by Shana Gray
Ava shuddered for real and regaled Bonni and Celia with how many death-defying collisions had narrowly been avoided while Fredi snooped through their bags. Ava broke off her story when Fredi squealed in delight and hauled out a big bottle of Jack Daniels.
“I love you guys. You never forget. Smart of you to do a booze run. Saves us having to go out right away.” She hugged the Jack with a sublime smile on her face. “But, you know, we will be going to the distillery sometime over the weekend. I have so decreed. You really didn’t have bring any with you.”
Ava watched Fredi take the bottle over to the bar and twist the cap off. “Shots, everyone.”
“Of Jack Daniels?” Ava asked, surprised. “I know I can drink most of you under the table, but straight shots of Jack are…” Ava shivered. “It just burns so bad.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Fredi said as she lined up some tumblers she had found behind the bar. “Don’t we always start off our weekends with a bit of booze?” She pursed her lips as she measured out the shots.
“Okay, ladies, get over here. We have to get ready, don’t we? Line dancing tonight!” Fredi barked out the orders and everyone was quick to oblige.
“Pre-drinks!” Celia skipped over to the bar and picked up her glass.
Bonni had hers in her hand and Ava took her glass.
The women raised their glasses, clinked them together and, amidst a variety of grimaces, groans and shivers, downed their shots of Jack Daniels.
“Brrr, that’s harsh,” Ava said, shaking her head, her tongue hanging out, sucking in some air.
“What’s the matter, honey? Is your tongue on fire?” Fredi asked.
“Uh-huh.” But Ava slapped the cup down and indicated with a finger that she wanted some more. May as well start the night out with a bang, she thought. Tonight was the launch of their long weekend together. She was going to have fuuuun.
“Atta girl.” Fredi had a big smile on her face as she gave Ava another generous dollop of Jack. “Glasses forward, ladies,” she instructed Bonni and Celia.
Ava picked up hers and watched the others push theirs forward for a refill before they clinked their glasses again.
“Now, what is this about cowboy boots?” Celia asked.
“Oh yeah, Ava totally bought some cowboy boots today,” Fredi said, putting the cap back on the Jack and sticking it in the freezer behind the bar. “Can you believe she didn’t bring cowboy boots to Nashville?”
Celia looked at Ava with an expression of wonder. “How could you not bring any boots to Nashville?”
Ava wasn’t going to let her friends’ teasing bother her and tossed it right back at them. “I haven’t had any for years and, honestly, it never even crossed my mind. But I definitely needed a pair for this weekend.” She lifted a shoulder and gave them a saucy smile. “Just be glad I didn’t bring my old tap shoes.”
Fredi groaned. “Now that would be a sight, you tapping away to ‘Boot Scootin’ Boogie,’ or up on your toes doing pirouettes to ‘Friends in Low Places.’”
Ava looked at Fredi and furrowed her brows. “I would have killed it.”
“I didn’t bring any cowboy boots.” All heads pivoted to Bonni.
“What? You did not bring cowboy boots?” Fredi was astonished.
“Nah, these are my favorites and super-comfy. I can cut a rug in them to beat the band or run down a suspect.” She stuck her foot out and Ava glanced down at Bonni’s black, low-heeled boots.
“Guys, come look at the ones I just bought.” Ava rushed over to the couch and hoisted the bag. She pulled the boots out and held them up, turning them so the light would catch the sparkles.
The women oohed and aahed.
“They’re gorg!” Celia said, taking one and running her fingers over the leather. “You will be the pride of the line-dancing dance floor tonight. Can you believe we’re in Nashville? I’m so glad I learned to line dance years ago, because going to the Wildhorse Saloon is amazing. It’s like the Bluebird Café! Famous.”
Ava carefully tucked her boots back into their bag, giving them a final pat. Now she just had to find a dress to go with them. She was excited about going dancing tonight; it had been way too long since she’d danced. And tonight was line dancing! She hadn’t line danced since high school, yet she wasn’t worried. She may be a city mouse now, but it was time to let her country shine!
Chapter Four
Chase looked at the photo on his phone, which he’d balanced on the steering wheel. Ava Trent. Somehow, he was supposed to find this woman and hand off two of the complimentary tickets he had been given by his label.
He gazed at her image in between checking the lane ahead of him that would take him from his ranch house out to the highway and into Nashville. All he had to worry about was the deer that might leap from his forest on either side and into his path.
She wasn’t his type at all. This Ava wore a business suit that was black and stiff and the hair scraped back from her face seemed to stretch her skin. It was hard to tell the color—auburn?—but he’d never really gone for chicks with that shade. Not that he was going to go for her, but still. Yet there was something in her eyes. Even as a two-dimensional image, he could see a mystery in them, and that had him very slightly intrigued. She wasn’t plain, but she wasn’t gorgeous. Just average.
He pinched the photo wider so he could see better. The smile was strained on her face, not natural, and for a moment he had the urge to want to see her real smile. To hear her laugh. But then, what do you expect for a business-executive profile photo? She was probably some stuck-up, entitled, spoiled city chick who was everything he disliked. She had the look. He’d seen it often and had been around enough high-society debutantes to last him a lifetime. His family reputation had put him in demand as a marshal—an escort for debutantes. Gone were the days of marrying debs off, but it was still a very serious business and he knew he’d been bait.
His parents hadn’t been too happy with him when he pushed back. He’d had enough of the debs, and the last straw was a debutante with drugs stashed in her bouquet at the ball. Now that was a disaster he wasn’t willing to repeat. Give him an earthy country girl any day.
Chase realized that, while the woman in the photo caught his interest in a weird way—only slightly, mind you—he was close to deciding he already didn’t like her. Talk about jumping to a rash conclusion. He shook his head and tossed his phone into the tray in front of the wide console between the two front seats of his truck.
He’d do the hand-off and then be on his way. But why the hell they were doing it at the Wildhorse Corral was beyond him. His chances of finding her in there were near to impossible since it would be packed tonight. With CMA Fest this weekend, anybody who was anybody, and then some, would likely be there.
He groaned, thinking that he should probably be there, too. Since he was somebody. At least, that’s what his agent and producer told him.
“You need to be seen in these places, Chase.”
“Enchant your fans!”
“Charm the ladies.”
“You’re hot right now, but if you want to be Luke Bryan big, you need to make them love you.”
He touched the antique pocket watch he had hanging from his rear-view, the chain carefully wound around the mirror. He smiled, running his thumb over the beautifully carved surface. This watch was over two hundred years old and had been passed down through his family first born to first born, each one taking care of it to ensure its safety for the next generation. His mother hated that he had it hanging in his truck. “Anyone could steal it, and your daddy would roll over in his grave,” she harped. But his truck was his escape. Where he could be alone, with his thoughts, his songs, his music.
He reached the end of the long lane and paused, checking both ways before pulling out on to the dirt backroad that hid the entrance to his ranch. He was hugely into privacy. Coming from old wealth, in an even older family that had roots traced back to the Mayflower and royal blood from England—which
his family chose to ignore, since the American Revolution—he’d learned to keep things off the radar.
He was rather an enigma in the Hudson family, wanting his solitude and his privacy yet singing for the public, the thousands of fans that filled the arenas for his shows. The family wealth had been carefully cultivated through the years, just as this watch had been.
Chase turned on the radio and was greeted by his latest single, “You Drive Me Crazy.” He laughed; it still felt awkward hearing his voice on the radio. But he had to admit it was a good song. It was one you had to read between the lines of to get the true meaning.
People asked him all the time if he’d written it for a woman and, if so, which woman? The reality was, it was about a dream, a woman he wanted to be with one day. He’d had his fair share of puppy-love broken hearts but it wasn’t until he was older that he discovered just how difficult it was to find the right woman. One that wasn’t all about who he was, his family and wealth or his rising fame. And being famous brought a whole new dynamic, and it was hard to know who to trust. When he’d been starting out he’d been young and stupid.
Only once had he gotten a little closer to someone; she’d been from the city and, in the beginning, had been fun to be around. But when she tried to move him out of the country and got prickly when he refused to conform to what she wanted him to be, he began to see who she really was. And the demands she’d started to make had been ludicrous. She’d thrown it in his face one too many times that he had more than enough money to give her anything she wanted and leaked some unsavory lies about him on Twitter and Instagram. He’d had enough, so he’d split in the middle of her rampage and headed for the hills. The fallout of her saying he was an alcoholic had been hard to live down and it brewed up other falsities that, thankfully, had all blown over, with help from his publicist and his label. But it had taught him a valuable lesson. Keep life private and be careful who you allow in it.
He had sworn off women until the right one walked into his life. If she ever did. Now, he used alcohol to medicate the void in his heart.
Whiskey was all he let warm him up these days.
Thirty minutes later Chase was leaning against the bar of the Wildhorse Corral. His cowboy hat was pulled low, shadowing his face, and one booted foot was propped on the brass rail. His shot of whiskey sat untouched, the glass between his fingers, and he perused it. Should he, or shouldn’t he? He probably shouldn’t, since he was trying to cut back. He was starting to show the lines of a rough road and he was certain he could handle it. But hitting it big at thirty-three had been rather unexpected. Now, two years later and climbing higher, he was determined to stick to his own style of writing songs and performing them. He’d been told that’s what made him stand out from the rest.
It wasn’t like he’d done it intentionally, blending the old classics with the trends of the past twenty years. He just did what his heart told him to do. He smiled and pushed the shot glass around with his forefinger, as the latest Keith Urban blasted loud and true and he thought of what his mom had told him more times than naught. “I have no idea where you came from, must be the milkman’s son.”
Now that would be a scandal the Hudson empire would do everything to keep quiet. Especially since he was the last male heir to carry on the family name.
Chase dipped his finger in the whiskey and debated whether to lick the taste off. Maybe that’s all he needed, but instead scrunched a napkin around his fingertips.
No, he wasn’t an alcoholic
He’d seen enough alcoholics in his years to know the difference. But he also recognized that he was well on his way if he didn’t make a change. He picked up the glass, leaned over the bar and put it back down on the other side. No booze tonight.
“Chase, Chase!” a familiar feminine voice yelled behind him. He smiled and turned around.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Daisy.” He looked at his friend as she bounced over. They’d grown up together, fast friends who got in all kinds of trouble in their youth. He knew she wanted more in their relationship. But to him, she was just a friend that he would treasure for the rest of his life. It couldn’t be more. They tried it once when they were in their early twenties and, for him, it hadn’t panned out. She’d been heartbroken but had come around and they hadn’t talked about it since.
She was pretty, with curves in all the right places and a bust line that would pop out the solidest of buttons. She could have any man she wanted but, for some damn reason, whenever they were in the same place she started out her night by flirting with him. Even though he’d made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t interested in reliving their greatest hits.
She slid on to the barstool next to him.
“Are you flying under the radar tonight?” Daisy leaned over and grabbed the glass he’d just put on the other side of the bar. Sitting back, she held it up and looked at him. “Do you mind?”
“No, go to town,” he said, settling his butt back on the stool, hooking the heel of his boot on the lower rung. She shot the whiskey neatly, expertly, and dropped the glass back down on the bar.
“Now then, I asked you a question. Are you flying under the radar tonight?”
He nodded and gazed out, scanning the faces of the crowd on this level of the bar. “Yep, I gotta find somebody and hand off some shit.”
“You’re lucky no one has spotted you yet. You know, when they do, you’ll be swarmed,” she said, winding her bright red hair up into a bun and tying it.
Daisy was the typical volatile redhead. He wasn’t sure there was a bar on Broadway she hadn’t been tossed out of at one time or another, not to mention the childhood tantrums he’d witnessed while they were growing up. Thanks to Daisy, he avoided redheaded women like the plague. Give him a curvy blonde or a cute brunette any day.
“Yeah, I suppose that comes with the territory.” Chase turned and looked at the masses of dancers.
She nodded and reached for his hand. “Come on. They’re playing my favorite song, and I need a dance partner.”
Chase grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t want to dance. That’s one way to get spotted.”
“We’ll just go to the back somewhere, find a line where nobody else can see you.” Daisy pulled at him, her stubborn streak making itself known.
“Can’t you find somebody else to dance with? I gotta look for this woman.” He glanced around at the sea of people and just about groaned.
She shook her head, her pale blue eyes spearing him and her eyebrows furrowing into a line. He knew the look well. If he didn’t do what she wanted, she would make his life absolutely miserable until he did. Another reason Chase avoided the reds.
He sighed and stepped off the stool. “All right, then, come on.”
Daisy did a quick jump up and down, clapping her hands, and then he followed her on to the dark dance floor, illuminated only by strobing lights. The music was loud and sank into him. He let the thumping beat, guitar, drums, even that big old double bass, throb in his blood.
As she promised, Daisy set them up in a back corner with everyone lined up in front of them. It was a sea of cowboy hats, western shirts, jean-covered asses and, right in front of him, a woman with the most sparkly boots he’d ever seen. She was stumbling all over herself, trying to keep up with the music, and he smiled. This must be her first time line dancing.
Chase put his hands on his hips and swung into the steps like he’d been born to do it. Which he supposed he had. But he couldn’t drag his gaze away from the woman in front of him.
He watched her ass swing in the saucy dress she had on. The skirt, ending mid-thigh, swished as she moved. Her long legs disappeared into the boots. For the first time in a long time, he felt himself grow aroused.
The next steps had them turning around, and he hesitated, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sparkle Boots as she twirled around, but Daisy yanked hard.
“Hey, what the—” he grumbled at her.
“Concentrate, Chase. Come on.” Daisy gave him a fier
ce glare.
But it was like he could feel the woman behind him and, once facing back in the other direction, he couldn’t pull his gaze away from her. He was amused at how badly she danced. She was with a bunch of friends and they were all laughing. Even her. It was obvious her friends knew what they were doing and were helping her learn the steps. He couldn’t help giving a low chuckle as she nearly tripped over herself again.
He had to give her credit, though: she was trying. The song ended and he was about to make an escape back to the bar.
“Oh no, you don’t, mister.” Daisy grabbed his hand and held him in place. “We’ve got a few more sets to do.”
Chase gave her an exaggerated groan. “Seriously? You said one dance.”
“I lied.” She batted her eyelashes as she squeezed his hand. “Oh, ‘Friends in Low Places.’” Don’t you just love Garth? And, if I didn’t know better, I’d say this was your song.” Daisy poked him playfully in the chest with her pointy nail.
“Oww, watch those claws.” Chase took her fingertips, lifted her hand high and twirled her around. “Plus, I could easily take offense to you comparing me to the song. I’ve had my share of high-society girls and they’re not my cup of tea. Give me a girl who can strip down a tractor or go fishing and not squirm taking her catch off the hook.”
“Music to my ears, my man,” Daisy told him.
The next dance step called for a reverse and shuffle backwards. He was moving without having to think about it. His mind sorta wandered and, the next thing he knew, he smacked into somebody. It was like a freight train had hit him. Chase heard a clatter and feminine squeals from behind, then some raised voices. He spun around but hadn’t let go of Daisy’s hand quickly enough so he basically flung her on to the pile of women on the floor in front of him.
Had he mowed them all down? Good Lord. Chase leapt forward to try and help.
“What the hell, Chase!” Daisy reached up and grabbed his hand. He hauled her off the pile. “What was that? You know how to dance.” She stared up at him, hands on her hips.