by RB Hilliard
Singing along with the Avett Brothers, I headed for the front entrance. “Satan Pulls the Strings” was the name of the song. Satan sure as hell pulled my strings when he led me to Mandy James. If only I’d known. Willing myself not to go there, I pulled open the door and immediately spotted Quinn standing behind the bar. Our eyes met and her lips turned up. Even though I shouldn’t, I felt that smile. I felt it deep in a place that, surprisingly, hadn’t been tainted by Mandy’s betrayal.
“Hey, Rock Star,” she greeted in that smoky tone of hers that made me think of dirty things.
Ignoring the rock star comment, I dropped down onto a stool in front of her and asked, “What’s up, Country?”
Waving her hand in the air, she said, “Take a look around. As you can see, absolutely nothing.”
“You weren’t kidding when you said Sundays were quiet.”
“Yeah, I’m seriously considering closing the place and giving everyone Sundays off from here on out.”
“So, why don’t you?” Her answer was a shrug.
One thing I’d noticed about Quinn, was her lack of sharing. The woman was locked up tighter than a bull’s ass in fly season. Hell, a few weeks ago, I stopped by to ask if she was still interested in renting out a room and all it took was three drinks before I was spilling all kinds of shit about my life.
“You look sad, sugar,” she’d said in her sexy, southern drawl, and like a dumbass, I blurted that my marriage was over. We got to talking, or more like, I got to drinking which led me to talking, she asked about what had happened, and that was all it took.
“It all started last year, when I kind of lied to my wife and told her I was playing a gig in Austin, when, in fact, I was auditioning for Meltdown. And before you judge, I knew if I told her, she would try and talk me out of it.”
Her brow shot up in surprise. “Why? Your wife doesn’t like music?”
“My wife, though we shouldn’t really call her that, kind of likes music, but what she really likes is control.”
Quinn nodded in understanding. “Ahhh, one of those.” See? I knew she would get it.
I explained how our life together was steady. We both had decent jobs and I got to see my buddies and indulge my “little musical hobby,” as Mandy liked to call it, at nights after work or on the weekends. Everything was all good as long as I was toeing the line. Mandy’s line, that is.
“Wow, that sounds so...not fun,” Quinn muttered.
“It wasn’t, which was one of the main reasons I decided to audition.” I went on to explain how, in all the years we’d been together, Mandy had never understood my love of music. She more than enjoyed the attention it garnered, but the rest she could live without. “To be honest, I didn’t actually think I would land the job, so no harm, no foul. Mandy would never know and life would carry on.”
“Only, you got the gig.”
“Yep, not even a week after my audition, Grant called to offer me the job.” Just thinking about it made me smile. “When he explained that the band had chosen me, I thought he was joking, but then he started bombarding me with dates and times and shit, and I realized he was serious. He warned me that it was only for the tour, but I didn’t care if it was temporary or not. To me it was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance for me to prove myself, to make my wife and family finally understand that this was what I was supposed to be doing with my life. There was just one problem.”
“Your wife didn’t know,” Quinn finished for me.
Nodding, I said, “The moment the call was over, reality set in. Mandy had no clue as to what I’d done. I should have talked to her first, but I was so damn pumped and honored...beyond honored they’d chosen me. Finally, I was getting the break I’d been searching for. If it panned out, she would be able to quit her job.”
Sliding another beer my way, Quinn asked, “What does she do?”
“She sells pharmaceutical supplies to doctors in four different states.”
“I take it she was less than thrilled with the idea?”
“She was madder than hell.”
While Quinn made her rounds, I drank my beer and thought about my soon to be ex-wife.
After accusing me of betraying our marriage and abusing her trust, Mandy shut down. As in, she wouldn’t even hear me out. She didn’t care why I’d done it or that it was only temporary. She just wanted me to call Grant back and decline the offer. When I refused, she packed a bag and moved in with her parents. It took me a week to get her to speak to me. Needless to say, the conversation didn’t go well.
“Are you still going?” she asked.
“Babe, just listen—”
“Are you going?” she slowly repeated, her voice tinged with bitterness.
“Yes,” I finally answered. Her reply was to hang up on me. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. I didn’t want to lose my marriage, but I also didn’t want to give up my dream.
When Mandy finally realized she wasn’t going to talk me out of going and that her silent manipulation wasn’t getting her anywhere, she moved back home and immediately took up residence in the guest room. By refusing to acknowledge my presence and making me feel like a ghost in my own home, she only helped to strengthen my resolve. Finally, I gave up trying to appease her. She’d drawn the line in the sand. I was no longer interested in stepping over it.
I only told Quinn part of the story. What I didn’t say was that the night before I left to go on tour, my wife paid me a little visit. Like a thief in the night, she slipped into bed with me. I woke to her working me over with her hand. Once she had me where she wanted, she took without giving, and trust me when I say she was quick about it. We’re talking night shirt still on, three pumps and done kind of quick—so quick that I almost missed the finale. When she dismounted and scurried back to the guest room, I almost wished it hadn’t happened, because now, instead of being left with the few memories of how good our life had once been, I was left with the bitter taste of what it had become. In choosing music over our marriage, I’d irreparably damaged the bond that held us together. Did that stop me from going on tour? No, but it should have.
Quinn let out a snort. “Let me get this straight, your wife, who isn’t really your wife—whatever that means—wanted out of your marriage because you went on tour with a famous rock band? Wow, it must have been pretty tough to watch you make it to the top and all.” Her words and the way they so carelessly flew from her pretty little mouth, sounded...judgmental. Judgmental enough for me to want to change the subject.
“Awww, Country, if I’d known you were feeling neglected, I would’ve let you go first. Now, what has you singing the blues this evening? Did someone skip out on their tab?” And just like that, her smile vanished and her eyes dulled...Quinn had shut down. I watched her move up and down the bar, full of smiles and fake platitudes for the handful of customers, and wondered what a woman like her had to be unhappy about. I knew I shouldn’t care. I told myself I didn’t care, but I was definitely intrigued.
By the time she finally made it back to me, I was seven beers in and done. Handing her my card, I said, “If the offer still stands, I can move in next week.”
She stared at me for a long moment. “You’re kidding.”
“You said you needed help. Well, here I am.” That I needed out of that house and wasn’t quite ready to have my life splashed all over the tabloids, was irrelevant. Quinn needed a housemate and I needed a place to live. A place that was completely off the grid. That’s what mattered.
Without a word, she snatched the card from my hand and disappeared to the back.
“That went well,” I announced. The guy sitting on the barstool next to me gave me a strange look. I thought about saying more, but then Quinn was back with my card and her answer.
“Here’s my number. Call and let me know what day you want to move in.”
A week later I called, and now, here we were. I wouldn’t exactly call us friends, but that would come with time.
“
Are you all moved in?” she asked, handing me a beer. I watched as she pulled another from the cooler. She popped the top, lifted it to her lips, and took her first sip.
Ignoring the tightness in my lower gut, I asked, “Do you normally drink on the job?”
She smiled and that tightness increased. “When it’s dead like this, I do.”
“To answer your question,” because that was easier than acknowledging the unwelcome boner in my shorts, “I’m more or less moved in. I hope you don’t mind, but I kind of went exploring and noticed that the pool house is empty.”
“Yeah, my mother was kind enough to clean it out when she left.”
“That sucks, buuuuuut, since it’s empty and all, I was wondering if I could use it as a music room?” She hesitated for a moment and I knew she was going to say no. “If you let me use it now, I’ll buy new pool furniture when I leave,” I coaxed.
“Well, shit. How can I say no to that?” Grinning, she took another sip of her beer.
“You can’t,” I told her, and we both laughed. I raised my bottle in the air. “Here’s to new adventures.”
“To new adventures,” she repeated, and leaning over the bar, she tapped her bottle to mine. My eyes instantly dropped to her chest. Yes, I would be a liar if I said I wasn’t attracted to Quinn Kinley. I shouldn’t be...but I was.
CHAPTER TWO
“Cheeseburger in Paradise”
Quinn
I left Evan sipping on his beer while I cleaned up the tables. I couldn’t help but think about what my dad would say if he knew I had a man living with me. I’d spoken a few times to Mom since she’d moved but had yet to mention my housemate. I already knew what her reaction would be. She wouldn’t approve. Well, tough shit. She shouldn’t have left.
“Shit happens when you least expect it.” My daddy used to say this. I figured it was his way of explaining the unexplainable. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Truthfully, I wasn’t really sure of anything anymore. Before he died, I was happy...truly happy. I knew who I was and where I was going. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost myself. I was starting to think I’d never find my way back to the woman I was or if I even wanted to.
While Evan was busy talking to Alex-Ann, I slipped outside for my nightly cigarette.
Humming along to “Tennessee Whiskey,” I thought back to the day Dad told us he was sick. When he called a family meeting, I didn’t think much of it, as he was known to do this often.
“Doc found a spot on my left lung and wants to do a biopsy,” he announced in his oh-so casual way.
Mom and I just sat there staring at him, completely stunned by his news. Minutes passed before she broke the silence. While she hammered him with questions, I remained frozen to my chair. My father, the backbone of our family, my best friend and hero, was sick. How could this be?
As it turned out, the spot wasn’t just a spot, but a cancerous mass. Dad wasn’t just sick. He was dying. According to the doctors, the tumor had metastasized to his aorta, which in turn, had rendered it inoperable. The doctors called it “terminal.” Mom and I called it bullshit. After three months of us dragging him to every specialist known to man, Dad said no more. At the time, I didn’t understand. Why was he giving up? Unable to see past the fear of losing him, I got angry. That anger drove me to pull back, to withdraw from my family and my friends. This, of course, lasted all of a week. Then my father came looking for me.
“You’re upsetting your mother,” he drawled in that good-ole-boy tone of his. Mom’s not the one dying! I wanted to scream but didn’t dare. No one, not even me, was allowed to speak ill of my mother in front of him.
Glaring at him, I blurted, “Don’t you want to live?”
“Oh, Quinny. I want that more than anything in this world.”
“Then...why?” I asked, desperate to understand.
“You were there. You heard them. How many doctors did I talk to, four, five? Open your eyes, girl! Aside from a miracle, there’s nothing that can be done.” He stood there staring at me with heartache in his eyes, and suddenly it hit me. Whether I liked it or not, my dad was going to die. In a landslide of emotion, the anger that I’d been holding onto so tightly, crumbled into a gaping maw of pain.
“Daddy,” I whispered, trying my damndest to fight back the tears.
“I would give anything to—” he swallowed deeply before continuing, “stay here with you and your mom, but I can’t. I need you to understand this, sweet girl.” His lips quivered, but it was the sound of his voice cracking that was my undoing.
“Don’t die,” I pleaded, knowing how unfair it was to ask, yet saying it anyway. He didn’t need to answer. The painful silence spoke for him. When he opened his arms wide for me, a sob escaped. The second my head hit his chest, I broke. I was still broken...
“I wondered if you smoked.” I’d been so deep in thought that I hadn’t heard him sneak up on me. Hot rocker boy. My new roomie. My secret sexual fantasy.
“Busted. Just don’t tell my—” I started to say mother.
“Don’t tell your—?” he pressed.
“Nothing.” Rock Star hadn’t earned the right to my secrets.
“Come on, Country. I feel all exposed here. I’ve basically told you my life story. You’ve got to give me something.”
“You’ve told me like three things,” I pointed out.
“And now it’s your turn. Fair’s fair,” he urged. Leave it to the ass to appeal to my sense of fairness.
“Fine. Let’s see, my mom was thirty-five when she met my dad. At the time, she was running her own accounting business. According to her, Dad was a real entrepreneur. He was also forty and a bachelor, two things that were unheard of in that day and age. My father referred to it as dabbling, but Mom claims he had his hands in at least three different ventures. One of these required her services. He used to joke about how he went looking for an accountant and ended up with a wife. After the wedding,” I continued, “my parents didn’t waste time getting pregnant with me. They tried for more children, but Mom said it wasn’t in the cards. She called me God’s little gift.” The look on Evan’s face was priceless. I bit back a laugh. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting a history lesson.
“While I was hoping for something a little dirtier, learning about your family history will do. Keep going,” Evan inserted. Laughing, I flicked the butt of my cigarette at him.
“I didn’t realize how different I was from other kids until grade school when I was old enough to have sleepovers. I mean, I knew my house was big. I just didn’t realize how big. It only got worse. In junior high I was picked on. The mean girls took to calling me rich bitch and snob. I can remember crying in my mother’s arms, wondering why I couldn’t live in a normal house like everyone else. And before you say poor you for living in a big house when people are starving in the world, I didn’t get that then. I was just a kid trying to fit in the best I could.”
“No judgment here,” he commented.
“It was my father who taught me to be proud of my heritage. He told me how my great, great, great grandfather had traveled to Texas from far away. How he’d built his home with his own two hands so he and his wife could start a family. One of their three sons found a black, tar-like substance bubbling up from the ground and that was how he got his start in the oil business. When the family grew too big for the little house, they built the house we currently live in. ‘Be proud of who you are, Quinny,’ Dad would say. ‘Be grateful for what you have and try your hardest to always be humble and kind.’”
“I wouldn’t exactly call you kind. I mean, you did try to poison me and all,” he teased.
“You deserved it,” I told him. Just thinking back on that night made me smile.
“Either you slow your roll, Herb, or I’m gonna have to cut you off,” I warned.
“I’m not even buzzed yet,” Herb, our resident drunk, whined, even though we both knew he was already half-crocked.
“One more and he’s cut off,” I ordered low enough for my best fri
end and fellow bartender, Alex-Ann, to hear.
“Your old man would never have cut me off,” Herb grumbled into his beer.
“Yeah? Well, he’s gone. This is my bar now and these are my rules. It’s high time you get that through your sloshy skull.” The moment I said it, I regretted it. Not the words, but the harsh way in which I’d spoken them. Nights like these I really missed my dad.
Sensing that I was on the verge of ripping Herb a new asshole, Alex-Ann gave me a gentle shove. “Take five. I’ve got it handled.” With a quick nod of thanks, I headed for the kitchen.
“Give it to me,” I ordered as I passed by Sam, my cranky but trusted cook. He opened his mouth to lay into me, but then took one look at my face, and with a loud sigh, handed a cigarette over.
Hot, sticky air greeted me as I stepped onto the landing, making it hard to breathe. I loved Texas but could definitely do without the humidity. It did horrible things to my hair. Tonight, I didn’t even bother trying to tame it. I just piled it on top of my head with a clip. With a simple flick of my wrist, the match flared to life. I could feel my body start to relax before I’d even taken my first drag. After a year of trying to quit, I was down to one cigarette a day. Smoking wasn’t a physical addiction for me anymore. It wasn’t even a habit. It was purely psychological; something that reminded me of my dad. Just like the bar, cigarettes had been our thing. Too bad they were also what killed him. Slowly exhaling, I lowered myself down to the concrete slab, and with an ungraceful hop, I plopped down onto my butt. The beat of an old Hank Williams, Jr. song drifted through the cracks of the door. “Country State of Mind” was one of Dad’s favorites. With a contented sigh, I curled my legs beneath me and sang along. Not a day went by that I didn’t think about him. It was hard to believe he’d been gone a year.