“No problem. Where were we? The diner, right. You wanted to know why I didn’t warn you.”
I nod, sipping water.
“Well, I reckoned a little robbery was bound to get your creative juices pumpin’. The other kind, too.” He winks.
I giggle. Feelings I can’t handle. Dirty jokes on the other hand? Yes, please.
“I’m definitely gonna use the diner in a song. You might not believe it, but you really are my muse,Big Guy.”
He clears his throat, staring into the fire. “You ain’t the only one gettin’ inspired.”
I slap my palm over my lips. “Shut up! Are you serious?”
“I might’ve written a lil somethin’ for you when I was sitting in that jail cell. Couldn’t help myself cause I was missin’ you so badly.”
Butterflies start fluttering in my belly. At this point, they should just take up permanent residency in there.
Not only did Rust finally pick up his composer pen after a decade, but the first song he wrote is for me? No marshmallows can save me now.
“Please, let me hear your new song! Oh, please, please, please!” I beg shamelessly.
“It’ll probably sound shit. I haven’t had a chance to revise or practice, and I wrote it without my guitar.”
I drop the stick. “Rustin McAllister, don’t leave me hanging like this!”
He gives me a crooked grin. “Full government name-ing me, huh? You mean business.”
“I’ve waited twelve fucking years for a new song from you!”
“But we’ve been writin’ together during the trip,” he protests.
“Nuh-uh, that’s not the same. Ilovemaking music with you and it fills my creative cup until it overflows. But a song that’s 100 percent you? That hits different. I want to hear it. Now.” I make grabby hands at him.
Rust blushes, catching my wrist. He raises my hand to his mouth and his soft lips encase my marshmallow-coated index finger. My breath hitches. He sucks off the sticky burnt sugar, alternating with slow, precise swirls of his tongue.
My pussy tingles, reminding me what that mouth cando. Or more precisely, what that mouth has already done and what I want it to do again. As soon as possible… but not now.
I shake my head to clear the fog of lust from my brain. Pulling my finger free with a wet pop, I cross my arms. “Your silver-tongued seduction techniques won’t work on me! Not when there’s the future of country music on the line.”
Heat flickers in his eyes as he brushes over his mustache. “What a damn shame.”
“Don’t you worry. We’ll circle back to that tongue of yours later. Music first. Orgasms later.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Rust gets his guitar from the truck and sits next to me again. His face bright red, he pulls a crumpled napkin from his pocket. There’s something written on it, but he puts it on the armrest away from me where I can’t see it.
He plucks the strings. It’s a soft, slow melody, melancholic in the same way your heart dips when a scent takes you back to your first kiss or the color of the sky looks like the night you fell in love.
Rust clears his throat. “This song is called…Trouble.”
He starts to sing and I don’t dare to breathe. His voice is all gravel and oil, but somehow still tender.
“I held her close but knew her wings
Told her goodbye, tried to do what’s right
But she crashed back into my life like a hurricane
