“I saw that, Angel,” I reply.
Of course I noticed. Annabeth is all I can think about since I met her all of fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t so much aslookedat a woman since Sam, let alone beenattractedto one. Yet, here I am wondering if this woman does in fact taste as good as a latte, and what else she has pierced.
The drive home has taken an eternity, despite being maybe an hour. Billie rambles on about her day, telling me tales of playground antics and reciting her lines for the upcoming play. Her voice echoes through the cab, and I mumble incoherent replies when needed – thankfully going unnoticed by Billie – but my mind is occupied with thoughts of the pink-haired pixie. It has occurred to me, that the pixie is probably married. Although, I don’t remember seeing a wedding ring, and that’s definitely something I would have noticed in my thorough scan of her body.
As we pull into the driveway, a trail of dust billowing from behind us, I decide that no matter what it costs my heart to do, I need to know more about Annabeth fucking Harrington.
My boots scuff against the scratched hardwood floors as I shuffle through the kitchen, dropping Billie’s schoolbag in the corner. I reach for the bottle of bourbon sitting on the bench, pulling two crystalglasses from the rack before filling them to the brim.
“Did you have a chance to look at the fence, Colt?” I ask my brother, my voice flat and monotoned as I hand him one of the glasses.
“Yeah, she’s fucked mate,” he chuckles as he accepts the drink. I see his brow crease as he stares at me and asks, “Hey, man, you okay?”
Taking a seat on the nearest bar stool, I prop my elbows against the bench. I lean forward, taking a long sip of bourbon. The sharp sting of the alcohol burns my throat on its way down. I inhale deeply, swirling the brown liquor in the glass as my eyes drift up to Colt, who is staring at me with a look of panic in his eyes – our mother’s eyes.
“I think I met someone today…” I begin, my thumb tracing the rim of the crystal glass.
“Someone, likesomeone? Like awoman?” he asks, a delightful smile sneaking across his face.
“Someone like, Billie’s music teacher, someone.”
“Oh, I thought you mea—”
“That isexactlywhat I meant.”
Colt’s eyes darken, his smile fades slowly as he says, “Well, fuck me sideways, brother. Now what?”
“Colt, if I knew the answer to that, we wouldn’t be drinking bourbon at 3:45 pm on a fuckin’ Tuesday.”
I put Billie to bed after our evening routine. Dinner, followed by what seems like a forty-five-minute shower, which continues into anotherforty-five minutes of Colt and I arguing about how to braid her hair, and not one, but four bedtime stories later, I’m finally heading out to do the rounds with Colt.
The night rounds consist of checking the stockyards, feeding the horses, and making sure the gates are latched – among other menial tasks. We drag ourselves into the kitchen somewhere around 10:00 pm. Colt stumbles in behind me, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. He kicks his boots off at the door; the familiar, worn leather Ariats falling in their usual place by the firewood.
“So, are we gonna talk about the girl or what?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes as I kick my own boots off and walk through the kitchen to the sitting room. My eyes are fixed on the couch and the packet of cigarettes that Colt left on the coffee table – it’s beckoning me like a siren to a sailor. I collapse in a heap onto the soft, navy fabric and let my body melt into the recliner.
Colt emerges from the kitchen, drinks in hand, and flops down next to me, extending a glass with a subtle nod. I accept the drink, taking a deep breath as I prepare myself to unravel the seemingly uneventful, yet life-altering, moment that was meeting Annabeth Harrington to my brother.
Three
Annabeth
Irest my hands against my desk and take a long, deep sigh. My forehead hangs down and meets the stained, oak desk before me. It smells almost… musty?Gross.I sit here, with my head drooping like a dead weight, my fists curled into tight balls. It’s my first day teaching third grade. My first fucking day. Starting with a new class in Term 3 is hard enough, but here I am, meeting the most god-like creature on the planet. Tall, tattooed, and absolutely off limits, like he just stepped out of a fucking cowboy movie set or something.You have got to be kidding me.
With my head pressed firmly against the woodgrain, I let my mind return to the cowboy that just graced my presence, and the way his huge, muscular frame loomed over me – I’m not exactly short but he made me feel tiny. His jeans were covered in dirt, well-worn in just the right places as they rested perfectly against his hips. Those damn jeans fit so well it looked like he had to squeeze his thighs into the denim; every skerrick of material stretched to its limits around his bulge. My mind instantly dives straight into the gutter as a delicious image of me on my knees for this man floods my psyche. I wonder how good hewould feel in my mouth.Knock it off, Annabeth.
The weathered leather of his boots matched the distressed denimof his jeans, and his T-shirt hugged every gorgeous curve of muscle on his stomach, leading straight to his full chest. He had a dark-brown Akubra hat planted firmly on his head, giving way to a hint of salt-and-pepper sideburns that peeked from beneath the brim, resting just above his thick brows. His piercing hazel eyes shone through a sea of long, black lashes. He had to be in his forties…
I finally lift my head from the desk and let my gaze pan across my classroom. Several chairs are haphazardly pushed into their tables, most of which are coated with weird pen marks or covered in messy carvings that look like they were done with scissors. The blackboard in the far-left corner is scribbled with notes from today’s class.
We’d been discussing the use of the capo and how it can manipulate string tension, creating different tones to the chord. I’m a fan of this lesson as it usually provides a good opportunity for practical learning while still engaging the kids. Plus, I get to break out my favourite guitar, and she’s always a hit.
I trail my eyes across to the corner of the room, letting them fall on the large, leather guitar case that rests beside my desk. It may not look like much from here, but inside that worn-out leather lies the most beautiful piece of wood you’ve ever seen: the 1980's Gibson J45 guitar that my dad left me. It was his guitar on the road. This old girl and her strings – well, some of them anyway – have been all across the world in that case. My dad picked her up at a yard sale before I was born. According to him, the owner had no idea what he had sitting there on his front lawn.
I feel my cheeks rise as a smile creeps over my face, and a low chuckle creeps out from behind my lips. My tongue peeks out and curls across the full flesh as I reach forward and lift the case to my lap.
I click open the locks, the familiar creak reminding me of home. My guitar glides out of its case, and I caress the smooth wood as I lower the case and position the guitar across my legs. My hand rests lazily over the saddle and finds the strings. The other hand finds the A chord, and I find myself strumming a song that I’ve played time, and time again. I open my lips slightly and let my voice ring out in a whisper as I sing along to the song my dad sang to me every night when he got home from being on the road.
