by Rye Hart
I was exhausted. My feet hurt, my back hurt, and my stomach was still growling. My head was dizzy from the lack of food, and my throat was still burning for more water. I leaned against my truck, polishing off the water bottle as I heard footsteps approaching me.
I didn’t have to look over to know who it was.
I tossed the empty bottle into the bed of the truck and turned my eyes toward Drake. I wiped the sweat off my brow as the sun continued to sink below the trees. Night time was coming, blanketing the whole of Nashville in a cool evening breeze. At any other time, I would’ve tilted my head toward the sky and counted the stars starting to pop up overheard. I would’ve tried to find my favorite constellations and recall the stories my father used to tell me about them.
I shook my head, shoving the painful memories to the back of my mind.
Drake crouched down beside me, knocking his knuckles up against the tires of my truck. He looked up at me, an impressed little grin on his face. I wanted to stick my muddy boot right in his ass.
The breeze was blowing, making me cold as fuck, and his grin morphed from impressed to devious as I bit the inside of my cheek.
I wasn’t a violent person, but I considered it with him.
“Well you weren’t totally useless today,” he said, as he stood up.
His gaze fell over my chest for the briefest of moments.
“Do you make a habit of that?” I asked.
“Of what?”
“Staring at women’s tits?” I asked.
“They’re pretty obvious right now.”
“So is the limp in your left leg, but you don’t see me staring at you when you walk.”
I saw a wall come down in front of his face. His eyes whipped up toward mine, and his smile turned from playful to dark. His eyes clouded with a fury that seemed uncharacteristically like him.
And yet, it didn’t.
I’d hit a sore spot, and I was glad. If he thought I wasn’t watching him, then he had another thing coming. If he didn’t think I saw his faults, he was wrong. He wasn’t some swoon-worthy country gentleman that any woman would be proud to settle down with.
He was a miserable, cynical drunk.
“Same time tomorrow,” Drake said, as he turned and left.
I watched him walk into his house, the screen door slamming behind him. The sun had fallen, and my legs were still weak. I needed a meal, a shower, and two gallons of water poured down my throat. I got inside my truck, slamming the door shut as I dug for my keys. I pulled my seat mirror down and took a look at myself, my face flushed with effort and my neck tanned from the sun.
“It’s good money, Delia. It’s very fucking good money. It’ll set you up. It’ll pay off your degree. It’ll give you the perfect reference for any job you want.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I flipped the mirror up and jammed my keys into the ignition.
I didn’t want to come back tomorrow. I wasn’t going to lie to myself. He was a miserable man who was determined to walk all over me just to prove a point. Whether it was control at this point or whether he was just pissed at my existence, I hadn’t quite figured out yet. But if I did the job I came here to do correctly, it would get me into whatever facility I wanted to work in until I’d established enough experience to open my own practice.
It was only a bit of hard work. one more semester’s worth of pushing through to get to where I was going. I’d done it all my life. This was no different. Dealing with this asshole was no different than dealing with any other asshole that had stood in my way.
If he wasn’t going to recognize my authority, then I had another trick up my sleeve.
I could stand toe-to-toe with his antics, if only to show him that however far he could dig his boots in, I could dig mine farther.
This wasn’t my first rodeo.
CHAPTER 7
Drake
“What?” I asked with a groan.
“You’ve got a performance today. Get up and get going,” Hank said.
“I don’t have anything like that on my calendar,” I said. “The fuck gives?”
“Shouldn’t you be up anyway? You know, doing ranch stuff? It’s an impromptu concert you’ve been invited to.”
“I don’t do those.”
“It’s an open-air thing, and you do it now.”
“I’m goin’ the fuck back to bed.”
“It’s for a good charity,” he said.
“Then just write them a check,” I said.
“It’s an acoustic set. Real mellow stuff.”
“I don’t do mellow.”
“Will you do it for Autism Speaks?”
Raking my hand across my face, I slung my legs over the edge of the bed. I had a soft spot for that charity, for the awareness they put out and the educational materials they had for people. My sister was the light of my life, but I’d watched my parents struggle most of their final years trying to understand how my sister worked. Elsie could operate in public for the most part. She held down her own part-time job and everything. But she had her moments, and they were rough.
Nonetheless, that girl was everything to me. And anything I could do for people who spread awareness about autism, I was more than willing to do.
“Why the fuck didn’t you lead off with that, Hank?”
“Should I have to?” he asked.
“When you’re calling at five in the morning, yes.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” Hank said.
“There better not be a next time. When’s the concert?”
“It’s a morning thing. You go on stage at eight fifteen. I can’t get your P.A. on the phone. Fill her in when she gets to you if she hasn’t already quit yet. I’m sending the address to your phone and hers.”
Sighing, I hung up the phone, waiting for the message to come through.
I dragged myself to the bathroom and cleaned myself up. I showered, shaved, and put on the nicest boots and bucket hat I owned. If I was going to make an appearance at something like this, then I wanted to make it a good one. The understanding I had of my sister and her condition was a direct result of charities like Autism Speaks.
I walked downstairs and headed for the door just as I heard the sound.
Delia’s truck drove up the driveway, and I shook my head. Fuck, the woman was persistent. I had thrown her one of the tougher days on the farm, so she’d go running to the hills and quit like I wanted her to. But it didn’t work. She was driving up my driveway in that rust bucket she owned, ready for another day’s work.
Even after mucking out horse stalls.
Sleeping had been hard last night. Seeing her sweat drenched face chugging that water as it dripped down her neck, falling onto those sweat-soaked tits with nipples that were poking against her bra. Her white shirt clung to her as she tipped that bottle back, chugging it without taking even one breath. It had set my groin pumping for her. That's the last thing I needed too.
And that angry look in her eye. Shit. That was the icing on the cake. It was a good thing she didn’t have any romantic interest in me. Otherwise, we’d be in deep shit.
Today was her lucky day. Even though she was dressed for another day on the ranch, we had to leave for my performance. I went into the kitchen and drew out my flask, tipping it back and draining it so I could fill it up again. I didn’t have enough time for coffee, but this would warm me up just fine.
I screwed the cap on tight, took another swig from the bottle, and headed for my truck.
“We’re leaving,” I said, as I stepped back inside and grabbed my guitar.
“What? Where are we headed?” Delia asked as she rushed up to me.
“Pick up your phone, and you’d know,” I said.
“That still doesn’t answer my question,” she said.
“We’re heading to an impromptu concert. I’m due on stage at eight fifteen.”
“Is the band meeting you there?”
“No, just me and my guitar this morning. Come on, we’re
taking my truck.”
I walked over to my blacked-out truck, a present to myself after my second hit single.
I pulled open my truck door and tossed my guitar in, but I noticed Delia wasn’t getting in. She was standing against her truck, her arms crossed as she studied me closely. I didn’t have time for this shit. We had to get going.
“You coming? Or is this you quitting?” I asked.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Just answer me one question.”
She walked over to me, her hips swaying as her tits jostled with her movements.
“Have you been drinking already this morning?” Delia asked.
Her eyes were holding mine as her hands rested on her hips. She was eyeing me up and down. Sizing me the fuck up at seven in the damn morning. I sighed as I closed my eyes, knowing it did me no good to lie to this woman.
I nodded, hearing her let out a deep sigh.
“I’m driving,” Delia said.
“I’m fine.”
“I’m driving.”
“I’m not even drunk.”
“I’m driving. Now get in,” she said. “You'd think you, of all people, would know better than to get behind the wheel when you've been drinking.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “Now get in the fucking car. I'm driving.”
She had a fucking point, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I wasn’t drunk, but I still had a drink that morning.
I watched her open her truck door and hop in, sitting there as she waited for me to join her .I ripped my guitar from my truck and slammed the door, gritting my teeth in the process.
I slid into her truck, my guitar sitting between my legs as we pulled out.
“I got the address of the place,” I said.
“I know where you’re going,” Delia said.
“You told Hank I’d been drinking, didn’t you?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said.
The truck ride was silent after that. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel tightly, and her back was completely straight. If she wasn’t going to entertain me with some sort of conversation, then I was going to study her. I hooked onto the profile of her face and grazed my eyes down her body.
She was a pain in my ass, but she was nice on the eyes.
We pulled into the venue, and I saw Hank flagging us down. Delia pulled into a parking space, not speaking to me as she slid out of her side of the truck. I grabbed my guitar and started for the coordinator, who was usually a goofy-looking asshole with a clipboard.
Hank and Delia were talking to one another before they joined the conversation.
“You’ll have time at the top of the hour to set up, then your set starts at eight fifteen, Mr. Blackthorn. Your bus is here with your gear in case you need it, though it’s an acoustic set so a speaker and a hookup is plenty. Your bus is yours to use as you wish—”
“I know my bus is mine,” I said. “Just point me in that direction, and I’ll take it from here.”
Both Delia and Hank looked over at me before the coordinator pointed.
“Thanks.”
I didn’t wait around for either of them to lecture me on my tone of voice. Hank fucking acted like my mother, and Delia was quickly becoming that nagging little voice I wanted to squash like a bug. I heard the pitter patter of little feet behind me as I strode for my bus, pulling the door open and stepping inside.
I heard someone step in behind me before the door closed.
“Sure you wanna do that?” I asked.
I looked up into a mirror and saw Delia’s reflection standing at the front of the bus.
“Didn’t realize you’d need all this for a local performance,” she said.
“Gets brought to every performance,” I said. “Personal protocol. If you don’t wanna attend the performance, you can stay on the bus.”
“Sounds fine with me,” she said.
“I got a forty-five-minute set, so try not to miss me too much.”
“It’ll be hard, but I think I can manage.”
My eyes whipped to hers in the mirror before I turned around and picked up my guitar.
“Enjoy the bus,” I said, as I maneuvered past her. “When I’m done, we can get on back to the ranch.”
I stepped off the bus before she could say anything. I didn’t give a shit what she did, honestly. If she got into her truck and drove off, she’d be doing both of us a fucking favor. I walked up to Hank who was still talking to the coordinator, getting logistics and probably working out payment options for the gig.
“I’m not taking payment,” I said.
“What?” Hank asked.
“Don’t pay me for this gig. Keep your money,” I said.
“Mr. Blackthorn, Autism Speaks sets aside funds for stuff like this.”
“Keep the money and put it to better use. If artists demand to be paid for things like this, then they don’t need to be doing it. Though you could’ve made it an afternoon concert if you’re looking for suggestions.”
I marched off toward the venue, ready to warm up and tune my guitar. Delia was alone on the bus doing fuck-knew-what, Hank was probably pissed I wasn’t accepting payment, and this guitar hadn’t seen the light of fucking day in almost a year. It would take me all my damn warm-up time just to tune the fucking thing, but I didn’t care.
It would be worth it to see those kids smile.
CHAPTER 8
Delia
I threw the windows of the bus open to get some air flowing through it. The entire thing smelled like stale beer and ball sweat. It was disgusting, even if it did have a twinge of disinfectant still permeating the air. I didn’t even want to think about the shit that had gone on in this bus. The women whose naked bodies had sat in the chair I inhabited; the thought made me want to vomit, and I was thankful for the air that started to blow.
The fresh air was the only thing that was going to keep me sane.
I drew my purse close to me and took out my laptop. I was lucky enough that my on-campus professors had approved of my job with Drake as class credit, but that still left two online courses I had to keep up with.
I logged in and tried to get some classwork done, but it was hard for me to concentrate. Once Drake’s music started up and filled the air around us, all I could think about was his country twang and a guitar that didn’t sound quite right.
Guess he didn’t have enough time to even tune the damn thing.
Between the singing and the dull roar of the crowd, I knew I wouldn’t get any work done while I was there, so I shut my laptop and shoved it back into my purse. What in the world was I supposed to do now? I didn’t have an official schedule for Drake so I couldn’t revamp it. He sure as hell wasn’t asking for my advice, so I couldn’t counsel him. The only thing about his drinking I had gotten him to admit so far was the fact that he did it, and that left me only one other option.
I could take a nap.
Grabbing my purse, I started for the room at the back of the bus. I prayed the sheets were clean as I set my purse down, then laid down on the bed. Despite the debauchery that I knew had taken place on this bus, I felt my eyes fluttering closed. My body ached from the work I’d done yesterday, and I could still smell horse on my skin, no matter how much I’d scrubbed the day before. I hunkered down, kicking my boots off and shoving them off the side of the bed.
Then, I promptly fell asleep.
I dreamed about my father; about the times we spent running around in the front yard and the nights where he would read me stories to get me to sleep. I thought about the brownies we used to make and how we got sick eating so many of them at one time. I saw the smile on my mother’s face whenever he would bring her home fresh flowers. She hated the things from a florist. She never understood why people paid so much for flowers when there were beautiful ones that already grew in fields.
I dreamed about the fighting, how things spiraled between my parents once my fat
her started to drink, how breaking his sobriety angered my mother and spiraled her into depression. I recalled all the times I sat at the top of the steps and listened to them scream at one another, screaming and crying and begging for the other to stop.
I saw in perfect detail the day I woke up and watched my father leave.
I could remember the color of his suitcase, how he dragged it behind him, stumbling around trying to get out of the house. I remembered the color of the liquor he poured down his throat; crystal clear and straight from the plastic bottle it came in. Always the cheap stuff so he could afford more of it. My dream included me screaming from the porch, crying for him to come back as my mother gripped my shirt, trying to stop me from going after him as he backed his truck out into the road.
I dreamed of the phone call that came not thirty minutes later. The phone call that spiraled my mother into an even greater depression that she would never come out of.
I could feel myself fighting to get out of the dream. Fighting to wake up, even though I couldn’t move. I could hear my heart pumping in my ears, and I could feel tears rising to my eyes. But it was like I was pinned, held down by the ghosts of my past as the world passed me by. I heard the roar of the crowd and how they chanted Drake’s name. I heard the wind whipping through the tour bus as the scent filled my nostrils.
Still, I could hear my mother crying as she hunched over the kitchen table, the phone falling from her hand as it shattered against the floor.
Suddenly, a warmth encompassed me. I felt a fire drape over my body as I began to wake up. The warmth got closer and closer as I drew in a deep breath, trying to turn over so I could get back to my dream.
I wanted to get back to a time when my father was still alive.
The warmth seemed to follow me, and finally, there was no getting past it. I opened my eyes to find the sun shining through the curtains, right onto me. Sweat dripped from my body as I tossed and turned for a little while longer.
That same heat and the sun made me think back to the day before, working on the farm with Drake. He might be an asshole, but he was a damn fine one at that. While in reality, I had no intention of ever getting intimate with him, I found the pace of my heartbeat quicken increasingly as I imagined what his body would look like naked. Nothing on but his cowboy hat.