An Uphill Battle (The Southern Roots Series Book 2)

by LK Farlow

  “Well, if that’s the case, then so be it.” I take a deep breath, steeling my resolve. “It’ll be his loss.”

  Our conversation tapers off once Magnolia switches on the blow dryer. She takes her time, smoothing my hair with an oversized round brush before using a big-barrel curling iron to set my hair in glamorous waves. “Please be careful when you put your makeup on,” she says quietly as I head for the door.

  Once I’m home, I begin the process of putting on my face, starting with primer and working my way through the rest of it. By the time I’m finished, my face is contoured and highlighted like a pro, and my lips are painted with my most favorite shade of red, F-Bomb by Urban Decay. I’m not typically one to toot my own horn, but I look damn good.

  My candy-apple red dress hugs my curves in all the right spots, and my nude heels make my legs look at least a mile long. I look so hot that I’m almost positive that the cold outside won’t even bother me.

  As I look at my reflection, I can’t help the sense of foreboding washing over me. This almost feels like déjà vu. Me, in a red dress, ready for Drake Collins. I can only pray this time around he doesn’t break my heart. I glance at the clock on my nightstand and realize I’m running late. Really late.

  I dash down the stairs and miss the last step, nearly spraining my ankle, but I manage to make it to my car unscathed. I’m in such a rush to make it to Drake that I don’t realize my phone is sitting inside my clutch on my dresser at home.

  “God, please let him still be there,” I repeat, again and again, all the way to Big O’s. By the time I make it, it’s almost an hour past when I said I’d be here. But, praise be, his truck’s still in the lot.

  Now, I just have to hope he’s not too mad.

  I make my way to the entrance, practicing my apology in my head the entire way. “Just tell him you lost track of time. He’ll understand,” I reassure myself as I adjust my dress before pulling open the door.

  My eyes rapidly scan the room, searching him out. When they finally land on him, he’s seated at the bar, nestled between a brunette and a man old enough to be his daddy, peeling the label on his bottle of beer. I square my shoulders and make my way toward him, and he pivots in his seat, his eyes connecting with mine immediately.

  His stare is hard and unrelenting. I wobble a bit in my heels, but keep my pace and my course. I’m on a mission, and I’m not stopping until I’m at his side.

  By the time I make it across the bar to Drake, he’s turned completely on his stool to face me. I stop directly in front of him and revel in the way his eyes blaze a trail from one end of my body to the other. “Where were you?” he asks in way of a greeting.

  “I’m so sorry, truly. I lost track of time—”

  He nods like he understands, but before either of us can open our mouths to speak another word, the brunette to his right swivels around and butts into our conversation.

  “How nice of you to finally show up.” Oh, God. That voice. I know that voice, even though I haven’t heard it in years. I cut my eyes from Drake to the woman next to him. It’s Kelly. She’s here with him, and . . .

  How could he do this? How could he bring her here, for this? Does he even care? At all?

  “I’m sorry, what?” I’m proud when my voice only trembles a little.

  She tilts her head, appraising me. “He’s been waiting on you for over an hour—you know that, right? Don’t worry though, hun. I kept him real good company.”

  Her words hit me like a physical blow, causing me to rock back on my heels. “Wait, what? Y’all are h–here t–together?”

  Shaking his head, Drake moves to answer me, but Kelly beats him to it. “You leave a man like him unattended too long, and someone else is bound to swoop in. You get that, right?” Her saccharine smile doesn’t match her words, and my brain is having trouble processing everything.

  I stand there, slack-jawed and staring, my eyes pinging between them as a lethal mixture of anger, hurt, and confusion floods my bloodstream. Kelly wraps herself around Drake’s arm, causing his eyes to widen further. He opens his mouth to hopefully tell me they aren’t there together, but he clamps it back shut when he sees the look on my face.

  Ignoring her, I focus all of my attention and anger on Drake. “Are you fucking serious?” My voice is hoarse and reflects every bit of pain coursing through me. “You all but begged me to hear you out, and my God, do I hear you loud and clear.”

  “Let’s take this outside,” he tells me.

  “Let’s not. What the fuck do you think’s gonna change between outside and here? Do you think I’m gonna magically forget that I came here to talk to you, only to find you cozied up to the very source of our problems?” My voice is rising, right along with my temper, but I’d rather everyone in this bar hear my yell than for Kelly to see me cry. Fuck her and him. They deserve each other.

  “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Azalea.” Drake stands from his stool and grips my arm roughly. “Outside, now. Not gonna ask again.”

  “Better listen, little girl,” Kelly murmurs, and that’s when I lose it.

  17

  Drake

  I watch, almost in slow-mo, as Azalea falls apart. Her eyes are wild and her lip is quivering. She’s a lit stick of dynamite, and I just fucking know she’s about to blow.

  “Are. You. Kidding. Me?” she screeches, causing several heads to turn our way. “You are somethin’ else, Drake Collins. Somethin’ else entirely. You fooled me for so damn long with this act of yours, but I finally, finally, see your true colors, and thank fucking God.

  “I came here ready to listen and to understand. I came here giving you the benefit of the doubt. I came here ready to give us a chance, and I find you here with her.” Azalea’s voice drips with disdain, and while a part of me wants to feel bad for her, that part is small and far outweighed by the part of me that’s raging at her accusations.

  “You are the lowest of the low, and if I never see your face again, it’ll be too soon!” she screams in my face, and I’ve had enough. I tighten my grip on her arm and drag her behind me, away from the audience we’ve gathered.

  She hollers and protests the entire way, and I’m about ready to yell right back at her. “You need to stop talking,” I grit out through clenched teeth as I haul her through the entryway. Swear to God, if I didn’t love her crazy-ass . . .

  “I will NOT stop talking! You’re nothin’ but a no good, womanizin’ jerk—”

  “You’re callin’ me a womanizer? Like you don’t know me better than that?”

  “I feel like I don’t know you at all anymore,” she says, collapsing against my chest.

  I palm each side of her face and tilt her head back so that she’s looking me in the eye. I’m momentarily struck speechless at the sight of her, with her mascara running down her cheeks as she cries silent tears. The pain etched across her face is so fucking palpable that I can feel it. Or maybe that’s my own pain. “You know me, Little Bit. I’m the same as ever—”

  Azalea attempts to pull back from my hold, but I bring her in closer. With her face pressed against my chest and her tears soaking my shirt, she whispers, “I know, D, and maybe that’s the problem. You’re exactly the same. I’ve just been blind to it.”

  This time when she tries to wiggle free, I let her. No matter what I try to say, she’s determined not to hear it. Azalea’s already decided she knows it all, and I’m wasting my breath trying to tell her otherwise. She rises up on to her tippytoes and wraps her arms around my neck before sealing her mouth to mine in what I know she sees as a goodbye kiss. And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe we really aren’t meant to be. God knows I’ve fucking tried, but I’m man enough to know when I need to bow out.

  With one last hard press of her lips, she pulls away from me and walks away. She doesn’t turn back, and I don’t try to stop her. We’ve run our course, and with the taste of her tears on my lips, I turn and head back into the bar.

  Reclaiming my seat at t
he bar beside Kelly, I take a moment to compose myself, because otherwise, she’ll be the recipient of the anger and hurt I’m drowning in—not that she doesn’t deserve at least some of it.

  “Guess it didn’t go well?” she asks, pushing another drink toward me.

  “The fuck do you think?” I ask, my tone hard and angry. She has the good sense to at least look sorry, but that’s not really good enough. “No, Kelly, it didn’t. And you sure as shit didn’t help matters.”

  “Look, I realize I probably made things worse, but my God. Somebody needed to light a fire under that girl’s ass.”

  I level her with a glare. “Only fire you lit is the one pushing her further and further away. Jesus. Next time you wanna help, do me a favor and don’t. In all honesty, I don’t think we’ll move past this.”

  Kelly gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Maybe it’s for the best.” And as much as it kills me to agree with her, maybe it is.

  AZALEA

  Everything hurts. My head, my heart, my pride. The pain of seeing them together and watching him walk away from me and back to her pricks at me like a million tiny needles, and I want—no, I need—to numb it. To not feel it. To not feel anything.

  When my tears blur my vision, I guide my car to the shoulder. I flip down my visor and use the mirror to check the damage and gasp at the sight I’m met with. My eyes are bloodshot and my cheeks are stained black. I look like the morning walk of shame, minus the happy ending from the night before, because apparently, happiness isn’t meant for girls like me.

  I fish my emergency makeup bag from the glovebox and make do the best I can. Once I only look half-bad and not horrible, I take off, driving with no destination in mind. That is, until I reach the first bar in the next town over. Nothing to numb my pain like a little alcohol therapy.

  “What’ll ya have?” the bartender asks, barely glancing my way.

  “Two shots. Whisk—” I pause and change course, because whiskey makes me think of Drake’s eyes. “Tequila.” I offer him my I.D. and tell him to open a tab.

  “Here ya go,” he says, placing my shots in front of me before heading off to help the next customer. Wasting no time, I slam them back-to-back, savoring the way they burn all the way down, because at least I’m in control of this pain.

  I signal the bartender for two more shots when someone sidles up next to my stool. “What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ drinking all alone?” the stranger asks, running his thumb in small circles along my shoulder. I don’t normally enjoy strangers touching me, but with the tequila flowing through me and the night’s earlier rejection, it feels nice.

  “Who says I’m alone? Maybe I’m waiting on someone?” I ask, trying to be coy.

  “Doll, I’ve been watching you since you strolled in. If you’re waiting on someone, they ain’t comin’. Shame for them, but lucky for me.” The bartender approaches with the shots I signaled for, as well as whatever the dude all up in my space is drinking, and I smile to myself when he tells the bartender to put my drinks on his tab. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be payin’ for her own drinks.”

  I know I should thank him, but his words hit me harder than the alcohol—"Shame for them.”—like somehow, it’s Drake’s loss and not mine.

  “Tell me, doll, what’s your story?” The stranger twirls a strand of my blonde hair around his finger, and I take a moment to study him. Tall, medium build, with tan skin. He’s got a jaw sharp enough to cut granite and eyes bluer than the ocean. Combine all that with his wavy blonde hair and that rumble of a voice, and he’s a catch. Someone else’s catch, though, because the only man I want on my line is Drake Collins.

  “No story here, just out for a good time.” We never exchange names, and our conversation stays strictly in the small-talk zone, save for his pick-up lines. The sexy stranger orders another round of drinks, only this time instead of shots, he asks for some mixed concoction and it’s delicious. “I can hardly even taste the alcohol,” I tell him on a wobbly smile.

  “That’s why they’re so good,” he replies with a wink, watching with interest as I slurp down whatever it is he ordered me. When I reach the bottom, he signals the bartender for one more and asks him to close out the tab.

  “Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk a bit more?” he asks when I’m about midway through the second mixed drink. I feel boneless, weightless—like I could just float away. Smiling, I nod, and we make our way to the door with his hand at the small of my back.

  He pauses at the door and looks down at me, looks down at how I’m wrapped around him since I’m too smashed to support myself, and smiles a smile that reminds me of the devil himself. I shiver, and he takes it as an invitation to hold me closer.

  Just as we’re about to make our way outside, the door to the bar opens, and I find myself staring up at a very familiar face.

  “The fuck is this?” Brent asks, venom dripping from his words.

  I smile at him, wide and toothy, and he glares back at me. “Nothing for you to worry about, bud,” Mr. Stranger tells him as he tries to shoulder us past him.

  But Brent’s not having it. He shoves my new friend back, throwing us both off-kilter. He takes advantage of it and yanks me away and into his arms. His big, strong arms. He feels much safer than my stranger. “The hell are you thinking, Azalea? Drake know you’re here?”

  I tilt my head up to look at Brent and bat my lashes at him. “It’s not his busi-ness.” My words slur, and my head spins. How much alcohol was in those mixed drinks?

  “Let’s go,” he commands, his voice gruff with irritation. My stranger must’ve decided I wasn’t worth the hassle, because when I look for him, he’s nowhere to be found. Brent takes a few steps forward, and when he notices I’m not following, he turns back and scoops me into his arms. I breathe in deeply through my nose, loving and hating—but mostly loving—how similar he smells to Drake.

  I nuzzle my face into his broad chest and wrap my arms around his neck. Maybe he’s just what I need to forget about Drake. Emboldened by the thought, I crane my neck and press my lips to his throat, my tongue darting out to taste him.

  “Cut that shit out,” Brent says, wrenching away from me. Why do guys all wanna play hard to get? Not discouraged in the least, I allow him to place me into his passenger seat, tracking him as he comes around to the driver’s side. He pauses at his door and plays on his phone for a minute.

  Brent doesn’t ask me for my address—he just starts driving. The scenery outside my window passes in a blur, and the whir of the tires and our breathing are the only sounds. Sneaking a glance at him, I note his clenched jaw, and I want to make him smile. A man like him should be happy, not mad.

  Gently, I reach across the console, placing my hand on his thigh. He briefly glances down and then back to the road, and I take that as an all clear sort of signal and creep my hand higher. Just as I’m about to reach the promised land, Brent hits the brakes—hard. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?” He sounds so very angry.

  “I–I wanted to make you sm–smile,” I tell him, my words slurred and running together.

  “You want me to smile?” he asks, and I nod eagerly, sloppily. “Then keep your hands to yourself and sit back in your seat.”

  Dropping my head to the seatback, I let my eyes drift shut as my head lolls back and forth. Rejected twice in one night. This may be a new, all-time low.

  Though, only one of those rejections stung.

  18

  Drake

  “You gonna drink that?” Kelly asks, nodding to the bottle in my hands. The same bottle I’ve been twirling on the bar top since walking back in over an hour ago. I shake my head, not much in the mood to talk. After saying what I needed to say to Kelly, I’ve been content to just sit here and sulk, but I guess she’s had enough.

  She slams her hands down onto the bar to get my attention. “Listen, Drake.” Her stern tone of voice reminds me of my mother’s—my real one and my stepmother, not that I talk to my actual mom too
much. No bad blood or anything. I love her, we just . . . drifted after I moved back home to live with Dad and Didi. “I know you love that girl, but she’s got some growing up to do yet, and if you really think she’s the one, then wait for her. It’s that simple. And if waiting seems too hard, then maybe she’s not the one after all. Now, pay up—my drinks and yours—and I’ll drive your ass home.”

  I signal Owen to clear out our bill just as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  Brent: Got your girl. She’s drunk as a skunk. Handsy too.

  I blink hard at my screen. What the fuck? I glance up at Kelly and see she’s on her phone too, and she raises her eyes to mine. “You just get a message from Brent?” she asks.

  “Mmm. Yup,” I tell her, still trying to make sense of the words on my screen. Why is Azalea with Brent, and what does he mean by handsy? Swear to God . . .

  “C’mon, D, let’s go. Brent said he’s taking her to your place.” Not bothering to wait for Owen, I slip a fifty under my beer bottle and follow her to her car.

  “You sure you’re good to drive?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir, only been sippin’ on diet cola.” I nod and climb into the passenger seat of her Camry. Not huge, but a shit-ton more space than Azalea’s car. Little Bit, what’ve you gone and done now? My mind races the entire drive home.

  “You comin’ in?” I ask Kelly as she idles in front of my house.

  She shifts into park and turns the key. “May as well.”

  She makes herself at home on my couch, and I head into the kitchen to fetch two bottles of water and some of my dad’s famous Cajun boiled peanuts. Seated at opposite ends of the couch, we shoot the shit and wait for Brent and Azalea to arrive.

  Twenty minutes later, the sound of gravel crunching under tires alerts us that they’re here. Not even ten seconds later, and there’s a hard knock at the door. Popping up from the couch, I make my way to the door, opening to a very sad-looking, very drunk Azalea.