by Erin Hahn
The crowd shouts their approval, and I wave offstage. “And to play this oldie, I brought along some of my good friends to help. Clay Coolidge and Fitz Jacoby, everyone!” The stadium turns thunderous, and I have to laugh. The guys join us in the center of the stage. Fitz, carrying his fiddle, faces Kacey as if to challenge her to a fiddle duel. Or eyeball sex. It could go either way.
Jefferson accepts a mic from a stagehand and flashes his award-winning smile at the cheering thousands. He’s Clay right now, except for the tiny wink he flashes just for me. That’s Jefferson.
A girl could get whiplash trying to keep up.
I turn to the crowd, lifting my glittery mic. “We’re all friends here, right?” I move to the edge of the stage. “Because I have a confession, y’all. I think I’ve lost my immunity to Southern boys.” I fan my face theatrically as every female in the audience cheers their approval.
“And I’m finding I’m a bit partial to those Northern girls myself,” Clay says. Lord, this boy. I don’t know how to respond, so I punch his arm. He grunts into his mic and rubs his arm. “Your gran approve of that sass, Mathers?”
I grin and place my hand on my hip. “Who do you think taught me?”
He barks out a laugh and concedes, lifting his mic. “Okay, fair enough. I don’t want to make Gran angry at me.” He motions to Jason. “As Annie said, this is an oldie but a goodie. In fact, it’s an old favorite of my granddad’s as well. So, without further ado, ‘We’ve Got Tonight’ by Kenny Rogers and the stunning Dolly Parton.”
I’m selfishly thrilled that I don’t have to jump in until the second verse, because it means I get to sit back and watch Clay at work. It’s hard not to imagine if he’s feeling these lyrics as strongly as I am. A song about a man convincing his lover to stay with him for one more night …
Well, it hits a bit close to home, doesn’t it? That’s the glorious thing about music. It speaks to the very heart of things in the most absolute and obtrusive way. When I asked my gran for requests this afternoon and she answered with a twinkle in her eye, I knew I was doomed. My gran has a massive, decades-long crush on Kenny Rogers, and despite her reservations about Clay being too charming for his own good, he’s one of the few in the industry who can pull off Kenny’s signature coarse tenor. Which is really unfortunate for me.
Clay stands, legs spread at the hips, knees bending as if to absorb the force of his powerful voice. He growls into his mic a few lines before softening his plea so that it sends chills dancing down my spine. I’m so stunned at the stark appeal in his eyes when he turns to face me, I almost miss my cue.
I step off my stool, slowly making my way over to him. It takes a line to find myself again, but by the time I’m returning his staged advances with my own longing for love, my words strike home, and I can feel every eye of the audience painting us in sincerity. He reaches out his hand for mine, and I grasp his fingers in a squeeze, punctuating the meaning in my words. We come to the crescendo of the song where he’s supposed to beg his case, and hell if he doesn’t do a stand-up job. If the tabloids weren’t speculating about our feelings before, duets like this one will seal the deal.
He sings to me that he knows my plans don’t include him, but it’s a lie. They do. I don’t want them to, but that hardly matters. We wrap the song, and as the fiddles fade out, he pulls me close with a friendly, brotherly hug to his side, and without overthinking it, I raise on my tiptoes and kiss his stubbly cheek.
Because, fine. He doesn’t feel like “Clay” deserves me. He’s wild and reckless and a bit of a slut, if we’re honest. And I’m careful and sheltered and damaged. Okay, then. We don’t jump into bed together. I can handle that. I need to handle that, because I’m not sure I’m ready to be jumping into bed with anyone.
Instead, I’ll take what he’s offering me. This Jefferson—who I get the feeling is the truth behind the persona. The person he wants to be. The voice from the trailer the afternoon we fought.
And the man I could easily fall hopelessly in love with, but we won’t worry about that right now. For now, we’ll sing.
14
Clay
It’s not long after we return to our buses that night that there’s a knock on the door. Fitz props it open, letting Annie, Kacey, and Jason in. Kacey and Annie are holding hoodies and flashlights. Jason holds up a plastic grocery bag.
“We’re gonna go find some shoreline and build a bonfire. Interested?”
Annie beams. “It’s not too far out of town, and Aunt Carla said we could borrow her car as long as we brought it back before morning!”
It’s after midnight, but their enthusiasm is catching. “I haven’t had s’mores in years. Got any chocolate?”
“Duh.” Kacey shrugs. Her eyes dart to Fitz. “Coming?”
Fitz is already tying on tennis shoes.
Within minutes, we’re nearing a state park. Instead of turning in the main entrance, Jason continues down the highway another quarter mile and pulls down an unmarked dirt road.
“Should I ask how you knew that would be there?”
“Band camp,” the drummer mutters, concentrating his efforts on navigating the rutted road in the dark.
“I’m sorry?”
“Went to band camp a little ways from here. Found this spot a few summers ago…” He swerves us around a particularly deep rut and pulls off to the side in a patch of tall grass before parking and shutting off the lights.
We climb out of the small car, and Jason pops the trunk. Annie flicks on her flashlight, and everyone takes turns pulling out blankets and a cooler. The moon is plenty bright out here so far from the lights of the city, and we don’t even need the flashlights to find our way to the shore. Lake Erie is in its full glory this evening, freshwater waves crashing and washing along the quiet, rocky beach. The wind whips the humidity right out of the air, and I’m glad I brought a sweatshirt, even though it’s July. Annie and Fitz spread a quilt on the ground, and Jason drops an armful of kindling on the sand. I follow him back to the edge of the woods and start collecting larger driftwood pieces that should burn hot and long. By the time we’re back, Fitz already has a small, smoky fire started, and Kacey’s passing out bottles.
She holds one out to me. “Just soda, Coolidge.”
I take it, pressing the twist cap to my forearm, not removing my gaze, and crack it open without using my fingers. She smirks and holds out her bottle to clink with mine.
“Nice party trick.”
“Lest you think I can’t do anything but sing…”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“He can also do a mad Hula-Hoop.”
I groan, tipping back my head. “Damn it, Fitz, you know these hips don’t lie.” And I roll them once in an exaggerated circle as if I can’t prevent it.
Annie giggles, and I turn to see her sitting cross-legged on the blanket, plucking leaves from a few roasting sticks.
“Quiet, you. I’m sure these two have plenty of dirt they’d be willing to share.”
I move to join her on the blanket, taking one of the sticks from her hands and pulling the pocketknife from my belt. I flip it open and slide it along the tip, cleaning it.
Annie leans back, meditating on the cozy fire, and lifts her bottle to her lips, taking a sip before saying, “Not bad for a bunch of Nashville stars, eh?”
I grin. “If you think about it, in all seriousness, we’re barely a step above camping trailers in our buses. Of course, I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon, like some people, Little Miss Country Music Royalty.”
Annie flinches slightly at the title but recovers quickly, slugging me in the arm. “Please. You saw my grandparents’ farm. You’re the rock star.”
I pluck a marshmallow out of the plastic bag and stab it on the end of my stick. Annie passes me another, and I raise a brow.
“Sensuous,” she says, smirking.
I choke. “Excuse me?”
“Since you was already roasting…”
I snort. “Haven’t h
eard that one before. I’ll have to remember it.”
“Jason,” she says as if that explains everything. Which it does.
I hold out the stick to the fire. Kacey and Fitz are dipping their toes in the surf a few yards in front of us. “Speaking of your ex…”
Annie rolls her eyes. “Lord. Barely. We dated for, like, a month.”
“Long enough to write a song about it.”
“Yeah, well, that’s nothing. As you very well know, I can write a song outta nothing more than a glance. It’s called artistic license.”
I roll the stick between my fingers, evening out the heat. “Silly me, I thought that was called exaggerating.”
Annie gets a couple of crackers ready and reaches for the Hershey bars. “Potato-potahtoe, my friend. ’Sides, it’s not like y’all are complaining when my so-called exaggerations make you heartthrobs.”
I pull back on the stick, tapping the gooey mess with my finger and licking it. Annie’s eyes follow the movement, and I can’t help but remember our kiss from the other night. I know I said we couldn’t do it again. Shouldn’t do it again.
But, fuck, I really want to do it again.
I clear my throat and hold out the stick. She takes the crackers and deftly tugs off the marshmallow mess between, keeping her fingers clean. She repeats it for mine, and I lean the stick against the pile of waiting driftwood.
“Are you implying we weren’t already heartthrobs?”
Annie’s tongue darts out to capture some of the melted chocolate on her top lip, and I take another swig of my Diet Coke, washing down the graham cracker suddenly dry in my throat.
Who knew s’mores could be so hot? Hell, a thousand songs written about dancing in taillights and drinking homemade wine, and not a one about marshmallows. It’s a damn disservice to the industry.
“So if Jefferson is your first name, is Clay your middle name?”
I nod.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why’d you decide to go by it?”
I brush off my fingers, settling back on my elbows. “I don’t know,” I hedge. “I mean, Jefferson is pretty lofty, isn’t it?”
“Maybe, but it fits you.” Something in me warms at that.
“I guess, it’s like when I go by Clay, I can be Clay. Like, to the rest of the world.”
“Like, an alter ego?”
“More like a persona I can adopt when I’m onstage. Or being interviewed. Or on a date, even.”
Jason walks up, dropping another log on the fire, and I watch as the orange embers drift high in lazy spirals and flicker out. Annie passes him a stick and the bag of marshmallows. It’s not nearly as fun to watch him molest his s’more. Annie shakes her head next to me.
“Holy hell, Jay. How you manage to put your shoes on the right feet mystifies me.”
He rubs at his face, then grins hugely, cheeks puffed out with marshmallows and graham cracker coating his teeth in the moonlight.
“Gross.”
“How’d you know of this place again, Diaz?” I ask, changing the subject.
His face falls, and he looks around, his eyes distant as they scan the coastline. “A friend.”
“A female friend?” Kacey asks, walking up with Fitz.
“Yeah, right,” Annie teases.
Jason winks, regaining some of his humor. He leans back, folding his hands behind his head. “You never know,” he drawls out theatrically. “Maybe you’re sitting in the very spot I lost my flower underneath the stars.”
“Ew. Tell me you’re joking.”
“All right, then. I’m joking.”
In the firelight, I watch as Kacey’s eyes narrow shrewdly. “I don’t know. I’m not sure you are kidding.”
Fitz pulls Kacey back to his chest. “Easy, girl.”
Kacey settles back and hand-feeds Fitz. They forgo the crackers altogether, and Fitz makes a show of licking Kacey’s finger clean.
Annie surges to her feet next to me, brushing at the backs of her thighs. “I’m gonna explore the beach a little bit.”
“Me, too.” The words are out before I can change my mind, and I get to my feet. Jason’s busy roasting another row of marshmallows; otherwise, based on his look of disgust at the fiddling fiddlers, he’d tag along.
Annie and I take off down the beach. Within moments, I feel the absence of our small bonfire on my exposed skin. Annie zips up her hoodie with a shiver.
“Wanna go back by the fire?” I check, hoping she doesn’t.
“Nah, I’ll get used to it in a sec. I don’t think it’s actually that cool.”
We walk in silence awhile, and Annie shakes her head suddenly. “Seriously, do you think Jason had sex with some girl on this beach?”
I shrug. “You know him better than I do. But, it’s sort of, uh, a romantic spot? I guess?”
Annie’s face is puckered in thought, and her hair dances around her features like it’s trying to fly away. “I guess. But is Jason romantic? And, I mean, band camp? That was two years ago. He was sixteen.”
A discussion of Diaz’s sex life is not exactly what I had planned on when I jumped up to follow this girl.
“That’s pretty average. I think. Sixteen.”
Annie exhales loudly.
I bump her with my shoulder. “Listen, that’s no judgment on you. I was almost eighteen myself.”
“Aren’t you eighteen now?” Annie asks quietly.
“I am.”
“So…”
“Uh-uh,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s all you’re getting from me tonight. Point is, it doesn’t really matter. Sixteen, eighteen, twenty-five, forty. Ain’t no thang.”
She grins in the moonlight, and my chest aches. It’s stupid how much I want to make this girl smile.
I cough, kicking at the sand. “Also, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. You aren’t old. You’re perfect. And you’ll continue to get better the older you are, so if you chose to wait until your wedding night, your husband will be a very lucky man.”
“Wow,” she says. “That’s … probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
I lift a shoulder and continue walking. “I’m not bullshitting you. That night at the hotel? I didn’t want to stop kissing you, Annie. You know that, right? I could’ve easily kissed you right there in that hallway all night.”
Annie fans herself in that cute way that reminds me she’s been raised by her grandma. “Jesus H., Jefferson, you’re too charming for your own good.”
My head swells. “Only for you.”
She stops and looks out at the sparkling water. Then peers past me to the tiny flickering light of the bonfire. We’re quite a way from our friends by now, but I’m okay with it. Christ only knows the shit Fitz would give me hearing the words coming out of my mouth under the influence of Annie Mathers. Not that any of it’s a lie.
Hell, I mean every single word. Which, I realize, is real rich considering the open invitation Lora Bradley has to my bed.
Maybe I need to—
And Annie’s soft lips are pressed to mine. All sticky marshmallow and cream soda. Her tongue slips past my lips, and I don’t hold back my moan as I tug her body against mine. We’re all hands and heat. I don’t even bother with her sweatshirt, my fingers tracing a searing path along her hips and back to dip below the waistband of her jeans. She sighs into my mouth, and I don’t even realize I’ve lifted her clear off her feet until she wraps her legs around my hips.
I groan at the sensation of her pressed against me. A distant part of me realizes this can’t end well. I respect her waiting. I respect her …
Slowly, so painfully slow, she slips back to standing on the rocky ground. I’m panting and dizzy, and I ache.
Everything in me aches for this girl.
But she doesn’t stop kissing me. Her fingers wind themselves in my hair and yank gently, pulling me closer and closer. I take her face in between my hands and slow things down. Tasting her. Savoring her. Memorizing her. I don’t usually try so hard,
but hell if I don’t want to make this count.
I’ve kissed a lot of girls. I’ve slept with a few of them. But I’ve never in my life kissed someone like this. Felt like this. Wanted like this. It’s as though we’re one person. Like my soul found its fucking other half and I don’t even know what to do with that except I can’t ever stop this. I will die happily with her on my lips.
The water rushes over our feet, and it’s like a shock to my system. I hadn’t realized we traveled so close to the lake. We pull away from each other, and Annie laughs, smiling all the way to her eyes, aglow in moonlight and hormones, and I feel a stirring of pride in my gut that I had something to do with that.
“Maybe this beach is a little romantic,” she concedes.
15
Annie
The morning after the beach, I wake up too early with a song in my head. Kacey’s and Jason’s snores echo around me, and so, after brushing my teeth and making a cup of coffee, I grab my guitar and head out into the summer sunshine.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I mean, this isn’t for real. This thing between Clay, or Jefferson, and me. He’s beautiful and dangerous and not at all committed.
So, like, I’d be stupid to believe any of it meant anything. He’s 100 percent playing me, and that’s cool. I’m here, and Lora isn’t.
I’ll just take this for what it is. Temptation in blue jeans and all that. Nothing to it. People have casual relationships all the time. I mean, that’s basically what college is all about, right?
Except my summer fling is a gorgeous megastar country singer. And last night didn’t feel casual.
But no big deal. Totally cool. I can do this.
Even if I might be a teeny-tiny bit at risk of falling for him.
