Tequila & Tailgates (A Country Road Novel - Book 2)

by Andrea Johnston

  Tequila & Tailgates

  (A Country Road Novel – Book 2)

  Copyright © 2016 by Andrea Johnston

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. No part of this publication may be stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, people – living or dead – is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, characters, businesses, artists, and the like which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or, it was not purchased for you then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for supporting this author.

  Cover design by Uplifting Designs

  Editing by Kristina Circelli of Red Road Editing

  Interior design by Stacey Blake of Champagne Formats

  Cover Photo by Kyla Ellison of Kyla Leighanne Photography

  ISBN: 978-0-9966309-4-8

  First Edition

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other books by Andrea Johnston

  For Alyssa & Stacy.

  You believed in this story and me when I didn’t.

  Jameston exists because of you.

  Plain white walls.

  Generic plaid comforter with a very low thread count.

  Vertical blinds.

  How did I get here?

  I know how I got here, logistically. My car. My car that was loaded full of my life, making it impossible to see out the back window. It’s the other kind of how I’m still confused about.

  Perhaps it’s more of why am I here. Here. In his house. The one place on this earth I swore I’d never come back to. And yet, here I sit, on this hideous comforter, in a room that would give an asylum a run for its money.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  I haven’t answered the other seven knocks; why would these be any different?

  I blame my parents. And my brother. And my best friend. And Mother Nature. She’s really to blame. That bitch had to come along with her weather and put me in a position that the only option other than here was a motel.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  I suppose it’s time to face my new reality.

  You can do this, Ashton. It’s just the Manwhore. He’s doing Ben a favor. He’s trying. You can do this. Smile. Use the manners your mother instilled in you. For the love of all that is holy do not drop your panties. Again.

  Yes, inner self, that’s the plan.

  With as much enthusiasm as I have for my annual lady doctor visit, I stand from the bed and the itchy comforter. Looking in the full-length mirror attached to the back of the door, I assess my appearance.

  When I’m at home, I like to be as comfortable as possible. For me that’s a loose shirt, like the plaid button-up I’m wearing, cut-off shorts, and a pair of my knee-high socks. Sure, not everyone is a member of the sock of the month club, but I’m not everyone. I have issues with my bare feet on hard surfaces but I hate slippers with a passion. Socks are a great compromise to that, and since my socks are designed with something sarcastic or slightly inappropriate on them, even better.

  Pants and I have an understanding: I only wear them for work or if an outfit demands jeans. Much to my mother’s frustration, I’ve never been a pants girl and used to threaten to move to the tropics where nobody wears pants. Lies. I’d never leave Lexington, but I still used that threat to my advantage when I was younger.

  Adjusting my intentionally messy bun, I step closer to wipe the smudges from under my eyes. Shit, those aren’t smudges. Good old-fashioned bags are what those are. It’s been a rough few days of dealing with an insurance company and deciding where I’d stay while my parents’ home is repaired. The fact that, at twenty-five, I’m living at home is traumatic enough, but add to that the gigantic tree laying across the top of our house and, like I said, it’s been rough. Thankfully nobody was home when the tree fell and there were no injuries, but it has left me homeless and, somehow, here.

  I trudge toward the bedroom door, stopping with my hand on the doorknob, hesitating before turning it. Deep cleansing breaths are supposed to calm me. They don’t. I know I need to brace myself for what, or rather who, is on the other side of this door. This is something I’ve been doing for the last five years – a pep talk to not be swayed by a pair of deep blue eyes. Eyes that send my heart fluttering and my nerves standing end. The same eyes that distract a lot of women from making rational decisions and encourage those same women to drop their panties.

  “Come on, Ash, are you going to hide in there all night?”

  As I turn the handle, I know this roommate situation, as temporary as it may be, is a very bad idea. On the other side of this door stands the man who can single-handedly break me. He’s done it before. Ripped my heart out, served it on a platter, and devastated me. No acknowledgment and no apology for what happened. He simply got up, pulled his pants on like it was any other morning, and walked out of the room, taking my heart and a piece of my pride with him.

  I’ve spent the last four years telling myself it’s what adults do. It’s how life works. Watching him work his way through town and every available female within a thirty-mile radius broke me a little more each time.

  Of course, I’ve refused to tell him the effect he’s had on me. I’ve never told anyone. Not even my best friend, Piper. I locked that night up and threw away the key while simultaneously building a wall around my heart, refusing to ever allow myself to feel that way again. It’s taken me a long time to believe we can be friends and it won’t hurt. I’ve managed this with fierce determination and a lot of attitude.

  I’ve been a bitch. Cruel and spiteful. I hate myself every time I say something hateful, but if I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll beg him to tell me why he walked out. I’m equally afraid he’ll actually tell me.

  Instead, I act unaffected by him and the harem he parades through Country Road every night I work. I pretend that the men I date are holding my interest and have
a chance of winning my heart.

  The reality of it all is that Jameson Strauss is the only man I’ve ever loved and I will probably die in that reality. He was my first epic kiss at twenty and I’ll die having had my best sexual experience at twenty-one with him; my brother’s best friend.

  My new roommate.

  This woman will be the death of me. Never have I known a female who could push every single one of my buttons. Ashton Sullivan is the exception. Whether she’s insulting me, tossing jabs at the women I choose to spend my time with, or simply ignoring my very existence, she affects me. And, that’s all on top of her need to wear the shortest shorts imaginable daily. Shorts that hit her just right, making her legs look a mile long and reminding me of a night they spent wrapped around me.

  The night I fucked up. The night I changed everything between us and haven’t been able to repair. Every insult she’s tossed in my direction since our night together has hit me like jagged-edged knives to my core. I know she’s angry and it is more than likely her attitude is real. She really does hate me. I deserve it.

  From time to time, I get a glimpse of who we used to be. She’ll drop her guard and forget how I did her wrong and be the girl I called my friend. I believe we can get back there. I just need to make things right. Offering her a place to stay after her parents lost half of their house to a fallen tree was the first step toward repairing our relationship.

  I knock again, this time in a three-knock succession. I’ve been standing on this side of her bedroom door knocking long enough that the pizza I brought home, her favorite, is cold and the beer is warm. I am not above bribery; there may or may not be cupcakes, too. While cold pizza is great the day after, after my last attempt to draw her from this room, I put it in the oven to warm.

  Three knocks must be the winner because I hear the doorknob turn. I close my eyes in preparation for the wrath I’m sure to receive.

  “What do you want, Manwhore?”

  There it is. Her go-to name for me.

  “I thought we could move on from the name calling now that you’re living here.”

  “Staying,” she replies through gritted teeth with a defiant hand on her hip.

  “What?”

  “Staying. I’m staying here. I don’t live here.”

  Oh, she wants to spar. Perfect. This I can do. Leaning against the wall with my hands in my back pockets, I smirk because I know she’s waiting to spew a long list of insults my way.

  “Sorry, Sunshine, but I’m pretty sure you’re living here now. Deal with it.”

  “Did you need something with your incessant knocking? Channeling your inner Sheldon or something?”

  I laugh at her reference to my favorite show.

  “I have pizza, beer, and maybe a little dessert, too. Ya know, if you can pull yourself away from being a hermit.”

  Widening her eyes at my hermit reference, I see that I’ve hit a nerve. Noted. As she compiles a response, her large green eyes fluctuate between the size of a quarter to a thin line. Since we were kids, Ashton’s eyes have fascinated me. I suppose, technically they wouldn’t even be classified as green. Her eyes, more of a mixture of green, gold, and brown, act as her own personal mood indicator. I learned early on that the darker the eye, the darker the mood. Right now, they are a solid green with a little bit of gold flakes dancing around.

  “I am not a hermit. I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out what kind of sandpaper this comforter is made of and why you consider plain white a reasonable color for a bedroom. I feel like I’m in some sort of institution. You build houses for a living but your sense of interior design leaves something to be desired.”

  “Well, it’s your room now. Do to it what you will, but it’s late and I’m hungry so join me or don’t. I’ll happily eat this entire pizza. I mean, I’m not the biggest sausage, jalapeno, and mushroom fan, but it’ll do,” I declare as I turn my back on her and walk toward the kitchen, smiling the entire way because I can hear her huffing and stomping her foot as the realization of the pizza I’ve ordered hits her.

  While I wait for Ashton to join me, I remove the pizza from the oven and place it on the table. Popping the cap off her beer bottle, I also pour myself a glass of wine before taking my seat at the dining table. Placing a slice of pizza on each of our plates, I can hear her padding down the hall and smile to myself. That girl will not wear pants regardless of how cold it is, which also means she’s going to walk in here in a pair of short shorts, wearing knee-high socks. Ashton Marie Sullivan marches to the beat of her own drum, that’s for sure.

  I know I’m going to have to tread carefully with Ashton, which is why I don’t acknowledge her presence and take a bite of my pizza instead.

  Insufferable asshole. Of course, he brings home my favorite pizza and beer. Of course, he must be thoughtful and kind. Bastard. These are the moments I wish he was the ogre I’ve convinced myself he is. Nope, he’s a thoughtful, kind, and selfless man.

  Selfless. He was certainly selfless one night, at least. I really need to get a handle on myself, and the ability to allow my memories of Jameson to consume me, taking me to the place I don’t belong.

  My twentieth birthday was supposed to be epic. I was supposed to be celebrated and make nothing but fantastic memories with my closest friends, including my brother. The problem with that was my brother’s girlfriend, Laurel. Correction, former girlfriend since Ben is now hopelessly in love with and engaged to my best friend, Piper.

  Laurel isn’t a problem now. I’ve been able to spend time with the “not my brother’s girlfriend” Laurel and I kind of like her. She’s fun and sarcastic. Two of my favorite things.

  But, when I was turning twenty, it was a different story. Laurel made plans for her and Ben the same weekend as my birthday. I was devastated. Ben had been gone to college for a few years and, while we remained close, his missing that weekend hurt me more than I’ve ever admitted.

  Our friends, more his before college, still made my birthday fantastic and I had a wonderful time. We spent the entire weekend at the lake eating, drinking, and swimming. It’s a tradition that we maintain to this day. On the final night of the weekend, Jameson and I were the last two awake by the fire. I think together we managed to consume an entire bottle of tequila. And, as it often is, the alcohol was a sort of truth serum for us.

  We started a game of Truth or Dare, which never quite mustered a dare. Until the end. Truths varied from cheating on history tests to sneaking in after curfew and even first crushes. I admitted to my fear of small children and Jameson admitted his fear of a woman dressed in head-to-toe leopard. We laughed and we cried. Tears from laughter, not sadness.

  Then he asked me the final truth or dare as I took my last shot and handed him the bottle.

  “Truth or Dare, Ash?”

  “Hmmm. Well, considering we’ve just demolished a bottle of tequila, neither seems like a good idea. I’m likely to break a leg or make an ass of myself.”

  “I’d go with the ass part. I don’t think either of us wants a lecture from Piper if we have to go to the hospital.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Okay then. Truth it is. Hit me.”

  “Do you ever think about kissing me?”

  Seconds that feel like minutes pass between us. Something glimmers in his eyes as he asks me. Screw it, I can always blame the tequila.

  “Yes.”

  His breath hitches and a sinister smile takes over my face. Two can play this game.

  “Your turn, J. Truth or Dare?”

  He stands and finishes the tequila straight from the bottle and takes the three steps necessary to stand in front of me. He bends so that his hands rest on the arms of my chair and leans in. I can smell the tequila on his breath mixing with mine. My own breath hitches.

  “Dare, Sunshine.”

  “I hate that name.”

  “I know.”

  Our words are whispers.

  “I dare you to kiss me.”

  “Are you coming or not, A
shton? I’m not sure this pizza will taste good re-heated for the third time,” Jameson shouts, pulling me from my memories. My fingers make their way to my lips.

  That was the beginning of the end for me. That kiss solidified what I had known my entire teen years – Jameson Strauss was either going to break my heart or fill it with more love than I could ever imagine.

  Unfortunately for me, he did both. Just not in that order.

  Jameson’s house has come a long way since he purchased it. I remember this house from when we were kids, a bungalow I think is what you would call it. Small and quaint, he’s put a lot of work into it, restoring the dark hickory floors and maintaining the original moulding and intricate details, though he’s modernized the bathrooms and kitchen.

  Entering the dining room, I spy a slice of my favorite pizza sitting on a plate along with a beer to its right. Jameson is sitting at the table.

  With a glass of wine?

  “Uh, what’s with the wine there?” I ask, taking my seat and enjoying a sip of the ice-cold beer.

  “I like a glass of wine when I get home from work. Don’t you drink wine?”

  “Yeah, no. I’m not all hoity-toity, thanks.” It’s like I can’t help the sarcasm.

  “I’m not sure I’m hoity-toity but a nice red is something I look forward to at the end of the day. Don’t worry, I’ll get you to join me one night and you’ll think differently.”

  I consider what he’s saying while letting the cheesy goodness make its way to my empty stomach. I’m having what some may call a “hollow day” and it’s no secret that on days such as these, I can and will eat an entire pizza. He needs to stop making it seem like me living here, I mean staying here, is a good thing. We aren’t going to be bosom buddies and it’s unlikely we’ll have many dinners like this. I work nights and he works days, which is one of the reasons I agreed to this arrangement.

  Well, and because I have no other choice. Thank you, Mr. Oak Tree. How did that damn tree, that’s been in our yard my entire life, just happen to fall on the house the day my parents left for a two-month-long trip to Europe? Stupid karma is why. I’m known to be a bit of a bitch and I guess karma caught up with me.