Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3)

by Lauren Landish

  I see a new shirt at the far side of the bar and make my way over. “What can I get you?” I ask the guy’s back.

  He answers over his shoulder, watching Bobby onstage. “Johnnie Walker Black, neat.”

  I pour his drink and set it on a napkin. “Tab?”

  “No.” He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a twenty, and lays it down.

  I’m mentally calculating his change when he says, “Keep it.”

  “Thanks.” I drop the bill in my apron, ready to move on to my next customer, but he finally turns around. I recognize him instantly.

  “Jeremy? I mean, Mr. Marshall?”

  I only saw him the one time, when he was asking questions about Bobby, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the man who offered Bobby a shot at his dream before he snatched it away.

  “You must be The Willow?” There’s a sneer in the way he says my name that I don’t understand.

  “Well, I’m Willow. I don’t know about The Willow.” I have no idea what he’s talking about or why he’s looking at me like I’m some weird anomaly. It makes me feel the way I used to as an awkward kid. To him, I’m an outsider, easily dismissed.

  Jeremy laughs as though I said something funny, and I frown.

  “Well, Bobby would disagree with you there. He thinks you’re something really special.” It should be a compliment, but it certainly sounds like an insult.

  “What?” I blink in confusion. “We seem to be having two different conversations here.” An idea springs to life, fully formed in my mind, and excitement rushes through my entire body. “Oh, my God, did you change your mind? Are you here to offer Bobby a deal after all?”

  I lean forward, praying he says yes. Bobby will be so happy!

  I know I thought he might leave me if he made it big, but I can’t care about that anymore. I can’t be that selfish, not even this one time. After seeing his disappointment at not getting the deal, all I want is for him to get his dream.

  And I’ve felt his love, know the depth and intensity of it. We can make this work. I know we can. He can have the deal and I can have him. I’m sure of it. Any doubts I had left floated away as he sang those lyrics tonight, proclaiming loud and clear that he wanted that deal for us. Not just himself.

  Jeremy’s brows jump up his impossibly unlined forehead. “Offer a deal? Change my mind?” He’s silent for a moment, looking at me then over his shoulder to Bobby.

  “I hear hundreds of singers every year, you know? I hit every dive bar, club, and county fair concert in towns all over the country. I watch YouTube videos and shitty TikToks of people who can’t sing their ABCs with decent pitch. I have never seen anyone like that guy up there.” He tilts his head toward the stage.

  “Then why didn’t—”

  He cuts me off. “I didn’t tell him this, but I offered him a better deal than any artist who’s sat at my table, knowing he would be worth it in the long run. Told him we’d get a band to back him up, give him an image that’d let him have the sort of fun kids like him dream of. All he had to do was ditch the girl. You.”

  “Me?” I stammer, not understanding.

  Jeremy looks me up and down again. “I don’t get it. You don’t seem all that special. But shit, you have some magic hold on him, don’t you?”

  It’s starting to click together—Bobby’s grumpy mood, his passionate lovemaking, his telling me how much he loves me over and over. He was doing it to reassure himself that he’d made the right choice.

  They offered him a record deal, but he chose me over his dream. His dream!

  And he hid it from everyone, especially me.

  “You offered him a deal,” I summarize.

  “I damn near laid out a silver platter for him,” Jeremy bites out. “And he just walked away.” He waves a hand, obviously still in shock that anyone would do that.

  This is what Bobby has dreamed of since he was a kid. It’s what his family needs. It’s what he desperately wants. Before he went to Nashville, he told me how it seemed like something impossibly good might actually happen for him for once.

  Sure, he loves me . . . now. But what if he starts to resent me, hate that he gave this up for . . . me? Some nothing-special girl who showed up at a bar a couple of months ago. He can’t give up everything for me.

  Time shouldn’t matter. You can know someone your whole life and barely scratch the surface of who they are or meet someone and know them bone deep in a matter of seconds. I believe soulmates can be like that. But can we be soulmates if it means him losing everything he’s worked for his whole life? I’m just not worth that.

  I swallow the bile that’s trying to rise up as my heart shatters into a million pieces. I know what I have to do. It’ll kill me. It’ll hurt Bobby. But the sacrifice of my own happiness is worth his. When he said he didn’t get the deal, I thought I would do anything to change that. In this moment, I know that’s absolutely the truth. Anything.

  “Is that deal still on the table? Would you still sign him to NCR Records?”

  “Fuck yes. That’s why I came here tonight, to talk some sense into him.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t. Let me talk to him. Please.”

  Jeremy looks at me, sees the tears in the corners of my eyes, then back to Bobby, who’s singing his closing song.

  “Don’t fuck this up for him. He’s special—better and bigger than you and me and this whole podunk town.” He looks around the bar, and I can tell he doesn’t see the blood, sweat, and tears that go into keeping this place open. He doesn’t see the history inside these walls or feel the love they hold. He certainly doesn’t understand this town or how the people here are welcoming and supportive, even their gossip mostly coming from a place of love because they care about one another.

  But he sees what Bobby could be, and that’s all I need him to recognize.

  With that, he swallows the Johnnie Walker in one gulp, gives me a hard glare, and strides straight for the door.

  My eyes are drawn to the stage, to Bobby. He’s listening to someone in the audience intently. He nods, smiling, and begins one more song. An encore request.

  He sings Dig Down Deeper once more.

  It hits differently this time, seeming like a prediction.

  I’ll dig down deep, Bobby, so you can get yours.

  Chapter 22

  Bobby

  “Did Ilene make you dinner?” Something’s wrong with Willow, and food is always a good guess with any woman. I learned that from Mom and Shayanne early on.

  She hums in answer, though it’s a complete non-answer. She’s here physically, but her mind is somewhere else, her eyes unseeing and her smile nonexistent.

  “Hey,” I say, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her body to mine, aligning us so that I can get her full attention. “What’s wrong?”

  She ducks her chin, avoiding my eyes. Oh, we’re not playing this game again, sweetheart. I chased you once, and if I have to chase you again to find out what’s going on in that pretty little brain of yours, I will.

  Tell me all your secret thoughts, I’ll protect them from harm. Let me into your private moments, I’ll share the solitude with you.

  I lift her chin with one hand, whispering, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did someone do something? Need me to crack a skull for you?” I’m joking—well, sort of. If someone did something to scare or piss off my girl, I will handle it and deal with any consequences that might come. But I was watching all night, barely able to take my eyes off her across the room, too far away for me to touch with my fingertips but hoping my words would reach her heart. But I didn’t see anything amiss, so I expect to get one of her soft smiles in return for the joke.

  One doesn’t come.

  She blinks behind her frames, only looking at me for a brief second as if the sight of me pains her.

  “Wait . . . did someone say something about me?” Considering my reputation and the lengths some people go to get a piece of me, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was banging on the gr
apevine a bit. “If so, it’s lies. Whatever it is. I love you, only you.”

  Her nod is of agreement but not resolution. She brushes her bangs back and sighs, “Can we go home? I’m fine, just tired.”

  Rule number one of women—when in doubt, feed them. Rule number two—‘I’m fine’ means they are most definitely, one hundred percent, not fine. But I don’t argue. If she doesn’t want to tell me what it is so I can fix it, I can at least comfort her through it so she knows I have her back.

  I pull her to my chest, holding her head against my heart, which is racing too fast with the need to punch something, someone, whoever made my girl sad. Since I can’t do that, I grip her waist a little tighter and lay soft kisses to the top of her head.

  “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay. I got you.”

  The slightest jerk of her muscles is all the warning I get before she pulls away. I can see words on the tip of her tongue, dancing in those mood-ring eyes that are wilder than a thunderstorm right now. Whatever she’s thinking, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to hear it. Not now, not ever. Because I can see that this is not about a handsy tourist. Something’s wrong. And I like our little bubble of blissful happiness where all I need is her kiss, her touch, her heart, and everything is okay.

  “Yeah, let’s go. We can be at your place in five, in a bubble bath in ten.” I take her hand in mine, pulling her toward the door. I throw Hank a nod of goodbye. In the truck, Willow lays her head back on the headrest, looking at the starry sky through the passenger window. “Can we . . . go to your place instead?” She rolls her head my way. Though the question seems easy, the plea is in her eyes.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  The ride through town is quiet, and the silence once we hit the country roads makes me want to scream. The deafening emptiness fills my gut with dread. Whatever it is, I don’t want her to say it. This dark void is better than whatever it is. I’m sure of it.

  Inside, we tiptoe upstairs so we don’t disturb Brody and Rix. I can hear my brother’s soft snores from the top of the stairs, and he’ll be up in a few hours to start the new day’s work.

  I pull off my shirt, dropping it to the bedroom floor. I unbutton my pants, but before I toe my boots off, I realize that Willow is frozen. She hasn’t moved from the doorway, and if she could make herself smaller, I think she would.

  I sink to the edge of the bed, running my hands through my hair, gripping the strands hard in punishment. For what? I have no idea. With a breath for strength, I rest my elbows on my knees and look up at her.

  “Tell me, Willow.”

  She flinches at my harsh tone, but I’m too on edge to be gentle with her right now. I feel like she’s walking on eggshells for me, but I’m not capable of that the way she is. I’m more of a boot-stomping, destroy shit type.

  “You can’t do this.” It’s a cried plea, but I still don’t know what she’s talking about.

  I narrow my eyes, worried. “Do what, exactly?”

  She twists her hands, and I want to hold them in mine, stop her nervous fidgeting. Stop her mouth from whatever poison it’s filled with because even the smallest dose already burns with destructive force, ruining me.

  “You were amazing tonight. When I see you on that stage, you light up with this . . . joy. I can feel, the whole audience can feel, you letting us into your soul through the lyrics you write, the notes you sing, the chords you play. It’s beautiful. And after, it’s like your mind is peaceful, resting from the release. Almost like . . . sex.”

  “Thank you?”

  As difficult as words are for me, I can understand exactly what she’s saying. I feel that transformation with every performance—the progress from my skin feeling too tight to feeling at home inside myself. Like the show is a purging of all my emotions and a cleansing that allows the sunshine to wash through me.

  But as sweet as the words are, they don’t sound like the lead-up to anything good.

  “You need to go back to Nashville. Talk to Jeremy Marshall, talk to other agents, and play bars there. Whatever it takes. You need to chase that dream and not let anything hold you back. Not your family, not your responsibilities, not . . . me.”

  My jaw falls open. “What are you talking about?”

  “You can do it. Bobby, you deserve that deal. If anyone deserves their dream coming true, it’s you.”

  I have a moment of panic. She knows. How could she know? The only person I told is Mama Louise, and I know she wouldn’t have spilled. That woman’s mouth is a steel trap.

  “I didn’t get the contract. I told you that,” I growl, mad that she’s making me lie to her again. The lie is bitter, stinging my tongue, singeing my soul. I wish I’d never told it, but I couldn’t figure out another way to explain it to my family and Willow.

  Pain flashes in her eyes and tears instantly flow down her cheeks.

  Anger, hot and bright, washes through me. I’m mad at myself, furious at Jeremy for his stupid conditions, and hurt that Willow is digging into the wound I’m trying to let scab over.

  My voice is too loud, but I can’t hold it down. “Are you disappointed in me? Ashamed that I didn’t get the contract and am just a farmer who sings a little?” I’m used to arguing with my brothers, with Shayanne, who will rear right back up at me. Willow does not.

  Even smaller, she shakes her head. “No.” Her voice weak and shaky. “Of course not. You’re—”

  Reason fights its way through my blood roaring in my head when I see her reaction. She doesn’t need to be handled with kid gloves and is tougher than she thinks she is, but not now. Not like this.

  Be easy with her, Bobby. For fuck’s sake, be a little gentle.

  I stand up, stepping toward her to take her arms in my hands. She needs to hear this and hear it loud and clear. Bending down so that I’m eye to eye with her, I spit out, “I love you. I want you. I want to be here, with you.”

  I hope it’s enough. It’s all I have, all I can offer—my heart.

  “I’m leaving,” she whispers.

  “What?” I shout.

  She licks her lips, eyes tortured. “I’m going home, back to the city.”

  “You can’t! What the fuck, Willow? Why?” Louder and louder, barked demands for answers pour forth. “Did Hank do something? Did he tell you to leave?”

  I push back from her, needing to see her, read her mind. Something, anything that will tell me what the fuck is going on.

  “Son of a bitch!” I scream. The pain of losing her is already rushing through my blood, superheating it to a boil. The fear of life without her is dark and heavy, its thick tentacles pulling me under. I instinctively resort to what I know, how I’ve always handled emotions that feel too big for my body to handle. I spin, throwing a punch at the wall. The sheetrock shatters beneath my fist.

  “Ahh!” Willow screams.

  I’m on the verge of an apology. I didn’t mean to scare her. I’m just frustrated and terrified and confused.

  But the door blasts open, hitting the wall behind the frame.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” Brody bellows, Rix right behind him in the hallway.

  “We’re fine,” I tell Brody. “Get out. This is between me and Willow.”

  “The hell it is. Not when she looks terrified and there’s a hole in the wall the size of your fist. What’s going on?”

  He’s stepping between Willow and me like he’s protecting her from me.

  From me!

  I would never hurt her. She’s the one ripping my heart out of my body with her bare hands.

  I move toward her, eyes glaring at Brody then softening when they meet Willow’s. I can’t help it. Even when she’s killing me, I love her.

  “Why? Why are you doing this? Willow, I love you.” I have no shame, will beg on my knees for her if that’s what it takes.

  If I can hold her in my arms, kiss her soft lips once more, she’ll understand and stay. I don’t know what else to say, but I can convince her if I can just touch her
. She’ll feel how right we are. She’ll feel that bone-deep connection we had from the instant I laid eyes on her.

  “Willow.” I reach for her, and Brody lays a hand on my chest, stopping me.

  “Bobby,” he growls in warning.

  “Get off me,” I yell at him. Like so many times before, one second, we’re standing there as brothers, and the next, we’re fighting.

  Brody pushes me off him, but I come back madder. This hurts, everything hurts, and I need to make someone else feel this to get it out of my veins. It’s the only way.

  I punch Brody in the gut, and he grunts. His arm goes around my neck, not choking me but trying to control me. I spin in his grip, getting free. He’s ready, though, having taught me that move himself. Before I can even stand upright, his fist lands in my gut in a return shot.

  Willow screams in horror. “No! Don’t fight! I’m . . . I’m leaving.”

  I whirl on her, forgetting Brody in an instant. “No! Stay. Please.”

  Her tears break me, the shake of her head guts me, but the single step back she takes when I move closer is my undoing. “Bobby,” she whispers.

  “Willow?”

  Over her shoulder, she asks Rix, “Can you take me home?”

  “No, I’ll do it. We can talk this out. Please.”

  Rix shoots me a glare, but it melts. If she were capable of tears, I think she’d be crying now too. Fuck knows, I am. “I’ll take you, Willow. I’ve got her, Bobby.”

  Willow follows Rix down the stairs woodenly. It’s not until I hear the roar of Rix’s car that it hits me. Willow’s leaving. She’s actually doing it.

  I run for the stairs, busting through the front door to stop her. I don’t know how, but I’ll come up with something. There has to be some way to make her stay.

  But all I see are the red glow of taillights as Rix turns onto the street.

  “No!” I shout into the night.

  Brody is right at my side, just in time to catch me before I sink to the dirt in the front yard. “What the fuck just happened? Bobby?”