Fallon
I sauntered through the door of Slick Willy’s later that night, Augusta Belle hot on my heels, her hand wrapped firmly in mine.
Something had shifted after our moment in the truck earlier.
I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was, but she seemed a little more raw, like she’d been stripped of a few of her shields of armor, and I couldn’t help bein’ a little more tender to that.
I still had questions.
Plenty of emotions, too, but they didn’t seem as important to me as they once were.
There was no changin’ the past, so I was doin’ my best to live in each moment.
And in this moment, I had her.
“Fallon Gentry here for eight,” I said when we’d landed at the bar.
The man nodded toward the corner of the room. A tiny stage barely big enough for one sat waiting, a few dozen scattered chairs and hardly anyone in sight.
“You bother promotin’ this?”
“Not my job.” He shrugged. “Didn’t think Nashville’s golden boy needed promotin’ anyway. Heard you packed the Thorny Cactus. Didn’t figure I needed to—”
I didn’t wait for the rest of his bullshit excuse, only trailed my way among the litter of chairs to get to the stage. “Most of these places have at least a room in back to warm up, but looks like we’re goin’ in cold tonight. Got anything you know off the top of your head?”
“Me?” Augusta Belle dropped my hand and backed away a few steps, head shaking. “I’m not singin’ tonight. I haven’t sung in years.”
“So? Still got the pipes, don’t ya?”
She tilted her head, eyes flaring, and I knew then she’d accepted my challenge.
“I got you, slick.” She narrowed her gaze, pushing past me to step up onstage and adjust the microphone to her height. “You ready?”
One of her eyebrows quirked up. Check. Mate.
“Born ready.” I stepped up beside her and waited as she hummed a few notes into the microphone, eyes darting up to meet mine when a few customers wandered over and took seats.
She had that look in her eye that said she wasn’t sure if she was going to sing her ass off or puke her guts out, that very feeling I lived for—when adrenaline and whiskey mixed—a ride-or-die moment.
Her sweet Southern twang was music to my ears as she sang the opening lines of a June Carter and Johnny Cash song, words about getting married in a wild fever rush.
My heart throttled into a gallop as my fingers took over the familiar notes of the song, her perfect harmonies mixing with the words to create some special blend of magic in that dingy little bar.
I sang my part when it came, her eyes hovering on mine as we turned, singing back and forth about love and pain and all the crazy that comes along with walkin’ hand in hand with someone an entire lifetime.
By the time the song had finished, the tiny bar was nearly packed, new people still coming in off the street as the energy hit record decibels.
I winked at Augusta Belle as the song ended and led her into the next song I knew she’d remember.
A song I’d sung to her more nights than I could count.
I couldn’t let myself think about all the sweet and tender moments of our growing up together, culminating in the night when it was all ripped away from us. I couldn’t think about it, or I’d find myself breaking down on this stage right here and now and askin’ her to give me everything.
All that heartache had made me think some hateful things, the only absolution I could find at the bottom of a dry whiskey bottle.
I wasn’t any different from a lot of the men who loved strong women. That independent fire was what drew me to her, but it also had to keep me ready to let her fly, when that time came.
By the time we’d finished our third song in a row, the crowd was standing room only.
