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

by Andrea Johnston

  My eyes feel like the Sandman has taken up residence in each of them. Something is tapping my leg and I swear to all that is holy if it’s Piper here to drag my ass to the gym I will drop her. I will pick her up and toss her to the ground. No lie. I will find the strength of ten men if I must.

  Opening each eye slowly, I focus on the person sitting on my bed.

  Not Piper.

  “Hey, Sunshine.”

  “Ugh, what the fuck, Jameson? Privacy. It’s a thing.”

  Groaning, I turn on my side, my back to the annoying man who is now pushing my leg instead of tapping it. If he’s going to push on me, the least he could do is massage while he does that.

  Willing him away, I close my eyes. My efforts are for naught because he doesn’t stop. My greeting to his unwelcome nudging is a less-than-friendly glare over my shoulder.

  “What do you want?”

  “Get up, you’re coming with me.”

  “Jesus, Jameson. I just went to bed. I’m fucking tired. Leave me alone.”

  “Nope. It’s after noon. You need to get up or you’ll never sleep tonight. Up and at ‘em.”

  I take a second to do the math and realize I’ve been asleep close to twelve hours. I’m also once again grateful they cancelled their card early. I probably would have slept through their shouting but it was a nice gesture regardless. Sighing dramatically, I pull the covers over my face. “I’m sorry I’m a horrible person. Can we call it a truce? You can just leave and let me sleep. Easy peasy.”

  “Shut up, you are not a horrible person. Well, not all the time. And a truce sounds great. Now, come on. We need to go. Up!” Tugging my hands so I’m in a sitting position, Jameson continues to tug at me, trying to pull me out of my bed. Allowing him a final tug that forces me out from my covers and onto my knees, I’m grateful I slept with pants on last night.

  He should be grateful.

  “I’m not going anywhere except to the bathroom and maybe the kitchen for a snack. This is the first day I’ve had off in weeks. I want to be a slug.”

  “I know, which is why you need to come with me. Get up. Oh, and it’s supposed to be warm today. Dress accordingly but bring a sweatshirt.”

  With that set of orders, he leaves my room, closing the door behind him. Joke’s on him, I’m not going anywhere. Flopping back down in my bed and pulling the covers up, I turn to my side, back to the door. Just as I close my eyes, I feel the door open and hear a throat clear.

  “Don’t make me get a cup of cold water. Come on, you’re wasting time. I’m ready to go.”

  Realizing I have no choice if I want any kind of peace, I begrudgingly pull back my covers and stomp to the bathroom. Contemplating whether there’s time for me to shower or not, I decide I don’t really care because I want a shower. Plus, considering I would rather be sleeping, I need the shower.

  Turning the water to hot, I strip out of my clothes before holding my hand under the water. Once the stream is warm enough, I step in the shower, closing the curtain. I’m about to lather my loofah when I hear a knock at the door.

  “Do not tell me you are showering. Come on, Ash, let’s go!”

  Ignoring Jameson and his demands, I finish my shower. Wrapping myself in a large towel, I make it to my room without Jameson accosting me in the hallway, taking my time in choosing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I allow myself a few more minutes to re-braid my hair before grabbing a pair of flip flops from the closet. I’m almost out of my room when I remember Jameson said to bring a sweatshirt. Why I need a sweatshirt when he purposely told me it was supposed to be warm today is beyond me.

  It’s too quiet in the house. He’s not here. I swear if he got me out of bed and then left me here, I will hurt him. Peering out the front window, I see him lifting a cooler into the back of his truck. He’s planned something. I am so not in the mood.

  Holding my sweatshirt over my arms in front of me, I stand at the end of the walkway, hip cocked and foot tapping.

  “Finally, you ready to go?”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Does it matter? It’s a beautiful day and I have things to do. You can keep me company.”

  “Is there food in this plan of yours?”

  “I’ve got you covered. Come on.”

  “Fine, but I would like it noted, I’m going in protest.”

  “Noted.”

  When he opens the door for me, I step forward to climb into the cab at the same time he turns to put his hands on my hips. I smack them away and toss my sweatshirt into the cab before climbing inside.

  Once I’m settled, I realize I don’t have a bottle of water or anything. Just as I’m about to open the door to go get something from the house, the driver’s side door opens and a bottle of water rolls toward me on the seat.

  “Thanks.” The annoyance is evident as I take the water bottle from where it landed next to me.

  “Ready?”

  “I’d prefer it if I knew why you were abducting me and where you’re planning to bury my body.”

  Instead of responding, Jameson simply chuckles and starts the truck and backs out of the driveway. As he drives down the street, I wait. I wait for a response or some sort of conversation. I get neither. Instead, he reaches over and turns up the music, tapping his fingers in tempo as he smirks and drives. It’s then that I realize I really have no idea where he’s taking me and if his response is any indication, I won’t know until we reach our destination. Accepting my fate, I rest my head on the window and close my eyes. A nap sounds great.

  After several minutes ticks by, I’m startled awake by an unstable truck on a gravel road. I grab on to the “oh shit” handle and let out a high-pitched squeal. Looking from Jameson to the road, I let out another series of random noises.

  “What the hell?”

  “I forgot they were working on the road. Sorry. It’s just for about a mile or so.”

  “You’re taking me to the lake?”

  The lake is a couple of hours outside of town and by far my favorite place. We’ve been coming to various parts of this lake my entire life. My parents used to rent a little cabin on the other side from where Jameson purchased land. Our group spends a lot of time out here on his property during the summer. Camping, swimming, and shenanigans are aplenty when we’re out here. So are fireside confessions.

  And, kisses.

  “I’m going to the lake and you’re coming with me. I need to do some work on the cabin and I know how much you like it out here. So, I figured it’d be a good chance for us to hang out. Work on this friends thing.”

  Snorting in response, I can’t help but be amused by his use of the word “friends.” Ignoring me, he continues to drive in silence as I take in the beauty of the lake. As far as the eye can see is a large body of water surrounded by nature’s beauty. Green trees with only the slightest indication of rooftops blanket the shores. Today, the lake is still. Barely a ripple appearing as we make our way around to Jameson’s property. Green and rustic, this is truly my happy place.

  Once the road evens out and the ride is smoother, I roll down my window a little to let in the fresh air. As much as I hate to admit it, he was right bringing me here. I love it. Pulling up to his cabin, he puts the truck in park before turning to me.

  “I packed some food and drinks in the cooler. You spend about as much time here as I do so, ya know, make yourself at home or whatever. I’ve got work to do. I’ll catch you later.”

  I do spend a lot of time here and, in many ways, consider this place a home away from home.

  “I grabbed your book from the living room,” he says, motioning toward the back of the truck. “There’s a bag in the back with a few things. You should be good to go for a bit.”

  Not waiting for a response or a thank you, Jameson opens his door and exits the truck. I feel the tailgate open and the truck shift as he removes the cooler from the back. Realizing I have an entire afternoon at my favorite place in this world, a feeling tugs at me. Gestures like this re
mind me of why I had a crush on Jameson when I was younger. He’s a good guy. And that is exactly why I must keep my distance.

  Sighing, I open my door and hop down from the truck. Why does he have to be nice? Thoughtful? Why can’t he just be a manwhore that blew me off and left me high and dry one night?

  Insufferable jerk.

  Which one of us is the jerk is still up for debate.

  I think it is actually me. Shit.

  After devouring a sandwich and an apple, I settle down into one of the Adirondack chairs near the water with my book. Enthralled and completely unaware of what is happening around me, I don’t realize Jameson is sitting in the chair next to me until I’m less than one hundred pages from the end of my book. I feel him more than hear him. Minutes tick by. I flip page after page and he stays silent, never speaking a word.

  Finishing the last page of the book, I close it and set it down next to me on the bag I found it in. Turning my head to my left, I take in Jameson’s profile. He looks like a picture. Like one of those guys on Instagram that people share over and over. The guys who are unattainable.

  Turning his gaze from the water to me, he says nothing. No words are spoken, but I feel like so much is said. We’ve had a few of these unspoken communications lately. Not uncomfortable and not awkward, just moments. Each time, I feel calm and understood.

  My appreciation for him allowing me to be should be addressed. I should tell him that him just sitting next to me, not speaking, not questioning, and not filling the comfortable silence with unnecessary chatter is what I needed. That ability is rare and he has it.

  “Thank you for bringing me here. And,” I pause before continuing, “thank you for letting me be and not talking my ear off.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You were right, too. Being here was a great way to relax.”

  “Do you think you’re about done with the name calling?”

  Name calling? What’s he … oh, manwhore.

  “Not sure. You about done being a manwhore?”

  A grunt is my response before Jameson stands and walks away. I should leave well enough alone. I should let him walk away and enjoy these last few minutes before the sun sets. I don’t. Standing to chase after him and ask why he cares, I see him returning with my sweatshirt in one hand and a lantern in the other.

  “Here, it’s getting chilly,” he says, tossing my sweatshirt. I don’t put my hands up to catch it and the damn thing hits me in the face. He laughs, I roll my eyes. Balance. Whatever moment we had before has passed and that makes me more comfortable. Pulling my sweatshirt on, I settle back down in my chair, mimicking him.

  “Why do you call me that? It’s degrading.”

  “What? Manwhore? Umm, well, if the shoe fits and all that.”

  “Don’t you think that’s some sort of slut shaming?”

  “Really?” Disbelief laces my response as I curl into my side, looking at Jameson. He hasn’t moved; he’s still facing forward looking at the water.

  “Yeah, really.” Frustration and impatience are obvious as he turns to face me. “Look, I don’t know why you insist on labeling me. I’m a single guy and I go out. I meet someone I want to spend time with and I do. There’s nothing wrong with it and you calling me names is getting a little old.”

  “You’re right. I think,” searching for the right words, I pause. “Honestly, I don’t have an excuse other than I’m a bitch. I apologize and, scout’s honor, I’ll make a conscious effort to stop.”

  “You’re not a bitch.” Recognizing the lie that statement is, I snort-laugh. “Okay, you aren’t always a bitch. We used to be friends, Ash. I’m tired of never knowing which version of us I’m going to get. I liked being there for you when you found out about Ben and Piper. It made me feel like we were headed back to friends, but that was a short-lived fifteen minutes.”

  Oh yes, Thanksgiving. The day my brother and my best friend declared their love to one another. Also, the day that I sat in a room with six other people and I was the lone person ignorantly unaware of their secret relationship. Humility, a short-lived feeling of betrayal, confusion, and a plethora of other emotions ran through me. Jameson was there for me.

  Wrapping me in his arms, against my will I might add, he comforted me, assuring me it was okay to be upset and reminding me that two amazing people were happy together. Two people who I love. I will never forget the fleeting moment I had when I realized there was no other person who could reassure me like that. I also threw another brick on that wall around my heart.

  “I thanked you that day and I’m thanking you now. I appreciate you bringing me here. It’s just what I needed. You seem to have a knack for that lately.”

  “What? Knowing what you need?” he asks and I shrug. “I’ve known you most of my life, Ashton. I know you about as well as you know me. So, did the guy get the girl in that book?”

  “My book?” He nods. “It’s a murder mystery. The main character is a police detective and it turned out his partner did it. Weird twist at the end. I loved it.”

  “Huh, you don’t read romance novels? I figured all chicks read those books with dudes and their abs on the covers.”

  “Oh, sure I read those. I have an entire library of abs.” Sarcasm, welcome to the conversation. “I read all genres, but Piper is your romance girl. She believes in that happily ever after crap. My poor brother.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Me? Nah. It’s great for some people, but I just don’t think it’s in the cards for me. I’ve accepted that I’m simply destined to be alone. I’ll just be the super fun and awesome aunt when Ben and Piper have kids.”

  “Come on, you have to believe in romance. Everyone does. Tell me, what do you think is the most romantic thing a guy could do? I bet even your cynical ass has a fantasy of true love and all that.”

  I think for a minute. I do, of course. I want to meet the guy. I long for a relationship of friendship and romance. I wish for a man who can make me laugh, challenge me, and support me without a second thought. A man I can curl up to and feel safe. A man who will make me the best version of me.

  “See, you’re thinking of it now. Tell me.”

  “Fine. I just want someone to love me for me. I’m not dumb, I know I’m not the most lovable person.” I pause for effect, but don’t expect a response.

  “You shouldn’t say things like that. You aren’t that awful.”

  “Shut up! I’m being serious. I think if I found someone, I don’t know, someone who accepts me as I am, that’d be enough.”

  “Enough? Why would you settle?” I shrug. How do you answer that? Is it settling? Not really, it’s reality. “Come on, give me your list.”

  “My list? Of what?”

  “Julia had a list of the ideal man when we were younger. I’m sure you had one, too. Tell me.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.” My embarrassment is hidden behind the dramatic indignation. Jameson doesn’t answer, which says nothing and everything. “You are so annoying. How about the list that eighteen-year-old me had? Will that work?” A confirming nod encourages me to continue.

  “I’m going on the record that this is ridiculous. First, it had to be a guy. I mean, yay for lady love, but that’s not my thing. He had to be at least six feet tall, muscular but not like creepy weightlifter muscular, have all of his teeth…”

  Jameson laughs at the teeth reference and I join him. “As I was saying, all his teeth, have a plan – I couldn’t imagine being with someone that didn’t have a plan. Not like a specific plan, but the desire to do something, ya know? Anyway, he had to have a job because I was not going to sit around my parents’ house watching cable and sneaking kisses while they were in the other room, and he had to have a truck. Oh, and basically be Kellan Lutz.”

  “Except that dude, all of that seems reasonable. Especially the truck, that’s pretty much a given around here.”

  “Yeah well, no offense, but it couldn’t be a truck screaming ‘over compensation.’ I ne
eded to be able to climb in the bed.”

  “That’s an interesting requirement. Why?”

  This conversation is quickly turning to a direction I’m unprepared for. Banter and casual is where we are in this attempt at friendship or whatever we’re calling it. I’m not about to get into it with Jameson, but I almost can’t help myself. Standing up to walk away, I pause long enough to turn my gaze toward him and smile.

  “Because, nothing is better than laying on the tailgate of a truck looking at the stars while the crickets sing and the frogs call each other. That’s how you win the girl.”

  Jameson doesn’t respond and I continue walking toward the cabin. My last statement repeats itself over and over in my head – That’s how you win the girl. Simple at face value and sadly, for me, it may be that easy.

  Once I’ve cleaned up a little and shut down the loop of my own words going through my head, I exit the bathroom and glance at the clock on the microwave. We’ve been here the entire day and well past dinner time. No wonder I’m exhausted and starving.

  I hate that my default response with Jameson is a cross between flirtation and snarkiness. I’ve created my type of response and it makes me uncomfortable, but I also find comfort in the familiarity of it.

  Then, there’s the fear and worry that my comments and responses will undo the steps we’ve taken to repair our friendship. Specifically, the overcompensation comment. I mean, I backed it up with how to get the girl so he can’t be too pissed. Not that Jameson is interested in getting the girl, or this girl specifically, but whatever. This is either becoming very complicated or I’m overthinking everything.

  Turning off the light and stepping out the front door, I glance over to see Jameson loading the cooler onto the bed of the truck. Walking toward the truck, the gravel crunches under my feet, causing Jameson to momentarily turn his attention to me.

  “It’s getting late; we should get going.”