by Lila Felix
I avoided concerts, solos at church, singing and dancing on television, and all music award shows—even signing on late night shows crawled up my last nerve.
But I would get to see Tate again.
A beer or fourteen would help me be able to tolerate the singing.
I could always sit in a chair with my back to the stage.
Shit.
Deciding that Tate was more interesting than avoiding my pet peeve, I changed into a pair of jeans and a V-necked, teal t-shirt that Cami had bought for me. The girl was quite a shopper. She still couldn’t cook for shit, but she could buy dinner like nobody’s business.
I slipped into my best pair of snakeskin cowboy boots hoping the cowboy vibe would draw away any notion she had about getting me to sing on stage.
Captain’s was a bar that all the students knew about. I’d heard tons of people talk about it now and again, but a regular bar was just fine for me. I walked the couple of blocks to the place simmering with all things I hated. The front sign boasted a Captain Morgan type character with a much creepier moustache and looked more like one of the three musketeers with a zoot suit obsession than pirate. People my age filed in and out as I stood there, giving myself one last chance to step away from the disaster inside.
A high-pitched squeal mixed with laughter caught my attention across the road and instantly my decision was made as my eyes caught up with the sound. It was Tate. There was no missing that untamed mass of hair, catching everyone’s attention like a mass of unorderly flames. She was with another girl, a little taller than her sporting long brown hair. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I missed that laugh of hers. If her hair didn’t already have the world on their toes, then her laugh alone would do it for sure.
There was nothing like it.
I couldn’t help my eye roaming to the rest of her. The skirt was another one that would easily warrant a slew of sermons on everything from humility to modesty to the sins of the eyes. My eyes were committing a laundry list of sins at that very second. I chuckled as my gaze found her shoes, expecting to find those high shoes that make the guys take bets on how fast she’s going to bust her ass wide open.
Instead, she wore purple cowboy boots.
Apparently that little detail wasn’t going to save me from anything.
Damn, she looked hot in a pair of boots.
I raised my phone and took several pictures of her. It was stalkerish, sure. But it would also make excellent blackmail material later. Preacher would just about shit his pants if he saw his prissy little granddaughter wearing a skirt fit for street business—and we weren’t talking about selling corn dogs either. If a good wind caught her, the Lord himself would shy away from that sight.
Preacher wife would fall out with an aneurism.
One time she sent Cami home, after she was married to Stockton, for showing too much leg in church.
Tate was showing enough leg for three women.
I didn’t mind one damned bit.
They waited for the traffic to slow, several cars honking as they passed, and then crossed together, holding hands and giggling the entire way. I found myself smiling again in her presence, something I wasn’t used to.
I hadn’t regularly smiled since my mom was around.
Everyone thought the death of our parents was hardest on Stockton because he took the brunt of the responsibility after they died. He took in Willa, took over my parents’ work, the whole bit without one word of complaint. And he’d done a fine job, no one would argue that for a second. Not even me.
And poor Willa, she was just a girl starting out when she lost them.
But I missed them just as much.
I think Stockton missed my father the most. I could’ve been very wrong about that, but he spent the most time with him. Dad taught Stockton everything he knew—even his little trips to town to help everyone out. He thought no one knew and I let him have it that way. All of us were close. I’d kill anyone who tried to mess with Stockton, West or Will. But it was a known fact that Willa and Stock were like mashed potatoes and gravy and West and I were the same. West made me angry enough to strangle him sometimes, but I’d pummel anyone who messed with him at the same time—the pecker head.
That was the kind of comment my mom would’ve popped me on the back of the head with a rolling pin for.
I missed my mom. I missed her every day. It struck me at odd times like that one, watching the girls cross the street with an anxiety-ridden pull in my stomach and not just about the singing or the crowded place. Tate scared me.
Maybe my mourning hit me when things happened in my life that I would usually call her up and tell her about.
I would’ve definitely called her and told her about Tate.
My mom knew about Jesse. She knew the whole thing. I made her swear not to tell anyone, even Dad. I didn’t want Jesse uncomfortable coming around the house to see Willa or anyone.
And though she deserved every bit of it, I didn’t want her reputation ruined—or smeared all over town.
Jesse did a good enough job of that all by herself.
My mom took my secret to the grave. When it happened a second time, Stockton and Cami were already involved and I couldn’t talk to Willa—it was her best friend. So I talked to West.
Shit, I was such a mama’s boy.
“You must be Bridge,” the brunette, suddenly in front of me, extended her hand. I’d been in my thoughts way too long.
“I am Bridger. And you are?” I extended the pronunciation of the R like a toaster in the middle of an electrical mishap.
See? Bridger, it’s just an R. You can do it. All of you.
“Well Bridger, I’m Carter. And we know you know Tate. She’s been telling us all kinds of stories about you two having fun at the crick.”
She tried very hard to say creek like crick. It was a pitiful hillbilly accent if I’d ever heard one.
I wondered what kinds of stories Tate had been telling her.
Tate responded with a fierce blush that extended all the way down into her black top and probably far beyond that. At least that was a plus. I could still make her blush.
“Why don’t we go in where it’s very loud and not a good place for storytelling,” Tate offered in a blatant attempt to take the attention away from herself.
“After you,” I waved them inside.
God, I really don’t want to go in here.
I did the gentlemanly thing and paid the entrance fee for the three of us to get in. Carter stood aside like she expected the gesture while Tate loudly protested.
“I can pay for myself. This is not a date.”
“No one said it was a date, Ms. Self-Reliance. But I’m a Southern boy and my mama didn’t raise a scoundrel.”
“A scoundrel! This boy is priceless,” Carter cackled. “Tate, when you go home, find me one of these boys, pretty, pretty please. I need a piece of Southern ass. I wonder if he’d ask permission before he—never mind.”
She stopped her sentence as my eyes and Tate’s widened in sync at her friend’s—openness.
“You’re going back home?” I inquired as the character behind the window stamped our hands indicating we were old enough to drink.
Tate threw Carter a look that would kill small bunnies. Apparently, Carter got the drift and began to backtrack.
“Oh, um, Bridge.” Sweet baby Jesus, I’m never going to outlive that name. “Can you get us a table while I score some drinks? You’re a vodka rocks man, yeah?”
“That’ll do,” I said, stupefied at why Tate wouldn’t want me to know that she was going home. What was that girl hiding?
I watched her and Carter at the bar. Her hips, rounded and curved, swayed back and forth causing that sexy little skirt to do the same. Carter whispered something in her ear and Tate threw her head back laughing so loud that even the singer on stage paused to listen. I loved that she had no care about who saw her and whose attention she caught.
The guy next to her inched c
loser, I could see his game from across the room. He had the gall to rear back and take a real long gander at her ass.
Have some couth, man. She’s not bacon hung up for inspection.
I gripped the tiny circle table in front of me. This wasn’t happening. Tate was just a childhood crush—a fantasy never to be realized. I’d sworn off women for good. I couldn’t go through another Jesse.
Before I knew it, I found myself behind Tate, slipping between Google Eyes and her, making it clear that it wasn’t okay—what he was doing wasn’t okay with me—or Tate.
She was a friend, an old friend. And I was saving her from a creeper. That was it. Nothing less and certainly nothing more.
“Darlin,’ you ever gonna bring me that drink?”
Chapter Six
Tate
Bridger’s deep southern lilt didn’t just float down my spine; it latched on with velvet and silk and caressed it, inch by so-slow inch. The shiver that rocked me to my core hit me in the same way; a sultry tingle that began at my nape and rolled over me until my toes curled and my breathing hitched.
Where had that come from?
Just hours ago, I had to blackmail him in order to get him here and now he was working on getting me to spontaneously orgasm in the middle of the stickiest, filthiest bar in Nashville.
Good lord.
I picked up his requested libation and turned equally as slowly around so that our bodies were nearly pressed chest-to-chest. God, I could feel the heat of his body wrap around me and the pure masculine strength that he pulsed with.
For the record, this was not me. I did not swoon over boys, especially boys like Bridger Wright. I wanted my men to love fun as much as I did and to smile more than they could sulk. I wanted a man that embraced life and hunted down adventure. I wanted the life of the party and the optimist in every situation.
Because, the Lord knew, I needed optimism in my life.
I did not want Bridger’s constant frowns and gloomy forecast of thunderstorms. He was blotting out my perfect view of the sun and I didn’t like that I felt a sudden urge to buy rain boots and turn my face to the wind.
I didn’t like any of that.
That’s exactly why I lifted his short tumbler of straight vodka and took a generous sip. That’s exactly why I held his burning green eyes the entire time. And that’s exactly why I let my hip bump into his when Carter “accidentally” brushed by me.
I couldn’t help it. I could admit that on occasion, I turned into a shameless flirt. But the night was young; hell, I was young. My twenties were made from nights like this and Bridger had the opportune advantage of being a childhood point of immature obsession.
Why not make him suffer just a little bit?
Just as soon as these butterflies quieted down.
When my hip touched his, it met his fingers instead of the perfectly shaped bone that would be corded with muscle beneath his worn jeans. They immediately flexed inside his pocket and his eyes popped with the electrifying sensation. The touch had been simple, short and so very innocent.
So then, why did my skin feel as if he’d lit me on fire and the flames had sucked all the oxygen from the room?
“I have it right here,” I finally answered him.
With stilted movements, he pulled that same hand from his pocket and took the water-beaded glass from my hand. Our fingers brushed, but I had a feeling the touch had been purely accidental. Bridger’s attention focused directly on my face, but instead of the interested expression that had heated my belly and touched me in a very physical way, he now looked at me like he was a detective and I was a homicidal murderer caught with a knife plunged deeply in my latest victim.
So… not in a good way.
Grumpy Bridger had joined us this evening.
Time for a distraction.
I leaned in so that he could hear me over the raucous of the bar and the terrible bellowing from the karaoke machine. I took up my whisky and lemonade from the bartender and held it out to him. He took it, looking down at my deceptively girly drink with mild disgust.
I smiled. I couldn’t help it.
I didn’t want to find his bad attitude so compelling, but there was something about that little-boy pout that reminded me of the little-girl crush I’d once had on him.
“Better get that table now so you can enjoy the show!” I shouted over the music.
“What show?” His thick brows dipped over those electric eyes and the corners of his lips turned down.
I winked at him and blindly grabbed at Carter’s hand behind me. I yanked her with me as she tripped in her four-inch heels and sloshed her drink on some unsuspecting patrons. Not missing a beat, she righted herself and dropped her drink off on an empty table as I hurried her toward the stage.
“I thought we weren’t singing tonight!” she hollered at me.
I tossed a smirk over my shoulder and shouted back, “I’m feeling inspired!”
“God, I love it when you get all spunky and spontaneous!”
We giggled and linked elbows. Walking straight up to the pair of guys standing near the stage pretending like they could care less they were next in line. I decided to use their too-cool-for-school attitude to my advantage. The girl on stage started the last chords of her upbeat pop song and the DJ pulled out two mics to pass off on the ballers with their gold chains and exposed boxers.
Bleh, did guys really think girls still went for the slobbish-gangster look?
Not this girl.
Give me a boy in well-worn jeans and a snugly fit t-shirt every day of the week. Add in some super-sexy cowboy boots and tussled, bed-head hair and I was a goner.
Oh, shit. I’d just described Bridger!
What was wrong with me?!?
Focus, Tate.
“Hey, guys,” Carter started with the guys holding the mics. They looked a little green with stage fright. That was the thing about most people and karaoke. Everyone that thought they held any degree of talent wanted to go on stage and show it to the world, but only in theory. In reality, standing in front of a room full of people, baring your soul and singing your guts out was the worst kind of torture known to man. That was a fact. A tried and true fact.
Don’t argue with me.
It was at this point, just mere feet from the stage, with the hot lights melting your face and the mic a live explosive in your hands, that people started to form serious second-thoughts.
Luckily, neither Carter nor I were bound by silly things like insecurity or fear.
At least with a little liquid courage and each other to hold onto, anyway.
“Hey,” they answered her in unison.
“So, see our friend over there?” I asked. “He has to leave in a few minutes and we promised to serenade him for his birthday. Do you care if we cut in line and take your song? We know it’s a rude thing to ask but-”
The mics were shoved into our hands. “Take it,” one of them demanded.
And then they disappeared into the crowd without a backward glance.
“Well, that was easier than I thought.”
“You’re going to hell for all those lies. You know that, right?” Carter laughed.
I shook my head and let my ridiculous curls fly. “Mmm-mmm, no way. Jesus’ favorite people were sinners. It was all those religious guys he couldn’t stand.” I grinned at her and waited for her next smart-ass remark.
Before she could come up with something snarky, the stage cleared and our turn was up. I looked at the monitor that revealed our song and burst into laughter. Carter joined me when she saw the title of our song.
Oh, gosh, no wonder these guys had chickened out.
I grinned at my partner in crime and then turned my attention to Bridger as he sat alone at a small table in the middle of the room. His arms were crossed against his chest and his drink had been drained. He looked obnoxiously uncomfortable. Part of me loved that he got so easily unsettled- especially if I was the one doing the unsettling. But the other part of me hated tha
t he seemed so itchy in his own skin.
There was something seriously going on with this boy and I decided karaoke was just step numero uno in my new crusade to save Bridger Wright from himself.
Maybe I needed a little cloud cover in my life to save me from skin cancer- or, er, all the cancers. And maybe Bridger needed some sunshine in his world.
“All right, stop,” I rapped as the familiar music popped to life in the speakers all around me. “Collaborate and listen. Ice is back with my brand new invention…”
Thankfully, as Carter and I rapped our little hearts out to Ice, Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice, the music drowned out our own voices. Sure, the room would be able to hear them no problem with the amplifiers and mics, but our own ears were blissfully lost in the soundtrack.
Carter and I laughed throughout the song but hit most of the lyrics. I couldn’t sing any better than a stray dog howling at the moon, but my rapping skills were surprisingly skilled.
Plus, Carter and I loved to dance, so there was plenty of that on stage. By the time I shouted out, “Word to your mother!” the entire place was on their feet shouting and clapping for us.
I threw my head back and laughed at their easy praise. Talented we were not, but our entertainment value could not be beat.
We passed our mics off to the DJ and jumped off stage. Two guys headed straight for us as soon as our feet touched the ground. They were both attractive and easily eye-catching with their pretty boy looks and clean cut style. By the familiarity they eyed Carter with, I had no doubt this was Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. So I ducked under one of their arms and darted off for Bridger.
I would be courteous later, but right now I had to see Bridger’s reaction to my impromptu rapping. I’d lost sight of him when everyone stood up, plus I’d been a little wrapped up in the music.
When I finally pushed through to the table I’d spotted him at earlier, he sat there with his arms still crossed and his legs stretched out. A bored expression twisted his lips downward and even though I knew he could see my red curls and vibrantly cherry-red mini skirt, not to mention my favorite pair of purple cowboy boots, out of the corner of his eye, he refused to turn to look at me.