Whiskey Heart: An Alpha Billionaire Friends to Lovers Romance

by Caroline Tate

  "Hell yes, finally," Brooke sings, pulling her keys from the ignition.

  We're parked in a meadow with hundreds of cars lined in tight rows. Slamming the door shut, the overly sweet smell of fresh cut grass puts me on edge causing my stomach to do the loopty loop. As we approach the Hatfield Amphitheater, the air grows familiar with the scent of cigarette smoke, weed, and sweat. The usually crowded line into the venue has mostly dissipated, the show only minutes from beginning.

  “Hey, you want a beer?” Brooke asks.

  We walk toward the pavement lined with food trucks and a beer tent. The smell of sugary fried donuts, Carolina barbeque, and alcohol swarms us as I work to keep my eyes from wandering. If John’s here, I don’t want him to think I’m looking for him.

  The line at the beer tent is long and winds past the bathrooms. Studying the stage, I worry we might miss the opening act. “Looks like the show’s about to start,” I say, fiddling with a button on my jacket. I can’t keep myself still from all the anxiety pooling inside me.

  "It's fine," Brooke says, sidling up to the table with her pink wallet. "You don't even like Holland."

  I want to point out that Brooke would like no decent music if it weren't for me. But she buys both beers, so I hold my tongue.

  "Thanks," I say, taking a sip of mostly foam. The beer is cheaply bitter and feels rough going down my throat. But mixed with the earlier cigarette, it makes me feel warm and buzzed after just a few gulps of it. It's dusk as we stroll down the grassy slope, the earth soft and dewy beneath my Chuck Taylors. Weaving through the lawn seat crowd that's searching for dry patches of green with the best view, Brooke looks at me over her shoulder. "We're lucky you scored us inside seats. Looks like it's gonna rain."

  The crowds are growing thick now, and my beer is nearly gone when we reach the gate to covered seating. It's a little stuffy, the air more stagnant underneath the massive stretch of canopy. Fishing for my ticket in my pocket, I hear a familiar voice from behind that causes pure heat to rise on the back of my neck, and my heart leaps up into my throat.

  “Ellie?”

  Against everything I feel right now, I compose my expression into one of cool

  indifference and turn. But I'm sorely caught off-guard when I'm met not by one person, but by two.

  John is the same tall, chiseled man with his deep blue stare boring into my own hazel eyes. He’s wearing the faded T-shirt I bought him at one of our first shows together, and my stomach knots at the thought. I’m completely confident in the fact that he wouldn’t have worn the shirt if he remembered I was the one who’d bought it for him in the first place.

  He's already forgotten me.

  I barely have time to take him in before I notice the girl on his arm. She's outrageously gorgeous in all the conventional ways that John loves— blonde, tan, a perfect rack. And though I can't see it, an ass that probably dissolves grown men to tears. She is, without a doubt, every single thing I've never been. She chews a piece of gum and tilts her head to one side, studying me up and down with pale green eyes. I know exactly what she's looking for, and I work to quell my rage.

  “What?” I ask, jerking my jacket tight around myself. Pulling my eyes from the heart-shaped face of John’s new pet, I force myself to look him square in the eye. Brooke is behind me now, and her tension is palpable in the darkening night.

  “My ticket?” John says as if it should be obvious.

  “You’re not sitting next to me.”

  When the blonde girl on John’s arm laughs, I restrain myself from throwing the remainder of my beer in her pretty little face.

  “No shit,” John says. “I got a guy who wants to buy it from me. Angela and I have lawn seats.”

  Angela? What a hideously appropriate name for her.

  A crowd of people trying to get to the seated section starts accumulating around us. Brooke tugs at my jacket sleeve. “Just give it to him, we don’t want to—”

  Be the storm, Ellie.

  "Oh yeah. Actually, you know what?" I say loudly with just a touch of sarcasm. I genuinely smirk hoping he can't read anything in me but pure pleasure. “I have your ticket right here." Unwavering, I reach into the back pocket of my jean shorts, and when I withdraw my hand and hold it out to him, only my middle finger is raised as I present him with no ticket. The crowd we’d been holding up erupts into a chorus of catcalls and laughter.

  John’s expression morphs from arrogance to straight madness. “That’s real mature, Ellie,” he says, crossing his arms in front of him. “Good to see you’ve changed.”

  Angela snaps her gum in my direction. "You're so angry, sweetie," she says, her high-pitched voice making her sound cartoonish.

  Turning my gaze toward her, I'm pleased when her grin shifts to panic. "Oh, yeah? You would be too, if your piece of crap boyfriend of two years bails after he gets you pregnant."

  I hear Brooke let out the long, hard breath she’s been holding behind me.

  “Fuck you, Ellie,” John hisses. We linger on the concrete staring each other down until he finally shakes his head in disgust. Muttering something to Angela, he takes her hand and walks

  away.

  Still standing there, I try catching my breath and will away the tears that sting my eyes. I'm not sure why I want to cry. It's the first time I've seen John since he left me the morning I told him I might be pregnant. But if that animal, for one second, believes I'm too polite to air his dirty laundry in front of his new toy, he is sorely mistaken. I dab at the corner of my eye with the sleeve of my jacket and turn toward Brooke.

  She puts her hand on my elbow. “Come on, El,” she whispers, but I jerk my arm away. “It’ll be okay.”

  Still on the verge of choking up, I shake my head, refusing to make eye contact with her. "I need another beer. I'll meet you down there."

  Her voice grows rapid with concern. “I’ll come with—”

  "No," I say, turning from her. "I'll be right back. You'll save our seats?"

  If Brooke wants another beer or is concerned that I’ve nearly finished my first, she says nothing. Over the first wave of sadness of John being here, my heart now suddenly rages. With an anger building in my cheeks, I make my way back up the hill in the opposite direction of John and Angela. Draining the rest of my first drink, I toss the plastic cup into a nearby trash can.

  In line at the beer tent, the hum of the food trucks and the murmuring crowd drowns out the opening number from Holland. Brooke is right— her music isn't my favorite. She lacks an urgent fire that I find myself craving, especially on nights like tonight. But surely I'd be more apt to like her if John hadn't shown up with his new girlfriend. Did he have to bring that girl? Was it out of spite? I push the thought from my mind as I order another beer. Having not eaten anything earlier, I'm already feeling the full effects of the first one, and sauntering back toward the gated seating, I feel light as air.

  Out of nowhere, someone grabs my arm, jolting me sideways. Half of my alcohol sloshes down the front of my jacket and onto my shorts.

  “Give me the fucking ticket, Ellie,” John says through gritted teeth. Angela is no longer with him.

  "Let go of me," I say, fighting him off, my breath staggered by the strength of him. I try to wrestle my arm away without spilling the rest of my beer, but his clutch on me is firm.

  Tightening his grip, he ducks his head, his gnarly voice ripping into my space. “I paid good money for that ticket and if—”

  "Let her go," an authoritative voice booms from behind us. My arm throbs when John releases me and backs away with his hands in the air. Part of the crowd is staring, and I turn to find a towering security guard eyeing both of us. I give him a small nod before darting in the direction of the lower gate.

  The ticket in my back pocket, the one meant for John, feels like an anchor now. I hate that it's there. I hate that I brought it with me. What is it? Some ridiculous prop to get him to talk to me? What was I thinking? I replay our interactions and feel nothing but shame and e
mbarrassment.

  Sitting on the grass up ahead to my left is a man I've never seen before. He looks like he's

  alone, leaning forward, his arms resting on bent knees. As I walk over, he looks up with calm eyes and a neutral expression. He adjusts his black-rimmed glasses when he notices me. Shaggy brown hair frames his slim face. Under other circumstances, I might have thought he was halfway attractive, but now all I care about is finding a human to relieve me of my burden.

  I drop the ticket meant for John beside this guy and watch it flutter to the grass. “There’s an empty seat down there. All yours if you want it,” I say before walking toward the gate without waiting for a response.

  Chapter 2 Ellie

  “Didn’t you go for another beer?” Brooke asks, watching me drain my cup.

  I plop down in the folding chair next to her. Before I can respond, Holland plays the last resounding chord of her opening set, the audience blooming into a sea of half-hearted applause. The change of volume rids Brooke of her curiosity, and I escape having to explain my second encounter with John.

  Hoards of people shuffle past one another heading toward the bathrooms and food vendors just before the Boxley Brothers take the stage. With Brooke texting on her phone, I roll the left sleeve of my jacket up and check for marks where John had grabbed me. Nothing, thank God. I want to chain-smoke the rest of my cigarettes to calm my nerves, but that would deplete me until next week. Covering my face with my hands, I try to drown out the clamor around us. The image of John's fingers clenched around my arm makes me fidgety and is ingrained in my mind. No matter how much I'd been thinking of him the past few weeks, one thing is clear— he hasn't changed a bit. What an asshole.

  "Excuse me, are you lost?" I hear Brooke ask candidly.

  Glancing over at her on my left, I notice the offended look plastered on her face.

  “You the one who gave me the ticket back there?” Following Brooke’s gaze to the rooted voice on the other side of me, I find the guy I’d thrown the extra ticket at a few songs ago. Standing beside the empty seat, he’s holding two beers and is staring right at me.

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  "Nice," he says, handing me one of the beers. "Appreciate it." He's wearing a gray V-neck T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans. When he settles himself in the chair beside me, I feel the warmth of his body against my right side, and a sudden pang of guilt washes over me. If he knew why I’d given him the ticket in the first place, he probably wouldn’t even want it.

  Leaning forward, Brooke eyes him with pursed lips. “Well. Guess I’ll have to get my own alcohol then.” She climbs over the back of her seat and disappears into the crowd.

  Sitting here sipping my third beer, I realize I probably shouldn’t drink anymore tonight. I consider giving the guy his beer back but reason that the building up of my buzz is helping to calm my panic. Side-eyeing him, I notice his tanned, muscular forearm is inches from me on his lap. His bookish face and nerdy glasses contrast his mysteriously simple vibe. I want to lean over

  and tell him he’d be a lot hotter if he’d ditch his rumpled, serious look. But I’m not in the frame of mind to consider anyone attractive tonight as it is, so I keep quiet and wipe the thought from my mind.

  The Boxley Brothers finally take the stage for their first song, and I notice the guy beside me is drumming his fingers on his thigh in anticipation. There’s something about his innocence laid out in front of the music like this that makes me grow giddy with excitement and understanding, and I can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have his fingertips drumming the same song on my leg.

  Seriously, Ellie? Get a grip.

  I roll my eyes at myself. Suddenly craving contact, I lean into his shoulder. "Have you seen them before?" I whisper over the opening guitar chords. The way the band makes their instruments sing in elegance and finesse splits my heart in the best of ways, my angst from the chaotic evening finally melting in my lap.

  "Yeah, sure. Couple times in Raleigh," he says, his eyes still fixed on the stage. "Then last year here." As he takes a long sip of his beer, he looks over at me, and the depth of his dark eyes hit me like a train. "They've got that sounds-first thing down with an indie blues overtone. Hard to describe it."

  My throat goes dry at his words, and I feel an immediate affinity streak through my warm limbs. His description is nearly verbatim what I’d told John when he first asked me about my favorite band years ago. Indie. Bluesy. Music first, lyrics follow.

  "People underestimate how talented these guys are," he says, his mahogany eyes still glued to mine. His lips curl to the side with a grin. "They're one of the best."

  Smirking, I nod and cross my arms over my chest, suddenly growing self-conscious under his entrancing stare. I feel my cheeks heat up with his attention, and even though I begin to think I'd trade this entire concert for a chance to captivate this man, I can't let him miss the opening song on account of me wanting his attention. The heady buzz from my beer drowning me in a desperate state of freedom, I say nothing. But in the wake of my silence, I reach my hand up to his chin, and with a single finger, I slowly turn his head back toward the stage. Through his half-smile, I want to tell him he doesn't deserve to miss any of the show because of me. With his gaze now removed from me, I feel lighter, momentarily free from the fire burning within me.

  Banjo and mandolin notes roll off the stage, hitting the crowd in waves as I sway along to the beat. Drunk on the soothing sounds of the Boxley Brothers, I can't help but feel this music swim to my core. And this is how it usually happens for me. "It's like they're in time with the pulse of the entire universe," I whisper.

  He must hear me because the guy turns his head back toward me. When I look over at him again, he searches my eyes, this time scanning me with a piece of heartfelt concern. "Never heard anyone explain it like that before." The corner of his mouth lifts. "But you're right." He extends a strong hand toward me. "I'm Mason."

  Mason?

  I exhale. Mason.

  His name ricochets around the comfortable space of my mind. I could get used to a name like Mason. But when I shake his hand, as if on cue, the lead vocalist, Cole Boxley, begins to belt out the lyrics to the top song from his setlist, "Stones Unturned." And it's pure poetry.

  "I'm Ellie," I say over the song.

  As if the universe smacks me in the face of this nearly perfect moment here in the darkness of the crowd, Mason nods. "Nice to meet you, Kelly."

  Shit! Kelly? This bursts my happy little concert bubble. Do I freaking look like a Kelly?

  For a split second, I consider letting Mason think my name is Kelly. Par for the course, I can take it in stride, right? I'll never see him again after tonight. He doesn't have to know my name is anything else. But then I think about the show and how long I'll hold on to this memory for years to come. How it feels too false to share this love of the same band with the guy and not have him know who I honestly am, even if it's only a one-letter difference. Be the storm, Ellie.

  “Ellie!” I say louder. “My name’s Ellie.” My correction isn’t meant to shame him, but it accidentally launches him into a full-on, adorably crooked smile. He brings a quick hand up over his eyes, and the depth of his dimples that now show are tell of his embarrassment. His reaction causes me to genuinely laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.

  Suddenly, the hilarity of this moment is ransacked by Brooke as she squeezes past us, causing me to break eye contact with Mason. Her herbaceous perfume stirs the stale air when she takes her seat beside me. I try to stifle the tail-end of my laughter by the time she sits, but she notices and latches on to my elbow causing me to wince.

  “Oh my God, Ellie. Are you flirting?" She leans past me for a better look at Mason. "If you are, he's gorgeous. Where'd you find him?"

  Turning toward her to block my words from Mason, I furrow my brow and try to keep a straight face. "He's not gorgeous," I whisper, fighting the obvious smile that lingers. I pull my arm away from her and yank my jacket
tighter around me. "And I'm not flirting— I'm being the storm."

  “The what?”

  "John's ticket. I gave it to some stranger on the lawn. It was him," I say, shrugging in the direction of Mason.

  Brooke’s jaw drops. “Where did that come from?" With a turn of her expression, she waggles her eyebrows at me. "Nicely played, El. A beautiful choice, if I do say so myself." She's still peering around me to get a better look at the guy, and if he notices any of this, he doesn't let on.

  “He’s not beautiful,” I hiss trying to hold it together. “Now, please direct your attention toward the band.”

  Brooke is the best and the brightest in all sorts of ways. She's funny. She's smart. And she's drop-dead gorgeous. But her one little fault is that she goes to most concerts for the social aspect of them, not to enjoy the music.

  I focus back on the stage, the blue and purple lights forming rich pools of color and bathing the band in a waterfall of light. As the night grows darker, the set carries on with this

  stranger, a very focused and absorbed Mason, at my side. The energy of the songs wash over us, and we're lulled by the liquid velvet harmonies drawing us into a trance.

  After Holland joins the Boxley Brothers for two purely acoustic numbers, they launch straight into their final string of songs, the encore of the night. My heart aches knowing it's about to end. I want the bliss of this night to carry me forever. Being here with my best friend on one side of me and this newfound stranger to my right. The emotion of the music, the taste of the beer, the weight of the air. It all sinks itself into a tight little ball in my chest, pulling at my seams, threatening to split me right in two.