“Christ,” I groaned, trying to twist away the pain in my lower back when I landed with a thunk on the wet ground below me.
The bench.
The bar.
The girl.
“Fuck me.”
I pulled the empty bottle out from under my back, groaning as I slowly peeled myself off the muddy grass and stumbled to my feet.
The memories of last night were fighting at my consciousness, memories of the past haunting my brain as if I’d relived them all again last night.
I s’pose I had.
One by one.
The movie of our lives played out right there on that bench, ticket for one.
Morning was the worst time of day for me, too early to pour another drink, mind too goddamn foggy to keep the past at the door for long.
I walked slowly back across the field, following the swampy tracks I’d marched in on, the journey a helluva lot easier without a bottle in my hand.
The bar was probably only a mile down the road. I sure as hell knew I hadn’t walked that far last night.
And what did I expect to find when I got there?
A goodbye letter tucked under the windshield wiper of my truck?
Maybe.
Gouges out of all four of my tires?
Possibly.
What I did find once I’d made the trek back was about the furthest possibility on my list.
Hadn’t even occurred to me.
Augusta Belle Branson.
Perched on my stage.
My guitar in hand.
Singin’ prettier than a songbird, half a dozen alcoholics hangin’ on her every word.
I hated her even more than I had five minutes ago.
“What the fuck is this?” I gritted out, pausing at the dimly lit bar. “Why’s she got my guitar?”
The bartender, who’d I’d been slippin’ twenties the last few nights to keep the drinks coming while I sang, just shrugged and trained his eyes back on my girl.
Mygirl.
A low growl tore past my lips. “She’s always fuckin’ with my stuff. Gonna put an end to this. Make me a Bloody Mary for when I get back, wouldya?” I tapped the wooden bar once before stomping off through the tangle of round tables and right up onstage as Augusta Belle crooned the last lines of her song.
Everyone clapped, a few whistles and hollers of appreciation before I snatched the guitar,my guitar, from her hands and slung it over my back. “Whaddya think you’re doin’?”
