Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 39300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
I grab a cheese fry and pop it into my mouth, grimacing when it tastes like ashes. But I'm not sure if that's the fry or if it's thanks to the smoke clinging to every surface in this bar. It's not even legal to smoke indoors, yet every time someone opens the front doors, another blast of smoke comes boiling in.
After the morning I had, I was perfectly content holed up in my hotel room, scarfing down ice cream. But Triton insisted I needed food and a little time outside of my own head.
I just want to go back to my room and wallow in peace. Especially since my cousin ditched me the second some curvy brunette with fuck-me eyes crooked her finger at him. Typical.
He's probably having sex in a bar bathroom. Yuck.
I take a long swig of beer, grimacing at the bitter taste. I don't know how people drink this and enjoy it. It tastes like how sweat feels—gross.
As I lower the bottle, the door swings open again, another blast of smoke blowing in.
Dalton Grady blows in with it, a man with long hair and scars all over his hands pacing at his side.
I freeze, my heart leaping into my freaking throat.
How the heck did he possibly find me here?
I grab the sticky wrapper from my burger, using it to hide my face. What? Desperate times and all that.
I inch a corner of it down to watch him discreetly.
Good lord, the man is sex on legs. My stomach clenches as he strides toward the bar, his handsome face set in grim lines, his muscles flexing with every step. He doesn't even look left or right. He's hyper-focused on something else.
Maybe he isn't here for me?
I lower the wrapper, watching as he and his friend stride up to a man sitting at the bar and pull up stools beside him. Dalton murmurs something.
The man on the stool says something back, and Dalton sighs.
They know each other.
I slide out of the booth, curiosity eating me alive as I inch closer, trying to hear what they're talking about. If eavesdropping is wrong, I'll explain to baby Jesus later.
I manage to find a spot behind a post not even two feet away. I'm so close that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. Which I don't want. Nope. Definitely not. Not even to right that piece of hair standing upright…
"What are you doing, man?" Dalton asks, concern etched in his deep voice. "You shouldn't be here."
"I fucked everything up," the guy rasps, his green eyes focused on his shot glass like it holds the secrets of the universe. "And Isla left."
"Jesus," the guy who came in with Dalton says. "What happened, Brantley?"
Recognition slams into me as soon as the man says his name. Brantley Hill just inherited Hilltop Records here in Nashville after his father, Bellamy, was murdered by the Dixie Mafia over drug money they were owed.
It's been all over the news because half the world is convinced Brantley is the one who owed them, not his father. The music industry is split down the middle on who they think owed the debt.
"They found her sister. Tried to kill her." Brantley scrubs a hand through his dark hair. "It's my goddamn fault, Priest."
"And you think this shit is going to help?" Priest growls at him. "You're supposed to be sober, brother."
Brantley laughs, the sound scraping from his throat. "So everyone keeps telling me. Christ, I'm so fucking tired of this."
My heart aches at the pain in his voice. Whether he was the one who owed the drug money or not, I don't know. But he lost so much. Today, of all days, I can empathize. It's not a good feeling.
"Of what?" Dalton asks.
"The whole goddamn thing," Brantley rasps. "Half the fucking world blames me for what happened, and I let them because I want to protect his memory. I owe him that much. But goddamn. I didn't know it'd cost me everything that mattered."
"Brant, you can't—"
A meaty hand slaps my ass. Hard.
I wheel around to see a drunken cowboy in obscenely tight jeans leering at me.
I don't think. I don't say a word. I just act. My hand darts out, slapping him across the face just as hard as he slapped my ass.
He stumbles back a step, blinking. "You ungrateful bitch! I was just playin' with you."
"How? By assaulting me?" My heart hammers against my ribs as the alcohol on his breath washes over me.
"Assault? You're the one who hit me!"
He touches my ass without permission, and there are consequences, but suddenly he's the victim. Typical. I guess assholes and creeps are the same in every part of the United States—same tired lines, same tired moves, same tired victim complex. Ugh.
"Yeah, because you slapped my ass first, you basement-dwelling idiot. And I know you probably don't comprehend big words with that small brain, so I'll use little ones. That's bad. You go to jail for things like that." I jab my finger into his chest, causing him to stumble again. Jeez. How much has he had to drink? "So do us both a favor and don't ever put your hands on me or anyone else ever again."