Tequila & Tailgates (A Country Road Novel - Book 2)

by Andrea Johnston

  I never finished margarita number four and stayed in that little bar singing for six hours. Now, when I drive an hour from town to another little bar, I can do what I love. I also continue to let my friends and family believe it’s singing that fuels the phobia.

  I hate when my mind wanders to this topic. Knowing I am continuously lying to my friends and family tends to make me a little grumpy. I know the decision is mine, but regardless of why I do it, I don’t feel great about it. Because the only thing that calms me and allows me to relax is singing.

  I flip my satellite radio to my favorite station and begin to sing along to the music. A calmness overtakes me as I put that piece of my life aside as I drive toward home. I mean, Jameson’s.

  Shit. Fine, home. It’s my temporary home.

  This has been one of the longest days at the office I’ve had in months. I spent most of the day returning calls, finalizing estimates, ordering materials for Owen’s job site, and in general pushing paper. I hated every second of it. Put a hammer in my hand and I’m relaxed. Replace that hammer with a pencil and calculator and I want to stab my eyes out. I finally called it a day and took a drive to the Sullivan’s to check the progress of the tree removal.

  My initial report to Ashton and Ben’s parents was eight weeks to complete the repairs. I’m going to revise that assessment and timeline. I have a strong suspicion we’re looking at no less than three months and that’s assuming we don’t hit any snags along the way. Three months of Ashton living in my house. An audible groan is the only response I have to this realization.

  Pulling up to my house, I notice Ashton’s little green car in the driveway. That little car is about the same size as one of my truck’s tires. I’ll have to remember to tease her about that later. Taking a minute to decompress before I head inside, I lay my head back on the seat and breathe in the fresh air. I’m a little apprehensive about this dinner. Ashton and I haven’t had so much as a conversation since our dinner the first night she moved in.

  Grabbing my phone from the seat next to me and the brown sack that holds the one thing Ashton and I have always managed to find neutral ground with – tequila – I open the door and step down from the cab of the truck. This truck is ridiculous and I need to bite the bullet and sell it. When I was nineteen, a jacked-up truck that made a statement when I pulled in to a party was one thing but now, at almost thirty, I just look like I’m overcompensating for something. A fact that Ashton enjoys pointing out whenever given the opportunity.

  I’m within a few steps of the porch when I notice the front door is open and the aroma of a home-cooked meal hits my senses. I cook for myself, but it usually consists of throwing a piece of meat and potato on the grill. This, the obvious time taken to put a meal together, is something I don’t get unless my parents are in town.

  The closer I step toward the door, the clearer the music coming from inside becomes. It’s not the radio or music streaming from the TV. No, this is the music that most people don’t get to witness, Ashton Sullivan. Stepping inside the house, I linger for a few minutes near the front door, tossing my keys and wallet on the entry table. Growing up with Ben has allowed me a handful of moments over the years to hear Ashton singing. I know she suffers from some sort of phobia of singing in public and that’s why she hasn’t pursued a career in music. I don’t have many fears so this isn’t something I’ve ever understood and I think it’s a disservice to the world that her talent isn’t shared.

  With the tequila in hand, I head toward the kitchen. The moment I make it to the doorway of the kitchen, I’m stopped in my tracks. The scene before me isn’t one I’d like to see the world experience. No, I’d like to keep this one for myself. Thank you to whoever invented cut-off shorts.

  Once again, dressed in short jean shorts and knee-high socks, today’s top of choice is a loose-fitting red top with the shoulder hanging off Ashton’s shoulder, lacy black bra peeking out. With her hair piled on top of her head, Ashton is singing a popular song that she’s put her own country spin on. Swinging her hips and throwing in a few side-step dance moves as she does, the salad fork she’s holding becomes a drumstick as she taps out the chorus of the song.

  Just as I’m about to clear my throat and announce my presence, Ashton swings her hips and, well, she drops it like it’s hot. Holy shit. Slowly rising from the squatting position with her ass swaying from side to side in a manner I would easily call a seductive sway, I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat as I will my hardening dick to calm down.

  Instead of clearing my throat like I intended, I opt instead to take a few steps back into the hallway and make a little noise to let Ashton know I’m home. It works because when I make my way into the kitchen she’s no longer singing and, sadly, no longer dancing.

  “Hey, roomie, you’re just in time,” she says over her shoulder with a smile.

  I say nothing in response. I can’t. I still haven’t managed to fully swallow that lump in my throat. This woman has rendered me speechless.

  “Oh, whatcha got there? Lemme see,” she says, grabbing the paper bag from me. “Ya okay, J? You’re looking a little flushed. Tequila?” she questions, pulling it out of the bag with a giggle.

  “Uh, what? Oh yeah. Sorry, long day. I figured I was probably all out, so I stopped by the store for a new bottle.”

  “Huh, well you were out,” she says, setting the bottle she took from me on the counter. Opening the freezer door, she rustles around for a second before presenting a bottle of the same tequila she just took from me. “That’s why I stopped and picked up a bottle earlier,” she adds before placing the bottle back in the freezer.

  She needs to stop smiling like that. This is the girl I know. This is the woman I walked away from and the same woman that I try very hard to forget. Unsuccessfully.

  “Great minds and all that. I need to clean up, is there time?” I ask but really, I’m pleading. I need to get my shit together.

  “Sure. Take your time. We have another thirty minutes or so. Oh, and I got you some wine too. It’s in the fridge. I hope it’s okay, I relied on Google,” she says, turning back to the salad she’s preparing.

  Opening the refrigerator door, I lean in to find my favorite dry white sitting on the top shelf. Taking a deep breath, I stand and close the door, “Thanks for the wine. You know, I still like beer, too.”

  “I know, but I wanted to make sure you had choices for dinner. Now go or you’ll be eating a very overcooked roast.”

  Nodding, I don’t offer a verbal reply and head to my room. Stripping out of my clothes is next to impossible with the hard-on I’m sporting. It’s been weeks since I got laid, which must be why I can’t seem to will this away with thoughts of fractions and kittens.

  This is one of the longest dry spells I’ve had. Yeah, it’s completely self-imposed, but regardless, I’m glad we’re going out this weekend because I need to release some of this tension. For now, the shower and my hand will have to do.

  I designed this bathroom, specifically this shower, to be everything I need after a long day on a job site. More often than not, my muscles are sore and the eight jets I have installed hit me in every pressure point necessary to give my muscles the relief they need. It also happens to be large enough for four people; not that I’ve tested that number but, statistically, that’s a fact.

  I turn the knob to hot, instantly filling the room with steam. Stepping into the shower, I once again visualize what it would be like to have Ashton step out of this shower. Water drops on her skin, hair wet and hanging down her back, a rosy tint to her skin, and a towel draped in front of her.

  My hand instantly goes to my cock, seeking the relief I need. I remember her body from four years ago, but it’s not the body she has now. She’s changed; working out has helped her fill out those too-short shorts in a way she never has before. Her legs are firm and her ass is perky and high. Every swing of her hips in the kitchen emphasizing how tight it is. My hands itch to hold it, to use it as leverage while I pic
k her up and wrap her legs around my waist.

  Tilting my head, allowing the warm water to hit my back, my hand slowly glides over my cock. As I lean forward, my arm resting on the wall and my head resting on my forearm, a groan escapes. Closing my eyes, I can feel what it would be like to hold her against this wall, to wrap her legs around my waist, to take her nipple between my teeth. Tugging and pulling until she cries out. I can feel her hand between us, grabbing my cock, stroking it slowly as the pre-cum drips from the tip. Taking her mouth with mine, our tongues dancing as she strokes me. I can almost taste the sweetness of her mouth. I envision the look on her face as I line my hardness to her sweet spot, spreading her with my fingers as I slowly make my way inside of her. Tight, she’s so fucking tight.

  With each stroke of my own hand I’m there, in her. Feeling her as she reaches her peak, as I join her and fill her. As if I’m emptying myself into her, my release is a relief. The tension slowly leaves my body.

  I’d never admit it to anyone, not even myself, but I’ve gotten myself off more times in the last few years to the vision of Ashton coming than anyone else. Regardless of how many times I stand in this shower, my dick in my hand and visions of Ashton in my head, it will never be the same as what I remember. Nothing and no one will ever compare to being inside Ashton Sullivan.

  After taking an actual shower and washing the day off me, I opt for a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt for dinner. Once my hair is towel dried, I toss it in the laundry basket and open my door. The moment I do I’m greeted with an even more delicious aroma of dinner and the sounds of Ashton humming.

  Peeking in the kitchen, I notice Ashton isn’t where I left her. Turning into the dining room I see her leaning across the table. Fucking hell. That ass.

  Clearing my throat to alert her of my presence has the opposite effect as I watch Ashton jump and fumble the basket of rolls in her hand, sending them flying. Laughing, I grab the few rolls that made their way to the floor and laugh.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Throw those away.”

  I smile at the horrified expression on Ashton’s face.

  “Why? They only landed on the floor.”

  “Don’t be a caveman. That’s gross. There’s plenty, just toss them. Please.”

  “Okay, but I’d like to go on record that I’m opposed to the wastefulness of throwing away these rolls.” Offering Ashton my cockiest smile, I take a bite of one of the rolls.

  “Oh gross! Stop, just stop. That was on the floor. Where you walk. Where other people walk!”

  “Relax. I’m pretty sure the only two people to ever eat in this room or step on this floor are you and me. It’s fine. Five second rule and all that.”

  Ashton scrunches her nose and I have a sudden urge to kiss her. Not happening.

  “Fine, if it makes you feel better, I’ll toss these away but I’m keeping this one.”

  “Whatever, it’s your funeral,” she replies, shooing her hands and walking back to the kitchen.

  Against my better judgment, like a beacon I follow Ashton into the kitchen. It’s just dinner amongst friends, roommates. Only, after what I just envisioned in the shower I’m having trouble not thinking of something more than friends.

  “Do you need any help?”

  Looking over her shoulder, Ashton offers me a smile and shakes her head, “Nah, I’m just getting the roast. Why don’t you pour our drinks and I’ll be right there?”

  Pausing, I contemplate her instructions before grabbing the bottle of tequila, two shot glasses, and two beers. Setting the beers down, I pour tequila in each shot glass, placing one in front of each place setting.

  “Here we go. I hope you’re hungry. I may have gone a little overboard.”

  “Damn, woman, that looks amazing. I’m starved,” I respond, placing my hand to my stomach. I note Ashton’s gaze as she watches my hand rub my stomach. If I’m not mistaken a little intake of breath happens right around the time my shirt lifts. Noted.

  “Woman? Really?”

  “What? You are a woman, aren’t you?”

  “Stop being an ass. Let’s eat. Wait … what’s this?”

  “Tequila. Shall we take a shot together?”

  Her eyes dance as she contemplates my question. Then the crease between her beautiful eyes appears. “I, uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Pulling her chair out and taking her seat, her hair falls in her face as she shakes her head.

  “Why not? You bought it, remember?”

  Ashton shoots me a look that would send a small child running. She’s so easy to pick at, almost too easy.

  “We both bought a bottle, remember? And, why not? You, me, and tequila? It’s not exactly the best combination.”

  I contemplate what she says for a split second before grabbing my glass and throwing back the shot. “I disagree, I think only great things happen when you and I share a bottle of tequila. Don’t make me drink alone, take your shot.”

  Rolling her eyes, Ashton takes the shot. I know the moment the burning liquid hits her stomach because she visibly shivers.

  “Happy?” she snarls, which only makes me smile.

  “Yes. By the way, I have some bad news.”

  Setting the shot glass down, her expression changes to one of concern with her little nose scrunched up. “Bad like someone is dying bad or bad like we’re out of ranch dressing bad.”

  “Ranch dressing?”

  Shrugging, she smiles. “What can I say? I love ranch dressing. So, hit me, what’s the bad news?”

  “Construction is going to be longer than I thought, like weeks longer.”

  “I know, my mom emailed me,” she nonchalantly replies while portioning dinner on each of our plates.

  “You don’t seem too pissed to be stuck here longer. Why, Ashton Sullivan, do you like living here?”

  “Uh, like is a very strong description, but it’s not completely dreadful. I mean, you do have a pretty awesome television.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” I chuckle, picking up my fork. “Should we eat this before it gets too cold?”

  A curt nod is her only response. We eat in silence, not a word spoken, but so much is said in this moment. It’s the most relaxed I’ve felt in months and the most this house has felt like a home. Having Ashton here is what’s been missing. I’d say it was having a woman around, but that’s not true. It’s her. She brings a balance to my life that no other woman has. I sometimes wonder what our lives would be like if I hadn’t left that morning. If I hadn’t run scared like a little boy instead of the man that I am.

  “Ash, come on. I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

  Looking at me through hooded, and very intoxicated, eyes, Ashton smirks and signals for Taylor to bring her another drink. I shake my head, telling him it’s not a good idea, and he nods in response. This is her twenty-first birthday, but Ashton is drinking like a kid at her first kegger.

  “Don telllll me wha do, J. I’m twen one now. I’m grown!”

  I laugh at not only her response but to her reaction as Taylor places a glass of water in front of her. Taylor’s been bartending here long enough to know when someone has overindulged. Besides, he’s also been training Ash the last few months while she learns the ropes as the new bartender at Country Road. He’s well aware of her stubbornness.

  “Honey, I know you’re twenty-one. That’s why we’ve all been out celebratin’, but come on,” I respond, tugging on her arm. “It’s late and I need to get you home. You are going to hate life tomorrow.”

  Something I said must garner her attention because she turns to me, wide-eyed, with the glass of water in her hand and the straw in her mouth. She takes a long drink then sloppily slams the glass on the bar. Placing both hands on my chest, she grips my shirt and attempts to tug me toward her. Fuck my life, this girl.

  “No! You can’t take me home, Jameson! My parents will kill me!”

  I laugh. Paul and Patty Sullivan would probably find quite a bit of joy in this version of Ashton. It is
her twenty-first birthday, after all. In fact, her dad slipped me a fifty before we left to make sure to pay for some of the shenanigans she was sure to participate in tonight. They’re good people, and if my parents weren’t also pretty kick ass, I might ask them to adopt me.

  “Hey, J, I have a question,” she says, releasing the death grip she’s had on my shirt.

  “What’s that, Sunshine? Here, have another glass of water.”

  When her nose scrunches with disgust, I laugh at her. “Eww, not Sunshine. I hate that. Why do you call me that? It’s awful. Nobody should ever be called Sunshine, Jameson. Ever!”

  “I call you Sunshine because that’s what you are. Well, let me rephrase that – you are when you aren’t being a royal pain in my ass. Now, drink up so I can get you home.”

  “No, please don’t take me home,” she sniffles. Awe shit, she’s crying now. Drunk girls are not my thing. I avoid them at all costs.

  “It’s okay, come on, don’t cry,” I plead.

  “Can I stay at your house tonight?”

  “Ash, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Your folks will be fine with you being wasted; they probably expect it. Come on.”

  Taking the glass of water from her and placing it on the bar, I take her hand to help her off the bar stool. Stumbling a little as she steps down, I reach down to catch her as her arms reach around my neck, one hand gripping my hair. It’s a split second that we stare at each other. No words spoken. This is my best friend’s sister. I’m stepping in for him because he couldn’t be here. I cannot cross that line. I pseudo crossed it last year, not again. Nope. Fuck, she’s beautiful. Perfect.

  “Whoopsie. I kind of fell. I’m really drunk.”

  “You don’t say. Come on, Sunshine, let’s get you home.”

  Taking her elbow, I walk us toward the doors, waving goodbye to Taylor, who laughs at me. Jerk. I know he thinks I’m a sucker.