You'd Be Mine

by Erin Hahn

  I seriously wish I had taken a shot earlier. Lindy gives me a wink, laughing from behind the bar. I glare at her, though I doubt she can see in the dark.

  Jefferson keeps hold of my hand, leading me through the repetitive steps. Whenever we need to turn, he grabs my hips and helps me along. The first time, I stutter in my steps, but after a full rotation, I have a grasp of the movements.

  After another, I feel confident enough to look up and meet Kacey’s eyes. She and Jason cheer, and I beam in response, a little surprised to see them out there. I hadn’t even realized they were in the mob. I only had eyes for Jefferson’s hips.

  Speaking of. Jefferson is behind me and then next to me, and I turn early, catching him watching my rear. He waggles his brows, and I shove his shoulder. He careens into a guy next to him with a laugh. He points to me and mouths, “Her fault.”

  By the end, I’m chanting and clapping with the rest of the dancers and having the time of my life. The song ends, and everyone scatters. There’s a slow song on and before I can get back to my seat, Jefferson snatches my hand and pulls me back.

  “One more?”

  I bite my lip, considering. If line dancing has me this wrung out, I don’t know that I’ll ever recover after pressing my body up against his.

  But still, I can’t say no. I don’t want to. Something deep down inside me knows this is the last time. The only time I can let this happen. Just one … last … hit.

  This music has more of a sway, and I gulp as Jefferson takes my arms, draping them over his shoulders, before taking a firm grip of my waist.

  Please, Jesus.

  His heart thuds steadily under mine, and he lowers his head to rest it on the top of my own. His chest rumbles as he sings along quietly. I smile to myself. Can’t even stop himself from performing when it’s an audience of one.

  He pulls back a little, taking one of my hands in his before spinning me out and back again. I laugh as he sings louder, spinning me once more. His eyes are crinkled up as they find mine, and my heart clenches. It’s just so … real. I almost want to shake myself because it can’t be real between us. That Jefferson smile can’t mean anything.

  I can’t be the one to make him feel that way. It’s too much pressure. Too much … everything. I close my eyes, tucking myself in under his chin once more, squeezing him tightly against me. Hiding myself from his piercing eyes. His happy, teasing, easy smile.

  My smile.

  Because it’s become abundantly clear in the last twenty-four hours that Jefferson isn’t just some frat boy country star. He’s more than kissing in the dark and filled-out denim. He’s just as damaged as I am. He’s got heartache and grief and loneliness, and if I can’t survive him, he sure as hell can’t survive me.

  I don’t deserve that smile. I’d break him the way my parents broke each other, and that’s not acceptable.

  The song finishes, and before he can talk me into another, I release him gently. “I need to use the ladies’.”

  I hightail it for the bathroom and shut the door behind me, checking for others before locking it with a click. I turn the faucet to ice cold and pull my hair back with the tie I always have around my wrist. Then I cup the water, splashing my face over and over and over. His smile is burned into my mind. My heart aches painfully in my chest, and still I splash as if I could wash away the feel of him.

  “I’m not Cora,” I say into the mirror. “I won’t drag him down with me. I won’t be the one to push him over the edge.”

  I splash more water, washing away any tears that would betray me. Turning off the faucet with a creak, I pat at my face with a brown paper towel. From my back pocket, I retrieve a tube of ruby lip gloss Kacey asked me to carry for her because boho chic doesn’t do pockets.

  Spreading it over my lips, I’m pleased with the result. The shimmer pulls attention away from my wild eyes toward shiny lips. Blotting once, I toss the towel in the trash and unlock the door, throwing it open as another woman is reaching for it.

  I tug my hair tie out, freeing my curls with a shake, and pass her by.

  Lindy is busy behind the bar again, and I don’t think I can stomach another ginger ale, so I hop the bar to help.

  “You know how to mix drinks?” she asks over the din of clattering glasses and music.

  I shrug. “I can pop a cap off a beer and make change.”

  She grins widely and passes me two bottles, nodding at an older couple at the end of the bar. “Works for me.”

  18

  Clay

  The last thing I clearly remember before waking up in this cold jail cell was Annie leaving Taps.

  Sometime around midnight, between Annie walking out and Jason buying another round, I lost my head. It was inevitable. From the moment Fitz told me he’d be going to see Danny and I stupidly offered to come along.

  It was inevitable.

  I hate this place. This town, the people, the memories. The looks of pity and understanding make me want to scream or punch a wall or drink until I can’t remember my own name and thankyoujesus because who the fuck wants to be fucking Clay Coolidge.

  Annie left, and it’s like all my composure, my will to be better, do better, left with her. I saw the look on her face. It’s seared into my brain. We danced and there was something real between us, and then she walked away, and when she came back from the bathroom, it was gone.

  My mask is Clay and hers is Annie Mathers, daughter of Cora and Robbie.

  I should have left after she did. Fitz and Kacey invited me home with them, but I’d have to be an idiot not to pick up on the cues Fitz was sending my way. Instead, I convinced Fitz I was in good hands with Diaz as my new wingman. Or maybe I was his. Either way, I’m sure Fitz is being stupid and beating himself up over it.

  The report says I swung first. Unprovoked or whatever. And if what Jason says is true, then that sounds coldly accurate. He says some shithead was waxing poetic about what a waste my brother’s sacrifice had been. Started ranting about war and politics and things he knew nothing about.

  Thing is, I can say Danny’s sacrifice was a waste. He’s my brother, and I hate that he chose the Marines over me.

  But fuck if someone else is going to say that. He died because he believed so hard in people like that fucker getting to spout off whatever they want. He died because he was so good, so undeniably decent and noble. The world isn’t worthy of him.

  So I lost it on the guy.

  Or at least that’s what Diaz tells me. My swollen and split knuckles are all the verification I need. And the massive hangover. And waking up in a jail cell where they left us to sleep it off. Both of us, Jason and me. Jason was picked up earlier by an irate-looking Connie.

  I’ve been left here to stew. Bitter resentment churns in my hollow stomach. Resentment at who? I can’t decide. Everyone. Every person I’ve ever known.

  Trina picks me up.

  “Where’s Fitz?” I ask.

  Trina’s silence is deadly. She doesn’t answer any of my questions until they’ve passed me back my wallet and pocketknife and she’s burst through the doors out into the misting rain.

  “Fitz is on his way to Boston with the rest of the tour. Left first thing this morning.”

  I chew on that for a bit, wincing as I try to slide my wallet into my back pocket. I flex my fingers and school my features when I see Trina watching me. With a beep beep, her car’s unlocked, and I slide into the passenger side. She doesn’t put the keys in the ignition, instead taking a deep breath.

  I’m expecting screaming. Instead, she exhales with a shudder.

  “Trina, I—”

  She holds up a finger and removes her glasses with her other hand, revealing puffy, red-ringed eyes. I swallow hard. Shit. I’ve never seen her look so not put-together. The world could shrivel in a nuclear strike and Trina Hamilton’s makeup wouldn’t dare smudge.

  “First, I need to tell you that your mug shot is all over the news this morning. Second, while Annie, Fitz, and Kacey left early
enough, the fact that Willows’ underage drummer, Jason Diaz, was with you and intoxicated has dragged their name into this shit show. Third, out of respect for your brother, the officer on duty managed to slant the story to keep Maggie and Taps out of the news and out of the courtroom for serving minors. I was able to assure them you had started drinking long before you arrived and long after you left.

  “Which means,” she continues in a tired recitation, her voice wavering, “the damage has been mostly contained to your own livelihood. Of course, Connie’s been called in to deal with Diaz and that mess. But, as it’s his first indiscretion and you were there to be a terrible influence, I suspect he won’t face too much media repercussion.”

  I slump against the car seat, leaning my head back, my eyes closing. “Trina—” I try again.

  She clears her throat, cutting me off. “Nothing you could say to me right now will fix this, Clay. You are eighteen years old. That’s too young to be legally allowed to do anything you were doing last night and too old to feed me your bullshit excuses.”

  She sticks her keys in the ignition but turns to me before starting the car, exhaling again. Her bottom lip quivers, and she bites down hard, turning it white, before trying to speak. “As you know, I don’t have kids. I have you and Fitz and even the Willows. I realize my exterior is all business, but I do care, Clay. I am very sorry for what they said about your brother. That wasn’t right. In fact, the only thing I’m not blaming you for is punching that kid for what he said.”

  I don’t have words. All my resentment from earlier falls flat at my manager’s loss of composure. It’s impossible to hold on to your edge in the face of Trina Hamilton crying.

  I’m sick to death of being me, but a faraway part of me realizes the futility of being anyone else. I swallow against the vomit creeping up the back of my throat.

  “Where are we going now?”

  “We have a month left. Tickets are paid for, and for now, the label wants the tour to go on.”

  “So we’re going to Boston.”

  Acid swells again, burning my sinuses. How much longer can I do this?

  And worse, how many more people will I hurt before I can wash my hands of this tour?

  19

  Annie

  saturday, july 20

  boston, massachusetts

  Things change after Indiana. After my visit to Jefferson’s hometown. The cemetery. Taps. All of it plays out in my brain on a loop. We return to our tour, we’re back onstage, and I’m in the studio just as before, but everything is different.

  Because I’m different. All the possibility and potential I’d secretly harbored have been locked away far below the surface, where they’ll stay. It can keep that tiny bit of admiration I cling to for my parents’ company in the Land of Unwanted and Dangerous Emotions.

  I’m also locking away my lady parts. Their objection is fierce, but what can I do? They’re clearly working against me. Stupid magic Levi’s.

  Onstage, all will be the same as it ever was. I’ll play my part even if it kills me. It’s what professionals do. But offstage, I’ve been pulling away. No more late-night drinks shared in hotel rooms. No more band bonding or home visits for this girl. I have a month left, and I intend to make it out alive.

  I’m crouched on a carpeted step inside a soundproof room in Boston at a satellite studio my label has procured for me last minute. Kacey and Jason are inside the booth, but I can’t see them behind the one-way glass.

  “This is something new I’ve written,” I say simply, strumming. I wrote it this week. It’s the first time I’ve played it for anyone. In all honesty, the album is done. We have enough tracks to be getting on with, but I have a feeling about this song. Sometimes you write something you know is meant to be shared. It’s something I can’t possibly say, but something that must be said anyway.

  I close my eyes as my fingers find the right chords. In my mind, there he stands: his airy smile, his sensual hips, his whiskey voice.

  The lyrics pour out of me in one painful lurch after another.

  He was her bleeding heart,

  Her soul, her whole life

  Her shady hollow

  Her beg, steal, and borrow

  He was her best friend

  Her downfall, her untimely end

  He was her too-handsome man

  Without a plan

  Her railcar screaming off the line

  And if I wanted, you’d be mine

  My glittering dawn

  My twilight con

  My overflowing cup

  Of whiskey and wrong

  My sweet release

  My most, my least

  My aching everything

  My forbidden retreat

  But if I close my eyes

  And wish it all away

  Pretend I’m someone else,

  Pretend I’m here to stay

  Gave us half a chance,

  Let my stupid heart decide

  There’s no doubt in my mind,

  You’d be mine

  She was his pedestal

  Her voice, his siren’s call

  She was his beauty queen idol,

  His Southern belle of the ball

  She was his grass is always green,

  His never in-between

  His burning house

  His no way out

  His everything’s fine

  And you’d be mine

  My glittering dawn

  My twilight con

  My overflowing cup

  Of whiskey and wrong

  My sweet release

  My most, my least

  My aching everything

  My forbidden retreat

  But if I close my eyes

  And wish it all away

  Pretend I’m someone else,

  Pretend I’m here to stay

  Gave us half a chance,

  Let my stupid heart decide

  There’s no doubt in my mind,

  You’d be mine

  They were coasting, clutching, screeching through life

  Eyes and hands only for each other

  But they forgot,

  Or maybe never cared

  About me

  The three

  The end of their flaming family tree

  There’s always a casualty

  And, God, I hate myself for

  Wishing

  And lyin’

  And thinking that maybe

  You’d want to be mine

  I still the vibrating strings with my palm and open my eyes, not at all surprised to feel the damp on my cheeks. Songwriting’s always a soul search for me. Often, I don’t know how I even feel about something until the words are on the page.

  This time, though, there’s no mistaking how I feel. My pathetic heart couldn’t be clearer on the issue of Jefferson. This song is a confession and a condemnation in one; regretting something that was over before it even began. But I know, I know, it would have been big. It would have been real and true and sappy as hell. We would have been a love story for the ages. Just like my mom and dad. He would become my all-consuming addiction, and in return, I would be his final ruin.

  Part of me doesn’t care.

  I see the future play out, but even still, my imagination has other plans. She sees a time when Jefferson is clean and whole, and I am unafraid and out of my parents’ tragic shadow. And who knows, maybe that would be us one day … but maybe it wouldn’t.

  I would be a first-class idiot to jeopardize everything right now because of maybe. Maybe we’d blow up like a house fire and take everyone we love down with us. As if hearing my thoughts, the heavy studio door opens, and Kacey and Jason step in, closing it behind them.

  “One track,” my cousin says, her eyes red-rimmed. “It’s laid down in one. Don’t you dare change a thing. If you want, I can layer some strings over it later.”

  I glance at the one-way glass of the booth, and Jason shakes his head. “I sent the sounds guys out f
or coffee.”

  I snicker. “And they listened?”

  He lifts a shoulder and regards me with a serious expression. “Annie, was that … I mean, when did you write that?”

  I drag my thumb along the beveled scroll on my guitar, watching its progress. “Oh. Bits here and there. Why?”

  I catch Jason shooting a pleading look to Kacey. She presses her lips together. “I’ll be blunt. Is it about our headliner?”

  “Why?” I repeat.

  That seems to confirm it for Kacey, who glances nervously at the one-way glass. “Are you going to incorporate it into the show?”

  I’m shaking my head before she even gets the words out. “No way. It’s too new.”

  My cousin nods her dark head, her hair falling to dance just at her bare shoulders. “You really should play it for him.”

  “I don’t think so. Not now. He won’t understand.”

  Jason makes an exasperated noise, shooting another pointed look at Kacey. “I’m going to find the coffee.”

  As the door closes behind him, Kacey leans back against the step next to me, stretching out her legs next to mine.

  “I think he might understand more than you think.”

  “Fine.” I huff out an impatient breath. “He’d understand. Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. I’ll break him, and he’ll break me. We’re way too volatile.”

  “You’re barely eighteen, Annie. What on earth do you know about volatile?”

  “I was raised on volatile.”

  Kacey blinks. “Fine.”

  “This isn’t like a movie, Kace. This is real life. He’s really grieving over his brother. He’s really got a drinking problem. He’s really into hiding both of those things by sleeping with lots of women around the country, including his ex. He really just got himself arrested for battery. I’m really a mess of a girl who can’t even close her eyes without seeing her parents’ dead bodies and can’t kiss a boy without thinking she’s going to kill him. That’s real life,” I say. “That’s volatile.”