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

by Andrea Johnston

  I just listen, absorbing his words and trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when he starts to speak again. “All I ask is that you respect her and do right by her.”

  “Ben, there’s nothing going on with me and Ashton. Besides, I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our friendship.”

  Ben stares at me like he’s trying to tap into my thoughts and inner dialogue before smiling. The expression on his face tells me he’s relieved I have declared I am not pursuing his sister. Honestly, that’s a little offensive. I mean, sure I’m realizing what a womanizer I’ve been and maybe I’m not always the best guy, but I would never do anything to hurt Ashton. If he only knew how the tables were turned.

  “Look, man. Ashton is my family as much as you are. And, for that reason, I’ll always worry about her. Now, can we put a pause on this fucking Hallmark moment? I feel like my balls are shriveling up.”

  Ben and I share a laugh at my Hallmark comment and agree to drop the issue. With that conversation out of the way, I do call it a night and the entire drive home think about what Ben said. Sure, Ashton and I have history. History he doesn’t know about, but it’s been too long for me to come clean now.

  Parking in the driveway, I hesitate before getting out of my truck. Maybe I should talk to Ashton about telling Ben about our past. Maybe I should start by talking to Ashton about our past. Not so much a past as a night and a lot of tension ever since. As I have that thought, my phone pings a text message.

  Ashton: Since you’re busy parenting, I’m on my way home, Dad. Be there in about 30 :p

  Me: Drive safe. I’m heading to bed. Leaving early to pick up Hope.

  Dragging myself from the truck, I feel relieved to know she’s safe and headed home. I also feel a little bit of satisfaction that she told me. I’m an asshole, I know.

  I’ve made this drive at least once a month for the last few years. This is my time for myself. The hours that I’m able to be just plain old Ashton. Not Bentley Sullivan’s little sister or Paul and Patty Sullivan’s daughter. I’m not Piper Lawrence’s best friend and surely not the sarcastic and often bitchy bartender at Country Road. Nope. For a few hours every month I’m just Ashton Sullivan – a twenty-five-year-old single woman who gets to laugh and joke around with people who have become friends all the while doing what she loves.

  My therapist, once again, encouraged me to share my “secret” with someone close to me. I hate that she uses the word “secret.” I prefer private. I refused. After my anxiety attack a few nights ago, I called her for an unscheduled appointment and she helped me as she always does. Voicing her concern that the simple mention of singing triggered an attack was, is, bothersome. But, she also agreed that the alcohol and Jameson himself may have added to the level of anxiety I was harboring.

  I understood her concerns, specifically that I continuously insist on dealing with this on my own. My anxiety, my call. I did promise to be smart tonight and only participate if I’m one-hundred percent certain an attack isn’t lingering.

  Tonight, when I walked into Doris’s Tavern, I not only confirmed there was no lingering anxiety, I felt relaxed. I love that this is all mine. Sure, I’d love to share some of this with my friends and family, but the fact that they are what causes my anxiety makes this way my reality.

  “Hey, doll, are you done for the night?”

  “Hey, Mel. Yeah, I think so. I’ve had a lot going on the last few weeks. I’m exhausted.”

  “You sounded good tonight, but then again you always do.”

  “Mel, I’ve told you before, flirting will get you nowhere,” I tease. I love Mel. He is the owner slash bartender of Doris’s Tavern. This place has been my home away from home the last few years and Mel has become not only a friend but a confidant. He and his wife Shelly are gracious and loving people. I’m very lucky to have met them.

  “Eh, it usually gets me ‘The House that Built Me.’” I laugh because he’s right.

  Two years ago, after discovering I could, in fact, sing around strangers, I sought out a more local establishment to continue singing. About an hour from home, fate brought me here. The first night on this stage, I was a nervous wreck. After indulging in the best fish and chips I’d ever had, I simply watched and enjoyed the karaoke entertainment. The talent was amazing and it felt more like a night watching live music than karaoke. I sat in my seat at the bar watching, listening, and eventually singing along quietly to myself.

  Like tonight, Mel was bartending that night. We chatted off and on about nothing yet everything. When one of the gals started her rendition of “The House that Built Me” by Miranda Lambert, I couldn’t help but sing along. It’s my favorite song. Soon I found Mel seated next to me instead of behind the bar. He nudged me and motioned toward the stage. I shook my head adamantly; no. Mel didn’t push. He only looked at me, smiled, and nodded in response. It was a moment I’ve thanked him for profusely. I don’t think he realizes how much the fact that he didn’t press the issue meant to me.

  The next week, I found myself back at Doris’s Tavern, but instead of simply watching, I allowed myself to sing. In my seat. It took months for me to find the courage to take the stage. Now, at least one night a month I drive an hour from home, enjoy the best fish and chips in the area, chat with my friends, and sing.

  Yep, I sing. I will sit here, drink glass after glass of water, and pour my heart and soul into each of my favorite songs. Even a few that aren’t my favorite but people “insist” I sing.

  When I first started coming here, I harbored guilt. My family and friends have always encouraged me to sing and know how much joy music brings me. The problem is that with their encouragement comes this level of expectation for greatness. My therapist asked me once if anyone in my life had expressed an expectation for greatness. I was unable to say yes. She told me, very bluntly I might add, that it is quite possible I’ve put that expectation on myself, a way for me to hide behind something and not move forward with my life.

  There have been moments when my parents, my brother, and even Piper have told me how far my talent and love for music could take me. When I was younger, Ben would tease me and threaten to kidnap me in the middle of the night to drive hours to audition for various reality competition shows. That was the first time I had a full-blown panic attack. He never threatened again. But, the encouragement to pursue music never ended. That is, until about a year ago, when it all just stopped. Sure, from time to time Piper will say something and remind me that they love and support me regardless of what I do.

  My inability to sing in front of anyone started slowly but came to a head around the time all the singing reality shows hit the television. The encouragement and the push to do “something great” was too much. I would freeze and panic each time someone was in the room while I sang. Singing in public was immediately off the table.

  I always assumed I suffered from a classic case of stage fright and that was why just the idea of singing in public would bring my minimal anxiety to the forefront. Then, I found I could sing here at Doris’s Tavern. That confused the hell out of me, so I sought counseling. Eventually, I learned that not only did I not have stage fright, I was a little screwed up all over the place. Sure, I can laugh about it now but the reality is that Cheshire Cat had the right idea – we’re all a little mad here. Anxiety and all mental health issues are serious. But, for me, if I don’t laugh then I cry. I’m just sick and tired of crying.

  “So, one more song for your dear old friend, Mel?”

  I turn in my stool and tilt my head to look at Mel. Hands under his chin, fluttering his eyelashes at me in an effort to exude innocence, he only succeeds in looking absolutely ridiculous. All six foot six inches of him standing there trying to look cute.

  “The things I do for you, Melvin.” Sarcasm laces my response as I stand. Going through the routine of handing Kent, the DJ, my slip with song of choice, I laugh a little to myself. Everyone here mocks me when I do this at the end of the night. I finish out my evening with th
e same song every time so this is just part of my process.

  I’m standing off to the side of the stage when I see the door open. I’ve watched the door open all night, worried that Jameson would walk through it. That’s my anxiety talking. Ever since he sent me a text earlier demanding to know where I was, I’ve had this looming feeling he was going to track me down. I’d managed a few vague answers and was fine with that until I realized he was with my brother and genuinely concerned about me driving late at night. His concern made me smile. A little, and for just a few minutes. Because, as I had the thought that he was being a good friend, he returned to being a bossy asshole and I wanted to kick him in the nuts.

  Truthfully, I simply liked the idea of someone being concerned. Everyone in my life leaves me alone, assuming I’m so independent that I don’t need anyone to care for me. It’s less of a need and more of a want at this point in my life. I want a person, a man, in my life to care about me. Someone to worry about me driving late at night and to support me in what I choose to do. So, while I don’t necessarily want that person to be Jameson, I kind of liked the feeling.

  And then I sucked it up and got real with myself. I wouldn’t mind that someone actually being Jameson. Okay, not necessarily now, but if I could go back in time and just make a different decision, maybe it would be Jameson.

  I would like to have a different kind of relationship with him, an honest and real friendship. I’d like to admit to someone other than myself, and my therapist, that every man I’ve been with over the last four years have simply been an attempt to replace the feelings I harbor for Jameson Strauss. Mostly I’d like to not be such a damn girl when it comes to him. Yep, that’d be super.

  Once it’s my turn to sing, I make my way to the stage and turn my back to the audience as I always do. A countdown from ten and a deep breath is all I need before I’m ready to sing. Turning toward the handful of people left in the bar, I’m greeted to hoots and hollers, mostly from Mel.

  Ending my night with my favorite song and Mel’s personal request is the best part of my night. I let go of the stress I hold. The frustrations, and the sadness, leave my body and by the time I’ve finished the song, I’m not only centered but exhausted. As usual, the response to the song is overwhelming and I thank everyone before returning to my spot at the bar. Putting my jacket on and pulling my keys from my purse, I contemplate texting Jameson. Before I can second guess myself, I shoot him a quick text that I’m heading home.

  “That was amazing, as usual, Ashton.”

  “Thanks, friend. Well, I’m outta here. You be sweet to that wife of yours and kiss those babies for me, okay?”

  “I sure will. You drive safe and I’ll see you in a few weeks?”

  “Always.”

  Once I’ve settled in my car, I note the green light flashing on my phone to indicate a message. Swiping my screen, I note it’s a return text from Jameson. Thankfully, he’s not waiting up for me to conduct an interrogation of my whereabouts tonight because tomorrow his niece, Hope, will be over. That little nugget is one of my favorite people on this planet. She’s a little bit like I was as a kid – outspoken, uninhibited, and observant. Which should worry us all.

  I’ve spent time with Hope, of course, but usually with a group. Tomorrow I have a long list of adulting to do. Waxing, deep conditioning my hair, and laundry. All before I go to work. Having her in my space is going to be a little strange. I’m also sure I’m going to need to sleep on the couch when I get home because she’s always stayed in the room I’m using. This was evident when I found the Barbies and other toys in the closet when I moved in.

  While the drive home is often boring, tonight I’m slightly more exhausted than usual. Tapping the volume control a few times, I embrace the higher volume. As “Creepin’” pulses through the speakers, I’m immediately smacked with flashes of a night that continues to haunt me. Memories of that night have been flooding my dreams since moving into Jameson’s house. I should remove this song from my playlist but I don’t. I welcome the memory because while it hurts, it is also perfect in so many ways.

  I’ve been drinking. This should not be a surprise considering it’s my twenty-first birthday. But, I haven’t had as much as everyone thinks. As much as I was looking forward to this night, it ended up being quite anti-climactic. First, my brother cancelled his trip home at the last minute. Apparently, his girlfriend, Laurel, suddenly remembered she had booked them a trip that he couldn’t cancel. Then, the outfit I planned to wear made me look less than desirable for my first time at a bar. I recognize the latter makes me sound vain but come on, a girl only turns twenty-one once.

  My best friend, Piper, made sure all our friends were ready to hit the bar and tried her best to make me have a good time. Unfortunately, this bar is not only the best one in town but also my new place of employment. I just don’t feel right letting loose. Then you add in the fact that the guy I’ve been crushing on for as long as I can remember is filling in for my brother as not only my chauffeur but also my bodyguard. It’s slightly uncomfortable.

  “Come on, Ash. Let’s do another shot!” Landon shouts as he smacks me on the shoulder. Hard.

  “Dangit, Landon, that hurt,” I whine, rubbing my arm. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I should be the one suggesting that since it’s my birthday. I’m going to pass.”

  “Ugh, you are the worst birthday girl ever! Come on, Piper, let’s do this!” His attention now to turned to Piper, he grabs her hand and drags her away.

  I giggle as Piper rolls her eyes at Landon and shoots me a “you owe me” look. In front of me I have a beer and a water. I grab the water and take a long sip before my arm is nudged. Tingles are instantaneous.

  “What’s up with you? It’s your birthday party but you’re acting like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

  A loaded question coming from Jameson Strauss. Do I tell him that I’m disappointed my brother flaked on me and didn’t come home for my birthday? Or, about how I feel ridiculous because I realized in planning the guest list for tonight that I’m celebrating with my best friend, Piper, and my brother’s best friends? Oh, I know, how about that since Jameson and I shared a kiss a year ago, I’ve done nothing but plot and plan how I can get him to take it a step further. Yeah, I should tell him that.

  “Nah, I’m good. Just kind of not feeling it. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. Come on, let’s go do a shot. Just you and me.”

  I look at him for a long minute. Jameson Strauss haunts my dreams. I’m never certain if it’s his piercing sapphire-colored eyes, his blond hair that he keeps on the longer side, or the ridiculous muscles he has that sends my heart a flutter and my lower half on alert. Of course, when he started getting tattoos a few years ago, that pretty much did me in. From that moment on, I not only thought of him in my most private moments, but he often took over the few I’ve shared with others. Awful, sure. Regretful, nope.

  Last year on my birthday, when my dear brother bailed on me the first time, I was blessed with a kiss from this man. A kiss that satisfied me more than any time I’ve had sex. Since that night by the bonfire, we’ve hung out in groups but have never talked about what happened. Never talked about what it meant or where we go from here. I never told anyone that it happened. I’ve enjoyed keeping it to myself. It’s almost like a secret between the two of us.

  “Okay, one shot. But not one of those girly shots that Piper was trying to get me to drink.”

  A nod is his response as he slides off his barstool and motions for me to follow him. I do. I also enjoy the view from following. I know he’s trying to make up for Ben not being here and I appreciate it, but would it be wrong for me to ask him to stop trying to play the role of brother and instead play the role of sex machine? Because the best gift I could get from this man is one night. Just one.

  I’m a few steps behind Jameson as he approaches the bar and note Landon and Piper are just a few stools away. Neither sees us and it’s just as well; I want this moment with him.
I savor it. As I have that thought, a girl not much older than me worms her way next to Jameson. He smiles. My stomach drops. Of course, he smiles at her. She’s tall, blonde, fit, and beautiful. I’m not. I’m short, have brown hair, and feel like a pudgy teenager.

  Stopping, I contemplate my options – option one is simple, turn around and join Piper and Landon. Or, option two, return to our table. Option two seems like the responsible choice. I turn toward the direction we just came from when I hear my name. Turning toward the voice, I see that the blonde is gone and only Jameson stands by the bar with a shot glass extended my way.

  I step toward him and tilt my head in confusion.

  “Tequila. It’s kind of our thing.”

  Smiling, I take the glass from him and step next to the bar. I see a napkin with two limes and a shaker of salt next to them. I shake my head and look at Jameson. Eye contact is not good when we’re this close and alone. Calm down, ovaries.

  “I didn’t ask for the limes and salt, Taylor just brought them.”

  “I see. So, J, are we doing this or not?”

  “We are. But first, Ash, truth or dare?”

  Damn him. Truth or Dare. A simple game of Truth or Dare in front of a fire on my birthday last year led to an admission I’ve never shared with anyone else and a kiss. A kiss I shared with Jameson.

  “Hmmm … I think truth is the safer choice.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head before throwing back the shot.

  “What was your wish earlier with your cake?”

  “Now, now. You know I can’t tell you that. It’s a wish, silly. Wishes are sacred. Ask another,” I reply as I hold my shot up, signaling a toast and toss it back. The moment the tequila hits my stomach I can’t help but visibly shiver. Tequila is my preferred shot because it gets the point across, but it’s not the most tasteful option. Once I place the shot glass on the bar top, I notice that two new beers are sitting there as well. I grab the bottle closest to me before turning toward Jameson, waiting for his response.