talk to any of the girls crowding around me.

At the edge of the dance floor, I noticed a guy with his arm braced on the wall, cornering Hannah in the back of the room. Her lips pinched in a frown, her jaw set. Hannah tried to move away from him, but he blocked her, and a fire lit my ass up.

Some drunk stumbled across my path, and I shoved him out of the way. “Asshole,” he shouted, but I paid him no mind. I was focused on Hannah. Her eyes locked with mine over the dipshit’s shoulder, and I guess that’s what made him turn to look at me. Ah, hell. Max Summers. My jaw tensed, my hands automatically balled into fists. Pushing my shoulders back, I stepped between them and placed my arm around her, shooting him the back-the-hell-away-from-my-girl glare. “Come on, let’s go get drinks,” I told Hannah.

Just as I went to step around Max, a sarcastic smile spread over his face. “So,” he said, giving Hannah a fleeting glance before eyeing me up. “This is the kind of guy you go for now, huh, Hannah? Poor”—he squared up to me—“white”—then cracked his neck to the side like a WWF wrestler—“trash.”

Oh you sonofa… All I heard was a fight bell ding in my head. Clenching my teeth, I slid my guitar off my shoulder and rested it against a chair. God, my knuckles were aching to bust his nose open.

Hannah placed her palm on my chest and subtly shook her head.

I wanted to make her happy more than I wanted to nail him in the face, that should have been my first clue I was in trouble. I took a breath, my pulse thrumming in my neck. “Fuck off, Summers.” The second I turned my back to him, there was a crack and a splintering pain shot across the side of my head. Dazed, I stumbled forward a few steps and caught myself on a bar table. Shattered bits of glass tumbled over my shoulder when I looked up, and, of course, there was a crowd gathering around. Shit.