Whiskey Girl Read online

  I’d hated both of them from the minute I’d sat down.

  But I was a stupid kid with a broken heart and an aimless shuffle in my feet.

  “Over a million views on YouTube, you’ve really accomplished something.” His eyes’d sliced up and down my haggard body. I hadn’t had a shower in a few days, singing dive bars all night for tips and then drinking my earnings away till dawn.

  It’d only been luck that Augusta Belle had created the YouTube channel, after I’d dragged my feet for months, and uploaded a few of my songs. There were some with her singing backup off-screen, the warmth of her encouragement surrounding me as I strummed and sang my heart out in my bedroom.

  And then she’d vanished.

  Left me in the dust. For what, I still wasn’t sure. Coulda been dead in another river for all I knew.

  Augusta Belle had been gone a week when I uploaded the last song.

  The song that flayed my heart open.

  The song I still couldn’t sing onstage without something heavy clawing at my throat.

  Never would have guessed her coming back could be any more painful than her leavin’, but so it was.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me that the channel she’d made for me was the very thing that launched the name Fallon Gentry into headlines.

  I was so fucking innocent, using my real name, but I don’t think either one of us thought that humble little channel would get any attention.

  But that was all in the past. I’d called my sister the day I crossed the Nashville city limits all those years ago, given her the password and insisted she shut down the account.

  The videos still floated around. I had no control over them, but I did have some sort of control of my public persona. It didn’t take long before the writing was on the wall for me. I didn’t want a damn thing to do with anything in the public eye.

  Making my music my business had been the gravest mistake of my life. Suddenly the business overshadowed all else, and I’d lost the very thing that’d brought me there in the first place.

  Her.

  It’d been a few years and a few thousand miles since then, and I was sure I’d seen the darkest corner of every country-rock bar south of the Mason-Dixon. Singing on a lonely stage, locals in every city all the same—tolerate the music, stay for the booze.

  My life was simple.

  Well, it had been.

  Until Augusta Belle.

  How this woman had the ability to throw me way the fuck off-kilter whenever I was in her orbit still amazed and annoyed me.

  I pushed a rough hand over my face, multiple months’ worth of unkempt beard making me laugh out loud.

  Augusta Belle hadn’t seen me with a beard, don’t even think I’d been able to grow one back then, but here I was looking all lumberjacked.

  The first time we’d met, I’d been scrawny, legs not bigger than twigs and biceps a fraction of the size I had now. I’d grown big, scary, a little wild-looking, all on account of keepin’ the TMZ bitches off my back. Sellin’ a picture wasn’t much good when the subject was about unrecognizable and flippin’ the bird.

  They hadn’t bothered me once since I’d left Nashville. Thank fuck.

  That was the last thing I needed to deal with right now.

  Augusta Belle was back, for better or worse. The woman I’d written a #1 hit about was in possession of the keys to my truck, and maybe still my heart.

  I kicked back on the bench, damp wood cradling my broken body as more memories of us washed over me like a tidal wave.

  The first time I met her, she was fixin’ to throw herself off a bridge. How could I have thought that life after meeting Augusta Belle Branson would be anything but extraordinary ever again?

  THREE

  Fallon—Twelve Years Before

  “Mind if I ask what you’re doing up here, lookin’ all sad?” I stepped closer, knowing damn well the look of desperation in her eye.

  Couldn’t say I hadn’t felt like that a few times myself.

  “Admirin’ the view.” The sweet twang in her words made me smile. “Which I’d like to do in peace, if you don’t mind.”

  I stifled a laugh with the back of my hand.

  Her eyes averted back to the slow-movin’ water below. “Wonder how many people have jumped into that river.”

  “None that have made it, I’d venture to guess.” I moved forward, hopin’ to get in arm’s reach of her in case she took a mind to throw herself over the side. “My pa used to tell me a story when I was a kid ’bout someone gettin’ thrown off this bridge. I always thought he just said it to scare us.” I inched nearer. “Pretty far down, and then the impact alone. Not a good way to go if you ask me.”

  Call it instinct, but I felt something in this girl was sad beyond words.

  On the outside, she was sweet, a cascade of blond hair and eyes that twinkled with mischief. But behind that mischief, I recognized a tired soul.

  A girl who’d seen too much in her short years on this planet.

  “Not if you know how to dive. I’d be fine. But—” she sent me a side eye “—if I tried, you’d probably try something heroic like savin’ me.”

  I arched an eyebrow, trying to think a step ahead of her. “Hafta.”

  I was finally close enough to catch her by the arm if she tried to pull a fast one.

  “Can I ask a question?” I leaned close, forcing her gaze on mine.

  “As long as it’s not Why would a pretty girl like you want to kill herself?” She took a few steps to gain some distance, eyes on the rushing current again.

  “Well, pardon me if that’s the only thing on my mind. So?”

  “So? You can be more creative than that.” She was moving closer to the center of the bridge now.

  “Fine. Doesn’t the finality of it scare you?”

  “What?” Warm walnut eyes hovered on mine.

  “Y’know, killin’ yourself. It’s so final. What if you just woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Happens to me all the time. I don’t think about killin’ myself, though. If anything, I just stay in bed and play guitar all day, take a time-out.”

  “So…” She crossed her arms, tilting her head to one side, “You’re questioning my decision-making?”

  I nodded. “You’re about the saddest lookin’ girl I’ve ever seen, so absolutely.”

  She furrowed her forehead, locking her fists on the rusted railings of the old bridge. “Well, my mind’s made up. I appreciate your efforts at—”

  “Saving your life?” I interjected.

  “Right. That.” The tip of one flip-flop hung out on the lowest rung now. “But there’s a lot you’re not privy to, and I’d really appreciate it if you could just carry on with your day and leave me to mine.” Both feet on the lowest rung now. Shit, she was really going to do it.

  “I’m Fallon.” I jumped across the space that separated us and thrust out my hand.

  She arched one quizzical eyebrow before nodding. “Augusta Belle Branson, nice to meet you.”

  She smiled once, and in the next blink, she disappeared.

  “Fuck,” I grumbled under my breath. “Know your name. Have to save you now.”

  I kicked off my heavy boots, knowin’ they’d weigh me down, then gripped the railing and hurled myself over after her.

  The trip to the muddy water below wasn’t as far as I’d made it out to be, and I was in the slow-moving current within seconds. I bobbed out of the water, hands moving to feel for any human body under the murky depths around me.

  “Augusta!” I called, swimming a few strokes to the cement pilings that held the bridge above the river. Shit, maybe she’d hit her head or broken a leg when she’d fallen against a boulder hidden by the current.

  I pushed the water out of my face, squinting against the bright rays of summer sunshine that tried to blind me. Nothing about this day was going to end well, and I’d already woken up with a splitting headache after the hell Dad had put all of us through last night.

 
; The memory of words like useless and no-good not exactly the thing I wanted to be thinkin’ about in my last moments.

  “Augusta Belle Branson, if I find you, and there’s a breath left in your body—”

  “Are you threatening the victim now?” That honeyed twang warmed my insides.

  I spun in the water, seeing her crawl up the bank, cotton clinging to her skinny legs.

  Jesus, soakin’ wet and she couldn’t have been more than an even hundred pounds. And she was younger than I’d thought. What kind of shit had driven her here?

  I swam to the shoreline, grabbing one of the limestone edges and heaving myself onto the warm stone. “Mind if I ask what the fuck that was about?”

  A wry grin curved her lips as she avoided my eyes.

  “Good to scare yourself a little every day, I think.”

  My gaze locked on hers, that haunted, sad cloud still hovering just beyond the sarcasm. “Scared doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  I shielded my eyes from the unforgiving sun, guessing it wasn’t even noon yet. “That’s a lot of excitement so early on a Sunday morning. Mind if we take a breather while you tell me the real reason you threw yourself like a rag doll off the highest bridge in Chickasaw Ridge?”

  She slumped into a sopping wet pile next to me. “Grew up swimmin’ here, and really, it’s not as high as it looks. If you throw yourself off the Whiskey River Bridge expectin’ to meet God, you’d better have the right spot scoped out. You can see clear through to the bottom in most parts. I’ve jumped off all the bridges on the Whiskey River.”

  I had to suppress a groan. “Of course you have.”

  “What’s that mean?” She pulled out a stick of gum, offered it to me, then popped it in her mouth when I refused.

  “I hate to think of what’s next if it takes jumpin’ bridges to thrill you now at…how old are you?”

  She stopped chewing the gum, expressive eyes leveled on mine. “Nunya.”

  “Are conversations with you always this…informative?”

  She grinned, chewed the gum, and then twisted the end around her ring finger, stretching the goo and then snapping it back into her mouth. “Only with strangers.”

  “Interesting. Even strangers who save your life?”

  “News flash, dude. Didn’t need saving.” She inched closer to the ledge, dipping one red-painted toe in the dark water.

  “But I was willin’ to. And let’s not forget you told me your name before you launched over like a bat out of hell.” I shrugged. “Thought that meant we were friends. Which, you see, obligated me to go in after you.”

  She ticked her head to the side, lips curving. “Fine.” She slugged me in the bicep. “I’ll give you that one.”

  I suppressed the urge to eye roll before she turned back to the murky water. “Hope we don’t get a flesh-eating disease out of that muddy cesspool.”

  Augusta Belle’s laughter carried on the wind, leaves rustling around us before the sun ducked behind a cloud, casting a chill. She shivered, running her palms up her tiny upper arms.

  “We should go get changed. I can walk you home if you want.” I held out a hand.

  She glanced at my outstretched palm, licks of dark ink peeking out from under my sleeve. Her eyes closed for a breath before they landed back on the water again, and she shook her head. “I’m good here. The sun will be back.”

  I dropped my hand, studying her profile, wondering again what brought a girl like her up here.

  Maybe I was wrong, maybe she hadn’t exactly been plannin’ on killin’ herself, so she said anyway. But that didn’t shake the cloud of sadness that cast a shadow in those pretty eyes.

  “Gonna make me stay here all day and babysit you from jumping back in that river?” I teased, dipping my toes in alongside her.

  “Babysit?” She cast me a sideways glare. “Hardly. But you are welcome to hang out. It just so happens I think you’re worthy of my company because, y’know, you tried to save me and all. Figure we were meant to be friends.”

  “That so?”

  She nodded without glancing at me. “No one ever goes up on that bridge since the Tallahatchie was built. That’s why I picked it.” Her honey-brown irises lingered on mine. “While everyone was singin’ in church, sending their praise above, I was supposed to be floatin’ in that river. But I’m not. You know why? Because of you, Fallon Gentry. Of all the days, of all the moments, you showed up in my life.”

  She wrapped her tiny fingers around my wrist and tugged me a little closer to her.

  I huffed, pretendin’ she wasn’t havin’ the effect on me she did. “I don’t care what your stupid ass does on your own time, but you’re not dying on mine, Augusta Belle Branson.”

  FOUR

  Fallon

  A woodpecker hammering at the inside of my head finally had my eyes fluttering to life.

  I pushed a hand over my face, taste of whiskey still on my breath as bolts of violent sunlight streaked my eyelids.

  “Christ,” I groaned, trying to twist away the pain in my lower back when I landed with a thunk on the wet ground below me.

  The bench.

  The bar.

  The girl.

  “Fuck me.”

  I pulled the empty bottle out from under my back, groaning as I slowly peeled myself off the muddy grass and stumbled to my feet.

  The memories of last night were fighting at my consciousness, memories of the past haunting my brain as if I’d relived them all again last night.

  I s’pose I had.

  One by one.

  The movie of our lives played out right there on that bench, ticket for one.

  Morning was the worst time of day for me, too early to pour another drink, mind too goddamn foggy to keep the past at the door for long.

  I walked slowly back across the field, following the swampy tracks I’d marched in on, the journey a helluva lot easier without a bottle in my hand.

  The bar was probably only a mile down the road. I sure as hell knew I hadn’t walked that far last night.

  And what did I expect to find when I got there?

  A goodbye letter tucked under the windshield wiper of my truck?

  Maybe.

  Gouges out of all four of my tires?

  Possibly.

  What I did find once I’d made the trek back was about the furthest possibility on my list.

  Hadn’t even occurred to me.

  Augusta Belle Branson.

  Perched on my stage.

  My guitar in hand.

  Singin’ prettier than a songbird, half a dozen alcoholics hangin’ on her every word.

  I hated her even more than I had five minutes ago.

  “What the fuck is this?” I gritted out, pausing at the dimly lit bar. “Why’s she got my guitar?”

  The bartender, who’d I’d been slippin’ twenties the last few nights to keep the drinks coming while I sang, just shrugged and trained his eyes back on my girl.

  My girl.

  A low growl tore past my lips. “She’s always fuckin’ with my stuff. Gonna put an end to this. Make me a Bloody Mary for when I get back, wouldya?” I tapped the wooden bar once before stomping off through the tangle of round tables and right up onstage as Augusta Belle crooned the last lines of her song.

  Everyone clapped, a few whistles and hollers of appreciation before I snatched the guitar, my guitar, from her hands and slung it over my back. “Whaddya think you’re doin’?”

  She tilted her head to one side, those warm brandy eyes swimming with curiosity, contempt, a mixture maybe, until she finally said, “You look like hell.”

  Damn, she looked even prettier in the morning. What I said instead was, “Good thing I give zero fucks what you think. Got my truck keys?”

  I’d always been a real charmer.

  She stood from the stool, pushing a hand into her pocket and fishing out the familiar set. “Sure you’re not still drunk?”

  “I’m ’bout to be.” I swiped the keys from her pa
lm and shoved them deep into my pocket, safe from her.

  “You’re drinking again?” She was quick on my heels as I headed back to the bar for my breakfast. Or lunch, as it were.

  The pounding in my head had grown to DEFCON levels. “What’s that?” I tossed over my shoulder. “A high-pitched wail with a Southern accent in my ear fillin’ my head with shit?”

  I paused at the bar. “Where’s my Bloody Mary?”

  “She told me to cut you off.”

  “What!” I spun on her, mouth twisted. “I hardly know her. If I don’t get that Bloody Mary, I won’t get my daily serving of vegetables. It’s my salad, man.”

  “You’re such a baby.” Augusta Belle looped her arm in my elbow and pulled me off the bar, dragging me ass-backward out the front door and into the warm afternoon air.

  “Hate your fucking hands on me,” I said, a visceral reaction down deep finally bubbling out.

  “Fallon—”

  “Don’t fucking Fallon me,” I husked at her ear. Without thinking, my hands landed at her inner elbows, tightening slowly, pulling her up nice and close to my hard chest. “You lost the right to give a goddamn when you left.”

  Her dark eyes hung heavy on mine, soft contours of her neck flexing as she swallowed. Tears welled up in her beautiful, stubborn eyes before she started to speak. “Fuck you, Fallon Gentry.”

  I laughed off her curse, murmuring into the curve of her tender neck. “So sweet. So vulnerable, heartbeat racing like a brand-new bird.”

  I grazed my lips along the edge of her ear, delighting when aroused shivers followed in my wake. “I could slide in deep, fuck you raw until you forget where I end and you begin, couldn’t I, Augusta Belle? Anything for a piece of the country boy turned superstar, is that it? Next, you’re gonna tell me you were thinkin’ we could start a band, some John and Yoko bullshit.” I tightened my grip at her arms. “At one point, I thought you were dead”—the last word a sneer—“and when I found out you weren’t, I wished it.”

  I released her arms, pushing away from her body and turning on my boot heel, gravel crunching as I strode to my truck.

  “Fallon!” she called, the word nearly lost on the wind.