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

by Andrea Johnston

  “Not my home though, right? Please, J. Can I stay at your house?”

  “Fine, but you better not puke in my truck or in my bed.”

  She gasps and stops. The sudden movement causes her to stumble.

  “Your bed?”

  “Well, yeah. Where else are you going to sleep? You know I only moved into my house a few months ago. I’m living in a bit of a construction zone, Ash. You can stay at my house, but you’re going to have to sleep in my bed. I’ll be a gentleman, don’t worry.”

  “Oh,” she whispers while looking at her feet, a defeated expression on her face. “Right, you’re being a good stand-in for my jerk brother.”

  We make our way out the door and to my truck before I stop and get her attention. “Look, Ben would be here if he could. You know that, right?” She nods, but I hear a sniffle. “Hey, look at me.” I shouldn’t have asked that. The look on her face breaks me just a little. “Awe man, come on, Ash. Don’t cry. Ben loves you,” I say, pulling her in for a hug. Her arms wrap around my waist and she sniffles some more.

  “I know, I’m just drunk and disappointed. Let’s go. I need to get to bed. Tomorrow is going to suck.”

  I couldn’t agree more. I open the door to the passenger side and pick Ashton up. She squeals as I place her in the seat. “Buckle up, Sunshine.”

  I can hear her mumbling about “that stupid name” as I make my way to my side of the truck.

  “Jameson, why do you have such a big truck?” At first I think she asks why I have such a big dick, so my reaction is a little startled when I look at her. A look she returns. “What?”

  “Nothing, I thought you said something else. Uh, I don’t know what you mean.” I turn the key and put the truck in gear. “You don’t like my truck?”

  “Uh, it’s a little ridiculous.”

  She has a point. Unfortunately, I’m in a little too deep financially to do anything about it. I really should have listened to my dad when he said I’d regret putting all my money into a truck that most people can’t even get in without a step stool.

  My new house is a short drive from Country Road yet, by the time we pull into the drive, Ashton is softly snoring. I stir her awake enough to get her out of the truck, but scoop her up in my arms instead of asking her to walk.

  I adjust her a little in my arms which stirs her awake. As I open the door and step into the house, is the moment she realizes I’m holding her and she scurries out of my arms. And awkwardness lingers between us as I offer her a quick tour of the house and lead her toward my room. Pulling out something for her to wear, I direct her to the bathroom.

  While she’s in the bathroom, I change into some lounge pants and contemplate sleeping on my couch instead of next to Ashton. The couch, however, is awful and uncomfortable. Which, is why I have it. The assholes I call my friends refuse to crash on it.

  Ashton walks back in my room, standing there in nothing but my T-shirt. Her bare feet shifting. After a moment hesitation, she approaches the bed and finally lays down. Following suit, I too crawl into bed. Next to Ashton. Eventually, I succumb to the exhaustion of the day and sink into the bed. Laying on my side so I’m facing her, I take in her beauty. Sassy as hell and often on my last nerve, there is no denying that Ashton Sullivan is the ultimate package. Fuck my life if I wish circumstances were different.

  The minute Jameson suggests we take shots of tequila, I know it’s a mistake. My hesitation doesn’t seem to bother him. To the contrary, he seems to relish my discomfort. His smirk, the one that sends shivers down my spine and a 911 call to my lady bits, is in full effect as he tosses back the shot.

  Fucker.

  He strutted in here looking and smelling like my ultimate fantasy. I’m almost positive he’s aware of exactly how much he affects me and how topsy turvy I get. I’ve never been able to pinpoint what it is that flips me on edge. Perhaps it’s the shorts that ride low on his hips, the T-shirt that’s snug across his sculpted chest, the just-out-of-the-shower wet hair, or the fucking smirk on his face. Regardless of what it is, I’m sure I should excuse myself and change my panties.

  And tequila. He’s killing me. Like I told him, the two of us and tequila is a bad combination. That’s what regrets are made of. No, not regrets. I refuse to live my life with regrets or guilty pleasures. I giggle at the thought of guilty pleasures. This man across from me is absolutely one of those.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “Huh?”

  “You were laughing. What’s so funny? By the way, this roast is the bomb.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “What was funny? Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

  “I was thinking about guilty pleasures.”

  With a raised brow, Jameson puts down his fork and pours us each a new shot. Sliding one my way, he smiles and lifts his in a toast. I reciprocate.

  “To guilty pleasures.”

  “That’s the funny part. I don’t believe in them.”

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t believe in guilty pleasures.”

  “How can you not? Everyone has a guilty pleasure. Mine is that series of reality shows about rich wives. That shit is ridiculous but the hell if I can’t turn it off.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “What? It’s a guilty pleasure, Ash.”

  I can’t stop laughing. I cannot imagine Jameson just sitting around watching The Real Housewives of whatever city on his massive television. That piece of equipment was made for football and racing, not Housewives.

  “It’s not funny. Everyone has a guilty pleasure. I bet you do too, Ash.”

  Noticing we’ve both finished our meals, I take his plate with mine and start clearing the table.

  “Nope, no guilty pleasures. Like I said, I don’t believe in that.”

  I manage to rinse and place our dinner dishes in the dishwasher before the tingles along my spine start. The “Jameson Strauss has entered your space” tingles. I don’t acknowledge his presence and continue cleaning up.

  “Ash, you can’t just say that and walk away. Explain, please.”

  I rinse my hands and turn to face him. Leaning against the counter drying my hands, I shrug my shoulder.

  “There’s nothing to explain. I refuse to feel guilty about anything that brings me pleasure.”

  Silence is what I expect. Only, instead Jameson starts choking.

  A giggle escapes as I do what any rational woman would do: I walk out of the room and leave him alone with his … choking.

  Did that seem a little like flirting? Maybe.

  Did that make Jameson feel uncomfortable? Absolutely.

  “More shots?” he shouts to me from the dining room.

  “Uh, not for me, roomie. You’re more than welcome to another,” I challenge.

  “Nah, I’m good. So, what now? A movie?” I hear from behind me as I bend to pick up shoes from where I left them earlier.

  “Sure.”

  Turning, I almost run directly into Jameson. We both stand still, me avoiding eye contact while feeling his eyes all over me. I can feel my pulse picking up, my breathing is more labored, and I need to get this under control. If he touches me, I’ll combust. The tension is high. Noting the tequila in his hand, I realize how much those shots have gone to my head and how dangerous this can be for my heart. Unfortunately, I think those shots have sent my logical thinking on vacation.

  Clearing my throat, I take a few steps around an unmoving Jameson before I stop. “Hey, J?” I say, turning toward him, noting the puzzled look on his face. “Thanks for having dinner with me.”

  “Anytime. You cook, I eat. It’s a fair trade.”

  I offer him a small nod as I point at the tequila. “Grab the glasses, we’ll play a drinking game.”

  “Why, Ashton Sullivan, are you planning to get drunk?”

  “Nope, I said it’s a game. Loser gets drunk and I plan to win.”

  He laughs at me and shakes his head.

  “Oh, it’s on.”
r />   “Whatever, I’m going to change.”

  Mischief dances in his eyes as I turn toward my room. Something has shifted between us. Somewhere between dinner and my reference to guilty pleasures, the mood is different. It’s electric. And confusing.

  I’m a few steps farther toward the hallway when I hear him speak. “No guilty pleasures? Really? Not even like cookie dough straight out of the tub?”

  I look over my shoulder and smile. “Nope, what’s so guilty about that? Pick a good movie, would ya?”

  Safely in my room, I practice some deep breathing techniques while I will away the butterfly action happening. I cannot be out of control with Jameson. I must keep my wits about me. The tequila thing may be a problem if that’s my plan. Whoops.

  The minute my pajama pants hit my hips, I realize how quickly those shots have gone to my head. I eye my bed, contemplating crawling under the covers. Then, I hear the intro to one of my favorite movies coming from the living room and I smile to myself. Maybe we’re going to figure out this friendship thing.

  “You know you can just sing along, right? I know it’s killing you.”

  “Nope, I’m good.” I am so not good. It’s torture. I love this movie, and when I watch it alone I am Mona Stangley. Sure, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas is about a brothel and my mom was horrified each time I insisted watching this movie growing up. I didn’t care what she thought then and I don’t care what Jameson thinks now, this is a classic.

  “Ash, come on. I’ve heard you sing before.”

  “You have not. I don’t sing in front of people.”

  “New drinking rule. Each time you tap your foot and hum along to a song in this movie, you take a shot.”

  I’m screwed.

  Three shots later and I’m officially drunk. I shoot an accusing look toward the man chair also known as Jameson’s recliner. It’s a big monstrosity of a thing and frankly I think it’s seen better days. I am grateful though because it allows me to stretch out on this very comfortable couch. The man occupying the recliner is currently much drunker than I am. We’re playing our own version of the riff-off from the movie. Jameson isn’t very good with lyrics.

  “How’re you doing over there, Sunshine?”

  “Shut up. This is torture. You know I don’t sing.”

  “Babe, we’ve all heard you sing before, we just let you think we never do.”

  What in the what?

  “Hey, don’t give me that dirty look. You were singing when I got home tonight. It’s no big deal.”

  “It is too a big deal! You can’t sneak up on a person when they are alone. It’s not only creepy but it’s rude!”

  “Jeez, relax. I didn’t sneak up and I didn’t creep. I came home from work, to my home I’d like to point out, and when I walked in you were singing. I know how uncomfortable that makes you so I walked out and came back in but made sure you heard me. I wasn’t being an asshole, actually I was being awesome and you should thank me for that.”

  I just stare at him, mouth agape. He cannot be serious. Thank him? He heard me sing. He saw me singing. Oh good grief, what was I listening … oh shit. I was probably dancing too. Shit shit shit.

  Burying my face in my hands, I shake my head. This cannot be happening. There goes my heart rate, increasing with every breath. My palms are sweating. Inhale. Exhale. Shit. No. No. Breathe. Must breathe. Hands on my hands, tugging from my face.

  “Hey, hey. Relax. Ash, look at me. Come on, baby, look at me.”

  Breathe. Count to ten, slowly. Breathe. Hand on my chin.

  “Ashton, look at me. Please, you’re scaring me. Just look at me. Let me see those eyes.”

  I will myself to lift my chin.

  “That’s it, breathe with me. Deep inhale, that’s it. Exhale. Good, again. Come on, again. There you go. Better?”

  I nod, and the tears start. Pulling me to his chest, Jameson wraps me in his arms. I let him and my breaths begin to match his. My heart finds his beat, joining the rhythm. His hands caress my head and I relax, one vertebrae at a time.

  “I’m so sorry, Ash. I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t realize … That’s it, just breathe. Fuck, I’m an asshole. I’m so sorry …”

  His constant apology is all I remember before the darkness.

  Oh my God, I’m never drinking tequila again. That’s a lie. I need to just mean no when I say no to tequila. I cannot let my roommate placate me with compliments and booze.

  Why is it so freaking hot in here? Why, why is my heart beating in my head? Why is the blanket made of flesh?

  Jesus, this isn’t my comforter. Slowly opening one eye at a time, I lick my very chapped lips and the taste in my mouth is close to what death must taste like. Yep, no more tequila. My eyes are on fire. Obviously, I’m still wearing yesterday’s makeup. Lovely. And, I’m using Jameson’s body as my own personal mattress and comforter.

  Again.

  I’m sure I read somewhere that history doesn’t repeat itself. Or shouldn’t. Whichever the case, even if I made that up, someone should write that because this is slightly ridiculous. I unfold myself from Jameson’s hold and inventory the room. He’s fully dressed. A quick look at myself shows I’m in my pajamas from last night. The television is off, the tequila bottle and shot glasses are on the table.

  Slowly the events of last night are coming back to me. A good dinner, if I do say so and I do, a few too many shots of tequila, a little banter, and then the panic attack. Shit. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an attack, at least three years. I’m sure it freaked Jameson out, but the reality is, this wasn’t even bad. It was less panic and more anxiety than anything and likely alcohol induced. The fact that my senses were on overload just spending the night so relaxed with Jameson didn’t help. Of course, knowing he saw me in the kitchen was just the cherry on top of the “I’m a hot mess” sundae.

  I need to get some water and find my toothbrush. But first, like any red-blooded woman, I’m going to take these few minutes of uninterrupted time to take in the sight before me. Nestled in the corner of the couch, Jameson is a sight to behold. With his legs stretched out before him so that he’s slightly reclining, those basketball shorts that made him seem so relaxed last night are now sitting low on his waist. The arm that was just holding me to him is now resting so that his hand sits on his stomach, slightly lifting his shirt so that a piece of his stomach is showing with a hint of the ever-so-enticing V peeking. It’s like it is whispering to me, “You remember me, Ashton. I lead to the promise land.”

  Shut up, stupid V. I lift my eyes to see a little wet spot sits where my head was laying. Whoops. Oh well, a little drool never hurt anyone. A hint of scruff is evident, and with his head tilted to the side I can see Jameson’s high cheekbones. No sign of his beautiful sapphire eyes as he continues to sleep. I yearn to reach out and brush the hair that’s fallen across his forehead out of the way. He’s keeping it longer than he used to and I like it.

  Something about him in this moment wraps around my heart and squeezes it. He comforted me last night without question. I feel awful that he blames himself. There’s no rhyme or reason for my attacks. I’ve worked hard to identify my triggers and usually I’m able to deflect and avoid an attack from progressing. Last night, I was caught off-guard and more than tipsy so my reaction was slow.

  Rising from the couch, I stretch a little and watch as Jameson shifts his body. Coffee is necessary so I stop my private moment with a sleeping roommate and make my way to the kitchen to start the coffee. Once I’ve set the machine to brew, I immediately grab two towels from the linen closet and walk directly to the bathroom. A shower is beyond necessary. So is disinfecting my mouth. Tequila the morning after is never anyone’s friend.

  I live by the lather, rinse, and repeat motto. Not because I think it’s going to make a difference for my hair. No, this is simply so I can stay in this shower just a few minutes longer. I’m not sure what kind of deal Jameson made with the plumbing gods, but the water pressure in this sho
wer is amazing. As the temperature starts to cool, I turn the knob to off and step out of the shower.

  Wrapping my hair in a towel and my body in another, I reach for my toothbrush for another go at my mouth. Once I’ve rinsed and gathered my discarded clothes, I open the door and take a step into the hallway. The steam from my long and hot shower follows me and obscures my view enough that I walk right into a brick wall. A brick wall made of abs, rock hard rippling abs.

  “Shit, sorry.”

  “Uh, my fault. I wasn’t looking,” I respond, never looking directly at him. This is awkward, as I can feel a draft from the cooler temperature making its way up my towel.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Embarrassed. I’m sorry, Jameson. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an attack. Can we just forget it happened?” I’m talking to Jameson but I’m looking at the intricate design of the crown molding.

  “Hey,” he says, placing a finger to my chin and turning my face toward him, forcing me to look at him. “There is absolutely no reason to be embarrassed. I shouldn’t have teased you. I know you don’t like singing in front of people.”

  “It’s not … never mind, it’s fine. Let’s just move on, okay? Now I’m kind of freezing here so I’m going to get dressed. I set the coffee to brew so it should be ready by now.”

  Dropping his hand and the subject, Jameson steps back as I pass him and walk to my room. Once I’m safely behind the closed door, I lean against it and release my held breath.

  It’s been a few days since my dinner with Ashton and the only sign she’s still living at my house is the lingering scent of her shower when I wake in the morning. I’d like to think we turned a corner the other night but I have a strong feeling she’s avoiding me.

  Her panic attack freaked me the hell out, but I’d never admit that to her. I’ve never felt so helpless and overcome with a need to protect another person than I did in those moments. These last four years, I’ve tried to push aside any feelings I may have for Ashton and go about my life. While she’s a royal pain in the ass half the time, I know who she is deep down. That’s probably why I have tried to push aside my feelings but never really succeeded.