This melody is the start of something new.
Rust’s voice rises over my soft vocalizing and the hairs on my arms stand on end.
“I’d cross the law, risk it all, break every rule. I’d do anything, darlin’, just to be with you.” His tone is incredibly smooth and rich for a sixteen-year-old. It takes me by surprise everytime.
Words form on my tongue.“Meet me at the creek when the moonlight shines.”
“So let me seal those lips and steal your heart. Won’t you run away with me?”he sings back.
“Cause baby, love’s an outlaw and on the road we’re free,”I answer.
Our voices meld as we repeat the last line together. My hands still and he takes one, kissing the tips of my fingers.
“Whoa, that was cool! We should call it… ummm…‘Love’s an Outlaw.’What do you think?” he suggests.
“Hell yeah! Our first song as Kentucky Skies.”
His eyes widen. “Did you casually give us an official stage name?”
“Yeah, cause of what you said to me earlier at the ranch. Do you like it?”
“Like? I love it. Kentucky Skies is gonna take the country music scene by storm,” he says decisively, as if it’s already written in the stars.
I put the guitar down. As we look out at the rain, Rust slings an arm around me and my hand creeps over the nape of his neck. I slide my fingers higher, over his scalp, drawing gentle circles with my short nails.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he groans. “More, please…”
He purrs like an overgrown cat and I can’t help giggling.
For the first time since I can remember, I found something I want more than fame.
I want Rust.
16
TALLY, PRESENT DAY
Rust packslike he’s moving house with a family of ten, not going on a weeklong road trip.
While he rummages through hall cabinets and shoves things into bags, I decide to do a load of laundry. As I sort through my clothes, my core aches from the rough fucking Rust gave me in the shower. Goddamn, he was right when he said I’d walk bowlegged for a week. I clench my thighs, reveling in the ache.
I haven’t felt this sore and satisfied in forever.
Humming, I get to work. My private travel wardrobe is low maintenance. It features my favorite pair of bell bottoms, a few light summer dresses and skirts, a couple romantic lace-up blouses and vintage T-shirts with country music prints.
I fold everything straight from the dryer, putting my blond emergency wig at the bottom of my duffle bag. Since that time I had to make a spontaneous appearance at a festival, I always keep one in my hand luggage.
I change into a baby blue sundress with a floral patternand grab an ice-cold coke from the fridge. Humid heat slaps me as I step out onto the front porch.
I sit on the creaky old porch swing, sipping my drink while I use the maps app on my phone to plan a minimal route. After Rust dug out a stack of yellowed paper maps, I volunteered to play the navigator for our trip.
When I’m finished, I take in the view.
This place used to be bustling with life. I meant to ask Rust about his parents and what happened to the animals, but with everything going on, I didn’t get a chance yet.
If I squint, I can almost see a young Rust in the distance, riding toward me. I smile at the memory of waiting for him in this very spot, just like I am now.
The exploding puff of an exhaust pipe startles me. A tow-truck shoots down the dirt road, kicking up a dust storm. It comes to a screeching halt in front of the house and a man in denim overalls with a white T-shirt underneath hops out.
