by Cora York
“They’re fine with it.”
He gave me a questioning glance. “You’re trying to tell me your parents were fine with their nineteen-year-old daughter coming all the way down here with just her guitar and a pocket full of dreams.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“Now isn’t that something,” he said after a long moment.
He hadn’t believed a word I’d said.
Chapter Two
Colt
At the end of her shift, Nat hadn’t fucked up too much. A few broken plates and several smashed glasses, but for her first night when we were packed to the rafters, she’d held her own.
All evening, I’d kept a close eye on her. A few times, I’d had to stop myself from jumping over the bar and pummeling the shit out of some guys who’d gotten too handsy, but Nat didn’t need my help. She’d put every single leech in their place using some sass and class.
The way her breasts jiggled in her tight, red Strangled Cat T-shirt made me thankful I was standing behind the bar most of the night and not in front of it. A semi-hard dick in jeans wasn’t all that comfortable.
What was her story? I didn’t for one second buy that her parents were fine with her move here.
She was too uneasy when she spoke about it and wouldn’t look me in the eye. Plus, the slight tremble in her lower lip gave away her nerves. No matter. We all had secrets too painful to share with the rest of the world. Her story was hers to tell and not mine to take just because I was curious.
I didn’t miss how she’d eyed the stage. Every emotion she felt showed on her face. She wanted to be up there performing.
It wouldn’t be fair to give her a spot just because I fantasized about fucking her senseless. Like everyone else in Nashville, she would have to put in the hours and earn the respect of her peers. Nothing worthwhile was easy.
After the rest of the staff clocked out for the night, Nat grabbed her things from the staff room and strode toward the front door. I wanted her to hang around so we could talk, plus I guessed she didn’t have a place to sleep. No way could she afford somewhere to stay around here if she couldn’t afford a burger and fries.
With her guitar slung over her shoulder, she glanced back at me. “Thanks for the job, Colt. I appreciate it more than you can imagine.”
I grinned. “The customers loved you. Everyone treat you okay?”
“The servers were super sweet and shared their tips even though they didn’t have to.”
I grabbed the dish rag thrown over my shoulder and wiped the already gleaming bar top. “We’re a family here, Nattie. We take care of each other.”
She gave me a tired smile. “What time should I be here tomorrow?”
“Five till closing work for you?”
“Sure. See ya later.” Giving me a quick wave, she put her hand on the door and pushed it open.
“Where you staying tonight?”
She had one foot out the door and one foot in the bar. “A place up the street. Not too far from here.”
“What’s the place called?”
She pursed her lips, and I could see her mind working to come up with an answer. “I can’t remember. Night.”
I sauntered around the bar and made my way toward her. Even though I’d spent the majority of the evening picturing her pretty pink lips around my cock, I wanted her to stay because I wanted to make sure she was safe and wasn’t sleeping beneath a park bench and for no other reason than that. “Hold up. I’ll walk with you. The streets aren’t safe this time of the morning.”
“There’s no need. Honestly. If anyone comes near me, I’ll bash them over the head with my guitar.”
“Darlin’, that six-string of yours will fall apart if you strum it too hard, never mind hit someone over the head with it.”
The air seemed to chill, and the irritated look on her face was surprising. Obviously, I’d hit a sore spot. There was a whole lot this girl wasn’t sharing with me.
“This was my mom’s guitar. Saved every penny she made to buy it. It’s over thirty years old and will last thirty more. One day, my little girl will write her own songs picking these strings. Goodnight, Colt.”
“I was just teasing. It’s a beautiful instrument, but it won’t last another three days, never mind thirty years in this town without a case. You should get one.”
“My case was stolen last night when I was busking.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. You haven’t had an easy time since you arrived, have you?”
“It’s been kinda sucky...” Her words trailed off as she sighed.
“Stay for a while. Talk to me. We both know you’ve nowhere else to go.”
“I do—”
“Stop lying, Nattie. Now get back in here, or I’ll throw your sweet ass over my shoulder and carry you in.”
“Fine.” She stomped back into the bar like a sulking teenager. Stifling a chuckle, I locked the door and followed.
“Sit,” I said, motioning toward a bar stool.
“I’ll stand.”
“Drink?”
“I’m underage.”
I raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “You’ve never had a drink before?”
“I’m nineteen, not nine. It’s 3 am. I’m tired. I need a shower and some sleep.” She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “You’ve already been so good to me, and I hate to ask, but can I crash here till I get some money together? A pullout sofa or the floor. I’ll sleep just about anywhere.”
“Only if you do me a favor.”
“What would that be?” she asked, her face turning wary. “I’m not sleeping with you or sucking your dick or doing any weird shit that involves me calling you Daddy.”
“Woah there.” The fire in her eyes was seconds away from burning a hole in my chest. “Tomorrow morning over coffee, tell me your story.”
“My story?”
“The truth about what brought you here.”
“Once upon a time, I got on a bus to Nashville so I could write songs and then sing those songs. The end.”
“Sing something,” I challenged.
“What?”
“You heard me. Sing me a song.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Depends who you ask.” I grabbed a stool and slammed it on the ground a few feet from the stage. “Get on up there. Show me what you got. This is your one shot to prove you deserve a permanent spot on The Strangled Cat’s roster.” If she was any good, I could maybe squeeze her in as an opening act. Might piss off a few people on the waitlist, but too bad for them.
“No fucking way.” From the way her gaze bounced from me to the stage to her guitar, I could tell she was considering my offer. “I’m not ready. I’m not prepared.”
“Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.” I was goading her but didn’t care. “What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” she said between her teeth.
“Prove it.”
Natalie
“Watch me.”
Challenge accepted.
I climbed on to the stage. My heart pounded like a herd of scared, stampeding cattle, and every step I took echoed in my ears.
In a few minutes, I’d sing on the same stage my idol once had. I wanted to prove to Colt I had what it took, and that I wasn’t afraid of anything. That no matter the grind, I would make the big leagues.
Singing at 3 am with less than eight hours’ sleep over the past few days was pure insanity and wasn’t the kindest way to treat my vocal cords.
My mom always said my gritty voice was caused by me being a colicky baby and that I sometimes sounded like an old lady with a liquor problem. At this moment, I would sound like I’d knocked back a full bottle of moonshine, then smoked a 20-pack of cigarettes one after the other.
I stood in the middle of the stage and looked out at the empty bar. Shivers ran up and down my back. It didn’t matter that Colt was the only one who would hear me sing because I was right where I wanted to be—on stage playing music.
I plucked the strings and did a little tuning. “Any requests?”
“Lady’s choice.”
I could stay in the safe lane and sing something he would know, or I could sing one of my own. After a few seconds weighing up the pros and cons, I went with one of my own.
Something slow would sound perfect in a place like this. I wrote it one night after my dad’s fists, not satisfied with knocking holes in walls, decided to knock holes in me instead.
I closed my eyes and let the words and music flow over me.
“You can knock me down, you can call me names, you can even blame me till I feel ashamed, but you won’t break me, you’ll never break me, never break me...”
The final notes washed over me, and I opened my eyes, breaking the spell. I met Colt’s gaze but couldn’t get a read on him. Did he think I was talentless, or that I sounded too old fashioned? My music wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea, I understood that.
Colt didn’t speak, and while he sat in silence looking lost in contemplation, I stayed where I was, fiddling with my guitar strap.
“Where’ve you performed before?” he finally asked.
“A few county fairs,” I replied, hearing the anxiety in my voice. “Street corners, but mainly my bedroom.”
Not taking his eyes from me, he nodded.
A nervous twinge tickled my stomach. “From the look on your face, there’s no room on your stage for me.”
Colt bounded onto the stage, cupped my cheeks in his hands, and brushed his thumbs over my skin. “Darlin’, there’s gonna be room for you on every stage in the goddamn U S of A.” He was so close that if I stood on my tiptoes, our lips would meet. “I can’t remember the last time I heard a song so pure and haunting. Your voice gave me chills on top of chills.”
For a split second, my heart stalled, and to stop myself from keeling over, I reached out and held onto his iron-hard biceps. “You’re not just saying that?”
“One thing you should know about me, sweetheart, is that I don’t lie. If you’d sounded like a strangled cat up there, I would’ve said so.”
I laughed. “Bad singers—is that how this place got its name?”
He chuckled, and in the low light I could’ve sworn I saw his cheeks flush. “Every time I sang as a kid, my mom would ask if someone was strangling the barn cats. My inability to carry a tune is a running joke in my family.”
I grimaced. “That bad?”
“Worse than bad. I might not be able to sing a note, but I know talent when I see and hear it. I’ll have to move a few things around, but this time next week, I’ll make sure you’re on this stage every night. Not putting you in front of an audience would be a crime.”
I threw my arms around his neck and buried my face in his chest. The rich musky fragrance of his cologne mixed with soap and shampoo cocooned me, and I longed to slide my fingers through his hair, but I resisted the urge. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You won’t regret it.”
My curves molded into his muscles, and it almost felt like I belonged in his arms, like I’d always belonged there.
Colt Flynn had to be the sexiest man I’d ever met in my life. Everything about him reeled me in, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d get hooked, but, perhaps it was already too late.
Taking things any further would be a huge mistake for both of us. I didn’t want to blow the chance to sing every night by sleeping with my boss, but my body wanted him despite my mind screeching Walk away, that a man like Colt was the love ‘em and leave ‘em kind.
As if sensing the all-out war raging inside of me, Colt reached up and loosened my grip around his neck and then stepped away. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said, blowing out a ragged breath. “We should get some sleep. It’s been a long-ass day. There’s a whole lotta work to do tomorrow.”
“Just sleep?” Feeling brave and throwing caution to the wind, I intertwined my fingers with his, letting him know there was more than sleep on my mind, that I was up for everything and anything.
“Just sleep,” he reiterated.
I firmed my lips and released his hand, but as disappointed as I was by his rejection, I wouldn’t cry. Just because he liked my voice didn’t mean he had to like me. You think I would have learned by now that my appearance wasn’t to everyone’s taste.
Chapter Three
Colt
I’d meant it when I said we should get some sleep that first night, and we did.
As much as I’d wanted to fuck her, I didn’t want to fuck this up. When she grabbed my hand and made it clear what was on her mind, it took all the willpower I possessed not to take her right there and then on the stage.
That was a week ago, and my dick still hadn’t forgiven me for not peeling off her clothes, but if I wanted to keep both our hearts intact, I’d do my best to stay the hell away.
I’d make do with fantasizing about my sweet country girl with a voice that could make even the most cynical cowboy cry into his beer.
The week passed in a haze of rearranging schedules, helping Nat pick out a four-song setlist, and rehearsals.
Getting her to open up to me about her life before we met was proving impossible. Anytime I asked if she’d talked to her parents or for her to tell me about life growing up, she’d brush me off, and I let her.
Besides, there were other things to think about, like how having her live and work with me had left me with the worst case of blue balls.
I’d need to handle that situation soon, but I’d been so damn busy I hadn’t even had five minutes to stroke one out. Not that I needed five minutes. One minute would do.
“Tonight’s the night,” I said, pouring her a second cup of coffee.
Despite it being noon, we sat in my kitchen, both in PJs—her in a short white nightie that didn’t hide the light brown shade of her nipples, me in sweatpants and a ratty Johnny Cash T-shirt—finishing a late breakfast and relaxing in each other’s company.
I glanced over at the setlist she’d written and rewritten a hundred times. “Where’s Break Me?”
“The crowd won’t like it. It’s too personal,” she murmured, focusing on the page.
“Then why’d you sing it for me?”
She picked up her coffee and cradled it to her chest. “Because I felt safe. I don’t feel safe singing it in front of a bar full of strangers. I can’t be that vulnerable. Not yet.”
“Darlin’, country music is about believability. If the audience believes your words and knows you believe them, you’ll have them eating out of your hand.” I crossed my arms on the table and leaned closer as if I was about to confide in her. “You ever gonna tell me why you wrote it?”
She sipped her coffee, then paused for a few beats before speaking. “You’d end up wanting to throw yourself off this building if I did.”
I reached across and squeezed her hand, the touch of her skin beneath mine electrifying my blood. “You said I made you feel safe. If that’s the case, why can’t you tell me?”
She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath that went all the way to her toes. When she opened them again, she said, “If I tell you, you have to promise not to treat me differently or feel sorry for me. Deal?”
“Deal,” I agreed. Whatever she was about to share filled her with immense sadness. I would let her say as much or as little as she wanted.
Her chin quivered, and she looked up to the ceiling. “My mom died three years ago. She was my everything, y’know. We sang together. Wrote together. She said that when we’d squirreled away enough money, we would leave my dad’s controlling ass behind and move to Nashville where we would sell our songs and make millions.” She reached up and wiped her tear-filled eyes with the back of her hand. “Stupid dreams.”
“Not stupid,” I reassured her, my heart wrenching at her pain. “Everyone needs dreams.” I gave her a few minutes to compose herself before I spoke again. “How did your mom die?”
“Opioid overdose. Turns out she had a secret addiction.” She shook her head as if n
ot quite believing that was true. “We went ice skating for my tenth birthday. One minute we were both laughing about how clueless we were, the next, she was on her back screaming. Two broken vertebrae. Thank God, she didn’t damage her spinal cord, but after she healed, she was in constant pain.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She turned to look at me, enough sorrow to bring a grown man to his knees filling her face.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry.” The words of her song came back; you can even blame me till I feel ashamed. “Jesus Christ, your dad thinks your mom’s death is your fault?”
A shudder shook her shoulders. “Said if I hadn’t been such an awful daughter and had helped her out more instead of sitting in my room with my head in the clouds that she wouldn’t have had to take as many pain pills. That if I hadn’t begged her to go ice skating that day, then she wouldn’t have fallen and hurt her back.”
“This isn’t your fault,” I said, emotion making my voice thick. “None of this is your fault.”
You can knock me down. Anger toward her father surged inside me. “Did he hit you?”
Her face crumpled. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
I pulled her into my arms and rocked her like a baby. “Let it all out, Nattie. I’ve got you. No one will ever hurt you again.” I’d kill anyone who came near her, and if I ever saw her father, I’d put him six feet under using only my bare hands.
Natalie
By the time I stopped crying, a wet patch had formed on the shoulder of Colt’s T-shirt, and my throat throbbed from sobbing. How the heck was I supposed to get up on stage in a few hours and sing my heart out?
I hadn’t meant to spill my guts, but that’s precisely what had happened. I didn’t know if I felt relieved, but my shoulders were a hundred percent lighter.
For the longest time, we sat in silence with him stroking my back. And I practically purred when he placed small kisses over my hair.
I lifted my head from his chest and saw in his face how much he hurt for me. That wasn’t something I wanted. My past and my pain were my burdens to carry, not his. I cupped my hands around his cheeks and held his face the same way he’d held mine the first night I’d sang for him.